"Whoo! Going to Wrestlemania!" Ric Flair announced to the world in general, sounding more relieved than excited as he finally made it through airport security.

"And then you never have to work again!" Roddy Piper added cheerfully, shouldering his bag before throwing an arm around Ric and steering him towards the terminal.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Ric grinned. "More time for women and booze."

Roddy laughed and started to respond when he suddenly froze, staring at the gate across from theirs. "Whoa, Nature Boy, look at that."

The wrestlers stopped in the middle of the walkway, jaws dropping as a dozen girls in matching uniforms helped one another stuff glittery pom-poms into their oversized bags.

"We gotta get them on the plane," Ric immediately decided. "Hey, girls, want to go to Orlando?"

The girls just laughed as they began dragging their luggage onto the boarding ramp.

"We could just get on their plane," Roddy suggested.

"But I have to retire at Wrestlemania."

Roddy slapped the back of his head before pointing at the girls. "Cheerleaders, Ric," he pleaded. "Young, adventurous, short-skirted cheerleaders."

"Good point. I can retire on RAW."

They rushed to the gate, but were informed that the flight was full.

"Dammit!" Ric swore. "I had plans for the Mile High Club."

"I had plans for the landing," Roddy responded, staring mournfully at the closing gate.

"Hey, Ric? Roddy?" They turned to find Maria waving happily at them. "Come on, guys, we're about to board!"

Roddy stared at her, eyes traveling all the way down the long legs exposed by her short skirt before giving Ric an evil grin. "We got a whole plane ride ahead of us."

"Whoo! Someone is joining the Mile High Club tonight, baby!"

Shane McMahon frowned as Ric and Roddy rushed past him. He couldn't overhear their conversation, but nothing that made them smile like that could possibly be good. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to Vince, who had pulled him out of the boarding line. "Dad, what are you doing? They just announced last call for our flight."

"I know that, Shane, I just..." Vince glanced around, then reached out to grab Shane's arm. "Listen. I want you to trade me seats."

"What? You said you had to be back in coach to supervise the boys," Shane protested.

"I know what I said, but hear me out. I have it on good authority that one of our most valued employees has expressed interest in getting to know you better. If you know what I mean," he added significantly.

Shane sighed, running a hand through his short hair. "Dad. I'm a married man."

"And you're also my son," Vince insisted, straightening his shoulders. "I thought you would jump at the chance to get closer to those who might someday work for you."

"Who is it?"

Vince hesitated only slightly. "A gentleman never names names, but think tall. And blond. And Southern. And...um...vivacious."

"Michelle McCool?"

Vince smiled and winked. "You'll have to see for yourself."

Shane frowned skeptically at his dad. "I still think you're just trying to get my first class ticket," he accused.

“I assure you, that is not my intention.”

Shane sighed. “Yeah, OK,” he agreed, handing over his ticket to prevent further argument. “Come on, your group has already boarded.”

Vince tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin as he gestured for Shane to go ahead. “Go on without me. I need to speak with the gate attendant first.” Shane grudgingly left, and Vince whipped out his cell phone, punching in his assistant’s number. “Yes, get the private jet ready for a trip to Orlando. My son has generously offered to supervise the wrestlers, so I am now free to travel alone.”

Shane counted off the rows as he moved to the back of the plane, finally stopping at 17 to discover Steve Austin sitting in the neighboring seat. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Who the hell are you?” Steve demanded. “I specifically bought the seat next to Vince.”

“Southern blonde my ass,” Shane muttered as he sank into his seat. “Thanks a lot, Dad.”

”Hell, that's right, you're Vince's kid.” Steve studied him carefully before adding with a decisive nod, “I'm just gonna call you Vince.”

”My name is Shane.”

Steve grinned. “Whatever you say, Vince.”

Shane took a deep breath, closing his eyes and counting silently to ten. He opened his eyes just in time to spot a flight attendant bustling down the aisle. Reaching out to catch her arm, Shane leaned in and informed her, “Look, I have an emergency here. My dad, Vince McMahon, is up in first class, and I need to speak with him immediately.”

She shook her head sympathetically even as she pulled away. “I'm sorry, sir, Vince McMahon never boarded. I believe he gave up his ticket at the gate.”

Shane’s jaw dropped. “That son of a bitch!”

“Watch your damn mouth, Vince!” Steve interrupted, slapping him hard on the shoulder. “This nice lady don't wanna hear you cursing and shit.”

Shane started to respond, but was distracted by Triple H’s urgent whisper from the seat behind him. ”Shawn, can you just do it already?”

”Hunter, these things take time,” Shawn pointed out.

“Well, we only have the flight and then we'll be too busy,” Hunter whined.

“If we don't finish it now, we can save it for later.” Shawn laughed softly as the two of them shifted in their seats. “Oh, hold on. Move your leg. You're blocking—“

Steve turned around in his seat, craning his neck to see into the seat behind him as he announced, “Now wait one damn minute! There ain't gonna be none of this fruity stuff going on right behind me and Vince. So, you can just save it all for later, you dumb bastards.”

Shawn blinked innocently up at him, pen in hand and a newspaper on his lap, “Sudoku is fruity?”

”Turn around and mind your own business, Austin,” Hunter sneered.

”I'll do what I damn well want to. I'm gonna turn around now just 'cause I got some business with Vince. But,” Steve warned, eyes flashing from Hunter’s glare to Shawn’s evident confusion. “I'm watching you two.”

Shane moaned, head dropping into his hands. “I'm not going to make it off this plane alive.”

“Dude, did you hear that?” John Cena demanded, whirling around to face his seatmate.

“Hear what?” John Morrison yawned, flipping the page of his magazine.

”Shane thinks the plane's going to crash or something! Man. I knew we should've taken a bus.”

“A bus?” Morrison’s eyebrow’s shot up. “John Morrison doesn't ride buses.”

“Well, then a train or something,” Cena offered soothingly. “Something that wouldn't send us all to a fiery screaming death if something went wrong.”

”Are you afraid of flying?”

“No,” Cena insisted automatically. He swallowed hard before adding, “Yes. Maybe a little.”

Morrison’s laughter echoed through the plane.

“Shut up!” Cena yelled indignantly. “I knew I shouldn't have told you.”

Morrison patted his shoulder as his laughter died down, “Don't worry about it, Johnny Boy. I'm going to help you out. All we need to do is grab a stewardess and order a couple drinks.”

“A couple? Are you afraid of flying, too?”

Morrison chuckled again as he flagged down a flight attendant, “No, but I am afraid of missing an excuse to party.”

The flight attendant barely managed to squeeze by the Undertaker, who was standing in the aisle as he shoved repeatedly at his bulging bag, trying to force it into overhead storage.

“That won't fit in there,” Kane pointed out helpfully.

The Undertaker kept shoving. ”Of course it will.”

”No, it won't.”

“Yes, it will.”

“This is ridiculous!” Kane snapped. “Your huge, over-packed suitcase is not going to fit in the overhead compartment!”

”Yes, it will!” the Undertaker insisted, grunting as he pushed harder. “And I do not overpack! These are very important things that I need.”

Kane settled for rolling his eyes, folding his arms across his chest just as the Undertaker let go of the bag.

“Ha! See? Got it,” the Undertaker celebrated as the suitcase teetered on the edge of the compartment momentarily before dropping directly onto Kane’s head. “Ha!” he exclaimed before resuming his normal stoic expression. “Now move. I want the window seat.”

The airline employee smiled sweetly as she responded, “I'm sorry, membership in that particular club is banned by government regulations. Have some peanuts instead.” Tossing a tiny snack bag onto Piper’s lap, she walked away.

”In what world,” Roddy demanded, “does a bag of peanuts make up for a lack of sex?”

”Tell me about it,” Ric sympathized as he stole the peanuts. “But it's OK, we'll ask the next one who comes by.”

“You two are disgusting,” Melina informed them from her seat. “What makes you think these flight attendants would want to have sex with you?”

“I don't really care if they do or not, missy!” Ric responded enthusiastically. “This is my retirement trip, and somebody's joining the damn Mile High Club! Whoo!”

Melina huffed as she turned back around, “I need a new seat.”

“You need to get laid,” Roddy sniped, much to Ric’s amusement.

Melina whipped around, glaring daggers at both of them. “Don't even think about it.”

”That's where I know you from!” Roddy exclaimed. “You were stripping in Vegas!”

“I was not!”

“I love Vegas!” Ric added.

“Vegas kicks ass,” Roddy agreed. “We should go after the show.”

“Absolutely, but it doesn't solve our Mile High problem.”

Roddy frowned in concentration, then spotted Maria sitting next to Melina. “How about you, honey?” he offered. “Want to join the Club?”

Maria yanked out her mp3 headphones, smiling broadly. “Club? I love clubs! What club?”

“Score!” Roddy cheered, high-fiving Ric.

Maria giggled at their excitement, adding a “Hooray!” despite her confused expression.

"Maria!" CM Punk yelled from several rows toward the front. "You do not want to be part of the Mile High Club."

Maria's nose wrinkled. "Oh, that. I joined that years ago."

"You what?!" Punk choked as Ric and Roddy's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah." Maria shrugged casually. "I wasn't very good at it, though. I kept falling down."

"How the hell--" Roddy started, before getting jabbed in the ribs with Ric's elbow.

"I'm sure you were fine, my dear. And if you would like to come into the bathroom with me, I would be happy to show you some less dangerous positions."

"Ric!" Punk exclaimed. "No disrespect, but dude...ew."

Maria giggled again, shaking her head. "Oh, it's way too crowded in the bathroom."

“Well, I'm sure Roddy would be glad to trade you seats so you could come over here..." Ric suggested.

"I think I'm going to vomit," Punk announced.

"But there's no snow here," Maria protested. She frowned suddenly. "Wait. It is a skiing club, right?"

Punk closed his eyes, leaning back against his seat as he fought the urge to scream. He settled for stuffing a handful of peanuts into his mouth instead.

"Hey!" the Undertaker yelled, noticing the dozen bags of peanuts on Punk's lap. "How did you get so many peanuts?"

"I was starving. I asked the flight attendant nicely and she gave them to me."

"I asked nicely!"

Kane snorted. "You did not."

"I did so," the Undertaker countered. "I even gave her options."

"Your foot up her ass was not a good option."

"Then she should've chosen to give me more peanuts!"

Steve laughed to himself at the Undertaker's outrage, turning to Shane and poking him in the shoulder until he removed his headphones. "And that's the guy you're gonna make World Champion?"

"Steve, please," Shane begged. "We have hours left to go on this flight. Just let me listen to some music and relax, OK?"

"Sure thing, Vince. Just as soon as I get done telling you about all the stuff you're doing wrong on RAW. I even took notes, see? Number one, not enough beer. Number two--" He stopped, glaring suspiciously as he listened to Hunter and Shawn whispering in the row behind him.

"C'mon, Shawn! Hurry up and give it to me," Hunter demanded.

"I can't, the zipper's stuck! Wait, I got it."

"Hey!" Steve interrupted, whirling around in his seat. "What the hell do you think you're doing back there?"

"Us?" Shawn asked blankly, scrambling back into his seat from his position on the floor.

"I already told you there wasn't gonna be any of that this flight."

"Um..." Shawn bit his lip as he held up the hairbrush he had retrieved from his bag. "Any grooming?"

"You know, Steve, just because you obviously don't care about your appearance doesn't mean the rest of us want to look like low class rednecks," Hunter pointed out, grinning smugly as he snapped his gum.

Steve grunted suspiciously. "I got my eye on you two."

"Dude," Morrison explained from the front of the plane. "I'm telling you, try it. It'll get your mind off flying."

"You want me to rap now?" Cena asked, blinking rapidly as he tried to focus through the alcoholic fog surrounding him.

"You're the battle-rapper," Morrison challenged. "Let's hear you lay something down."

Cena gulped the last of his drink and nodded good-naturedly. " 'Kay, here goes: Um...I'm like a 747, 'cept I get twice as high; coming down like balls of flame falling out of the sky...aw, shit." He stopped, closing his eyes. "Wait. Give me a second."

Morrison burst out laughing as he replaced both of their empty cups. "You are so drunk, man."

"Dude! I'm not drunk! I'm a fucking role model!" Cena's eyes went wide as he slapped a hand over his mouth. "Did I just swear out loud?"

"Whatever, man," Morrison shrugged, taking a long drink before continuing, "It's my turn, give me a beat."

After glancing around to be sure no one was offended by his unintentional profanity, Cena obligingly started beatboxing a slow baseline.

Morrison listened to the rhythm for a few minutes, taking another drink before confessing, "Yeah. I got nothing."

"That was pathetic, kid," Roddy called from behind him.

"You think you can do better, old man?"

Roddy smirked, exchanging a glance with Ric.

"Knock 'em dead, Hot Rod. Whoo!"

Roddy cleared his throat, then began. "You boys like to talk tough, but you've got no guts,
Jobbing out like Jimmy Snuka to a coconut.
Ric may be hanging it up, but I'm ready to reload,
And keep kicking ass 'till I'm older than Dusty Rhodes.
I'm not--"

"Hey!" Cody Rhodes interrupted. "Dad's not that old!"

"You ruined my song!" Roddy yelled. "I hadn't even started rapping about Vegas and bitches and hos yet!"

"What rap doesn't talk about bitches and hos?" Ric chimed in.

"That's the whole point of rap!" Roddy insisted.

"Yo," Cena slurred. "Not every song has to be like that."

Roddy glared at him. "What the fuck do you know about hip-hop, Marky Mark?"

"I like country and blues, myself," Cody offered softly.

Ric blinked at him, tilted his head to one side, then loudly whispered to Roddy, "Hey, is Dusty's kid retarded or something?"

"I heard he was gay," Roddy responded.

"I'm not gay!" Cody insisted.

"I think that's the other one," Ric continued, ignoring him. "With the gold paint and the crossdressing."

"I don't know," Steve chimed in, frowning critically at Cody. "This one looks a little fruity to me."

"Well, fuck it," Roddy suddenly announced. "I'm not getting any flight attendant action anyway. Come on in the bathroom, kid."

"What?" Cody yelped.

"Don't worry, we'll fit," Roddy assured him. "Kilts are easy access, right?"

Cody swallowed hard, turning to Big Show in the seat beside him. "Is he joking?"

Big Show looked back at Roddy, then shrugged sympathetically to Cody. "Uh...I'm going to say he is, just so you don't have nightmares tonight."

"Don't worry about it, man," Chris Jericho offered from the seat in front of them. "As soon as we land, you can just jog across the street. It'll take that fat tub of goo two days to catch you."

His seatmate, Paul Burchill, twisted around to join the conversation. "I have to say, I'm somewhat surprised at this manner of conduct from a Canadian. Perhaps Mr. Piper has lived in America too long. Certainly in the UK, we try to avoid all implications of forced buggery in the work environment."

"What the hell is 'buggery?' " the Undertaker demanded loudly.

"Certainly nothing that you will be participating in for the foreseeable future," Burchill retorted, sending Jericho and Kane into laughing fits.

"What the hell are you giggling about?" the Undertaker growled at Kane before turning to glare at both Burchill and Jericho. "I hate English people."

"Their loss, I'm sure," Jericho quipped.

"Your loss, too, Brit-boy," the Undertaker responded, lifting one arm to point in the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean. "The pond," he stated firmly. "Cross it."

"I'm not even English!" Jericho sputtered. "I'm Canadian!"

"Where the hell is Canadia?" the Undertaker snapped, before noticing the Big Show behind Jericho. "Hey, I wanted to talk to you."

As the Undertaker squeezed past Kane into the aisle, he bumped the overhead compartment. His bag, which had been precariously hanging off the edge, fell onto Kane's foot.

"That is it. I've had it," Kane announced through gritted teeth. Picking up the bag fully intending to fling it across the aisle right into the Undertaker's head, Kane paused as a thought occurred to him. Then a slow smile spread across his face. Unzipping the Undertaker's bag, Kane began rummaging through the clothes. "The problem is," he muttered to himself, "that his clothes are just too big. I'm going to help him. He'll appreciate it so much. Heh heh heh." Stopping the stewardess as she passed by, Kane asked politely, "Could I borrow a pair of scissors?"

The Undertaker, meanwhile, had forcibly ejected Cody Rhodes from his seat so he could sit next to Big Show. "Listen. I've been thinking about this $20 million Floyd Mayweather match, and I have come to a decision. There is no way Floyd Mayweather can count to $20 million. His name is Floyd, for God's sake."

"Which means what?" Big Show asked, brow wrinkling in confusion.

"Everyone knows people named Floyd can't count. It's common knowledge. And anyway, 20 million is really high. I tried counting it off last night, and then I had to pee, and then I forgot where I was. But I don't think I was even close. It's a big number."

"Yes. It is indeed a big number."

"So he probably wouldn't notice if you took some of that and brought it to me," the Undertaker concluded. "So get on that."

"And why would I do that, exactly?"

“Because I told you to. I got bills, yo."

"You what?" Big Show gaped.

"Word," the Undertaker responded, nodding seriously.

Piper laughed sharply from the back of the plane. "Hear that, Marky Mark? The Deadman is still more live than you!"

"Dude!" Cena slurred at the suddenly naked John Morrison sitting calmly beside him. "Where did all your clothes go?"

"Calm down, Johnny," Morrison soothed, taking a sip of his drink. "I'm trying to help you relax."

"I would be more relaxed if I wasn't 8 inches from your naked wiener!" Cena insisted

. "Listen, Jimmy, you gotta just get comfortable and..."

"John," Cena corrected.

"Yeah?"

"Huh?"

"You said John."

"Yeah, John."

Morrison sighed. "Whatever. Like I was saying, Jim..."

"Wait. My name's John."

"No, my name's John."

"My name's John."

"No, I'm pretty sure your name is Jim."

Cena chewed on his bottom lip, then shook his head doggedly. "I really think it's John."

"No, I'm John. You're Jim."

"Did I really forget my name?" Cena asked mournfully.

Morrison patted him sympathetically on the back. "It's ok. I remembered, Jim."

"Wait a minute! Hands off! You're naked!"

"Really?" Morrison glanced down at himself, running a hand absently down his chest. "Huh. Doesn't particularly bother me."

“All right!" Ric cheered as he finally noticed John Morrison's nudity. "Looks like somebody's ready to get this party started! Now, who's the first lucky couple joining the Club?"

"Ric!" Punk yelled, exasperated. "Why are you obsessed with the Mile High Club?"

"Because Space Mountain is closing down! I gotta make sure somebody in wrestling is gonna take care of all the wheeling, dealing, and kiss-stealing in private jets and limos while I'm gone. Right, Maria?"

Maria just giggled, offering an enthusiastic, "Whoo!"

Punk shook his head at her before turning back to Ric. "Ric. You know I love and respect everything you've ever done in wrestling, but for real, man...you are a dirty, dirty man-whore."

"Whoo!" Flair responded.

"Whoo!" Maria echoed immediately.

"That's it!" Roddy exclaimed suddenly. "We're all going to Vegas!" Racing up the aisle, he barrelled full-speed into the cockpit of the plane.

"Huh," Steve remarked, turning to Shane. "You probably should have done something about that, Vince."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Shane murmured, shaking his head. "I was busy planning to kill my father."

Cena stumbled into the picture, blinking rapidly and holding up both hands. "OK. OK. First off, the thing is, I wasn't drunk. Because you shouldn't drink, kids. And I'm not gay either, even though the guy next to me was kind of naked. It's not like I was looking, except to make sure he wasn't touching me. I was watching really close for that. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, kids. I mean, if you want to grow up to...um, shop a lot and...um...have gay sex, it's really a great way to be and you should go for it. So what I'm basically saying is to follow your dreams. And listen to your heart. And Roddy Piper is a giant dickhead. Oops..uh, butthead. That's all."

"Thanks for that insight, John," the newscaster noted. "In yet another unsurprising twist to the story, two of the wrestlers were discovered locked in the bathroom when the plane was evacuated. When asked for comments, both Triple H and the Heartbreak Kid Shawn Michaels declined."

Ric Flair paused in midstep as he overheard the statement. "In the same bathroom?" he demanded.

"That's what the notes say," the flustered reporter responded.

Ric laughed out loud before announcing, "Long live the Mile High Club! On our way to Wrestlemania! Whoo!" and strutting off camera.