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John Cena was crying. Tears of laughter and humiliation rolled down his cheeks, and he felt as if he'd never get a full breath in again. Urine dripped down his legs and pooled at his feet, and he was surrounded by everyone he'd come up in the company with, all laughing at him. It was like a bad dream, only the wetness was still warm in his pants and he'd never felt embarrassment like this in a dream. 

But he'd brought this on himself, as they all happily told him.

30 MINUTES EARLIER 

John was in a similar position, snorting with laughter as he bent at the waist, but this time he was on FaceTime with his new-found friend Logan Paul while he waited for an available bathroom stall. Logan was funny, and he'd decided everyone else would just have to get over them being friends.

"And then," Logan giggled tinnily over the phone, "we put itching powder in Uso's body wash and he thought it was the Rollins crew! Nobody expects the Humble Inquisition!"

"Stop, stop," John wheezed, crossing his legs just to be safe - he'd long since finished his third Prime and vodka and no part of him was getting any younger, including his pelvic floor muscles. "I have to piss, dude. Stop making me laugh." He hammered on each of the stall doors in turn. "Hey, hurry up in there, your Champion of Champions has to go!" 

"Just use the trough!" Logan shouted drunkenly. "I wanna finish my story and I can't help being funny!"

John lifted the phone to look at him. "You want me to use the germ-encrusted trough of the general public? Yeah, I think not. I'll wait, thank you." He banged on the stalls once more. "What, did you fall in or something?" His need was becoming great even without laughing.

Both stall doors and the door to the bathroom burst open at once, and multiple pairs of hands seized John and dragged him outside. "H-Hey! Get off of me! Don't you know who I am?" 

"Ayo, who's that?" Logan shouted. "Who's--"

John's phone clattered to the floor and the call dropped. 

As soon as he was able to get a good look at them, John recognised DIY, Pretty Deadly and The Street Profits as his captors. "Oh great, the new generation of whiny pretty boys is out to get me now," he grumbled, shifting from foot to foot. "Don't kidnap a man when he's gotta go!" 

"Oh man, he has to piss?" came an incredulous voice behind him. "Y'all outdid yourselves, boys. Well done."

John got a sinking feeling in his stomach as he turned to see Randy Orton leading what looked like half the men in the locker room, who spread out in a circle to stop him escaping.The teams seized him again and he struggled, but it was six on one, holding him spread eagle and forcing his legs apart.

"I watched him!" Kit piped up happily. "He drank and drank and didn't go, so I knew we only had so much time and I got the word out on our friends' behalf: tonight we ambush John Cena and show him who's boss. The fact he doesn't like urinals was a happy accident." He high fived Elton over John's head. 

"Fuck off," John spat as Randy approached him from the right. "I kicked your ass. We're done now." 

"See, I don't think we are, Johnny boy," said Cody Rhodes, appearing on his left side. "There's someone who wants to remind you personally of your place here through his own special methods. Don't ask me why he chose to do it this way, revenge is just how he seems to be rolling right now." 

Ron Killings stepped up between them. "Hi, John." 

"Fuck!" John shouted. "You're gone! You're let go! You're not here!"

Ron was certainly here - or at least his fingers were, running lightly across John's abs. There were only a handful of people in the world that knew John was very ticklish, and that unfortunately included all of the three pack leaders stood before him. 

John wouldn't laugh. He couldn't. The entire locker room would know if he did. He pressed his lips tightly together, twitching away from Ron's touch as much as he could. This version of John Cena wasn't ticklish.

"C'mon, John," Ron growled, moving his fingers faster. "You can't hold out forever." 

Not ticklish, not ticklish, he chanted in his head, squirming back and forth. At least his tummy wasn't so bad of a spot.

It went on like this for a good ten minutes, John grunting and trying to pass off escaped laughs as coughs, and eventually Cody rolled his eyes, impressed as he was with his endurance. "Fuck this, we haven't got time, we're gonna get caught." he said, and he walked over to tickle his underarms in tandem with Ron.

"AHAHAHA!" It was far too much to bear and John broke, the tag teams not letting him move or fall as he laughed desperately, trying to push his thighs back together. "There we go," Ron said softly as Cody massaged the little knots of muscle where John's underarms met his torso and grinned when his laughter turned high pitched. "There's the John Cena that R-Truth wrestled alongside back in the day. Big heart, ticklish as all hell, never knows when to quit." He traced Ron Killings around John's belly button, impressed that he could draw breath to squeal. "At least one out of three is still true." He enjoyed tickling John just as much these days as he'd done all those years ago, and his laughter was just as pathetic now, his face just as quick to turn red. "Stopitstopitstopit! CodyyyyEheHeHEEE!"

Randy grabbed Cody's wrists,. "C'mon, give him a break, he'll pass out otherwise and he's no good to us passed out." He gave John's bladder a sharp poke and he yelled; he hadn't realised how full he'd become in a short while.

"What about your sides, hey, John?" Randy asked him, waving his hand to dismiss the tag teams and then walking around to grab him in a bear hug from behind, making him thrash with desperation. "Your sides still bad?" 

"Eat a dick," John gasped. He wasn't going to wet himself. He was a grown man, and not just any grown man - he was John Cena. He had never peed his pants before, and he didn't intend on starting now. He was not going to wet himself, just because Randy was pressing on his bladder the way he was and oh God he really did have to go and Ron had a sadistic glint in his eye that he hadn't seen before in 17 years of knowing him.

He laughed again as Randy wiggled his fingers where they rested against his sides in the bear grip, then he shouted as Ron joined him once more on his stomach, but he could hold it. He could hold it as long as he needed to.

Until, that is, Cody set his jaw and got to work on the hollows of John's underarms.

"No, no, no!" John shouted as Randy's arms tightened once more. "No! No!"

With Randy squeezing him, Ron scratching at his abs, and Cody torturing his underarms, it was too much for his weakened bladder, and John Cena screeched with laughter as he pissed into his jorts. He wasn't able to stem the flow once he started, a golden river pouring from the crotch and legholes and saturating his shoes even as tears streamed down his face.

The laughter from the assembled crowd started long before he was done wetting himself, and he heard phone camera shutters going off. "No social media, guys!" Cody shouted, as the trio finally stopped tickling John and let him breathe before he really did pass out. The piss was still running down his legs to join the puddle spreading out of his shoes, and he shook with shame. "Personal use only, okay?"

Randy clapped his hands. "Okay, party's over! Return to your normal lives and speak nothing of this, et cetera!"

The Pretty Deadly boys blinked at him, and he rephrased. 

"Basically, fuck off and shut your mouths." 

John collapsed into his own puddle, unable to stop snivelling as the crowd dispersed. 

"That's what it means to actually be The Final Boss." Ron spat, getting the last word in before he left him there.

He may be keeping the title, but John's last shred of dignity had leaked into his pants several minutes ago. 

He was Ron's bitch now, however unspoken it may be, and he knew his life was going to become hell.