A ghostly tale by The Dilemma and Arriaga Pizzoza
Bischoff was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by Ted Turner, Time Warner, the Undertaker, and all WCW loyalists. McMahon signed it: and McMahon’s name was good for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Bischoff was as dead as a door-nail.
McMahon knew he was dead; they had been rivals for I don’t know how many years until McMahon prevailed, and immediately erased Bischoff’s name from all the legal records and history books.
There he sat on his office, the morning of Wrestlemania 31: McMahon! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, did odd things to his hair, enlarged his testicles, stiffened his gait.
On this particular morning, McMahon sat alone in his office in Levi’s Stadium (for McMahon had his workers build him an exact replica of his office in every arena where the company visited), counting stacks of coin and keeping a close eye on the running total of WWE Network subscribers.
“Happy Wrestlemania morning, father-in-law!” cried a cheerful voice.