05-25-2016, 09:22 PM
"Loverboy" - Sleep to Dream -->
The camera is focused on a closed door. Just a door. A plain, white, unmarked door. Nothing moves or changes for full, agonizing, silent moments until finally a groan and a splash can be heard from behind said door.
“Oh, fuck…”
I know what you’re thinking. How any times have we shown up halfway through the Universal Champion “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane emptying his ball sack into his fiancée, Roxy? How many times do the fans in the XWF universe have to be reminded of his virility? Of his unquenchable, bottomless sexual appetite? Haven’t they been through enough nights swiping right furiously on Tinder and Bumble before collapsing into their unmade beds alone yet again after a sad and unfulfilling pud pull, only to turn on the XWF Network and have to see the man they can never be do things they can never do?
This is not one of those times, as evidenced by the fact that Roxy is, in fact, now knocking on the door, not on the other side of it getting her uterus jackhammered like a New York City sidewalk.
“Baby? Baby are you okay? You’ve been in there for twenty minutes…”
“UhhhhhNNNnhhhhh…”
The agonizing moan is quickly followed by a long splash, and then what sounds like possible crying before we are eventually treated to some muffled wiping sounds, and then finally a flush.
The tap runs for a few more long seconds before, finally, the lock clicks and the door swings inward. Roxy immediately hops backward, grabbing at her face is if worms were trying to crawl into her medically perfected nose.
“Jesus!”
“Roxy… oh my God, dude, I think I just shit my whole insides out.”
“It smells like dying…”
“God damn. Don’t worry, babe. I’m going to the doc’s right after my training sesh here, and I’ll figure out whatever the fuck is making my asshole feel like the hottest oven in Auschwitz. I turned that fuckin’ toilet into a Frodo Smackins promo.”
“Hey Loverboy, you ready?”
Panning out, the rest of the scene is revealed. A high-tech gym, complete with boxing and MMA training equipment and several wrestling rings. Inside one of the rings stands Loverboy’s sparring partner – a fat, balding, massive turd of a man dressed in a ballerina’s spandex. Tutu included.
“Yeah, yeah, gimme a sec Joey. I’ve got the squirts.”
“Fuck you with all that, Vinnie. You ain’t payin’ me enough to stand around dressed like some superhero queer for the whole night. You want to spar, get in here and spar!”
Joey Amaretto, in case all you viewers at home are wondering, is a fairly well-known fellow around Las Vegas. He claims he used to be a big deal in boxing, wrestling, jiu-jitsu, water polo… well, you get the idea. He says he’s a big deal. However, for a guy who may or may not have been a big deal in his time, all he is these days is a massively overweight alcoholic.
Amaretto makes his money in three ways. One, by stealing poker chips off of casino tables while no one is looking. Two, by sucking dick behind said casinos (though he’s never admitted it and claims it’s some other fat in the area trying to sully his good name). And three, by getting paid to ‘spar,’ which usually entails him just getting winded and beat up for a few minutes. The life of an obese addict is never easy.
“Vinnie, I don’t like him.”
“Nobody likes him, babe. Look at him. But I need someone who’s about the same size and athleticism as my opponent on Savage this week, dude. Surprisingly, most people in Vegas aren’t THAT fat, so I had to settle.”
“You ready, boss?”
In the ring, Amaretto’s pit sweat is spreading across the pink spandex of his ballerina costume like oil across the Gulf of Mexico.
“Yeah dude… but you need a mask! Bourbon always wears a mask, like the Gimp in Pulp Fiction, you know?”
“Uh… well… I don’t have a mask… can I just have you draw on my face? Maybe with semen?”
“What? No, dude, that’s . Next you’ll have a pet monkey and start calling your single-wide a dojo. Here, Roxy, gimme your spare panties.”
“Vinnie!”
“Baby, don’t act all offended. Anyone who watches us long enough knows that I get you soaked through the first pair by 4 pm sharp. The whole world knows you either go commando or carry a backup pair, and this desert heat in Sin City would have your happy hole dried up like a mummy if you didn’t cover it up. No one fucks mummies, Rox. Gimme the thong.”
Roxy glares at Loverboy unblinking, but slowly reaches into her leather Gucci handbag and pulls out what appears to be a few strands of purple, glittery yarn. Once Loverboy gets it into his hands and starts playing a little cat’s cradle, though, it becomes obvious it’s just a skimpy set of anal floss panties.
“Here Joey. Put these on your face.”
“Fuck yeah!”
“They’re CLEAN, dude. Relax.”
“Not for long! Come to poppa!”
Loverboy shakes his head but tosses the thong up to Joey Amaretto while Roxy shudders. The bodacious blonde opts to pull out her cell phone and start Twittering up all the most disgusting and vile hashtags she can think of to describe the porcine pervert in the ring wearing her g-string like a luchador mask.
“How do I look?”
“Like a 40 pound trash bag with 100 pounds of shit in it. And your breath is bleaching my eyebrows, dude, are you drunk?”
“Maybe.”
“God damn it, dude. I said I wanted someone SIMILAR to Bourbon. SIMILAR. Not identical. If I wanted the exact same experience I’ll have on Savage Sunday Night, I’d go spar what I flushed down the toilet ten minutes ago. What the fuck is your problem? Don’t you want this fifteen bucks?”
“More than you could possibly know, sweet cheeks.”
“Whoa, whoa, pump the brakes, dough boy. We aren’t here to make Robbie a personal ‘hope you don’t die of diabetes yet’ tribute porn – we’re here to train. Get yourself nice and warmed up while I do my stretches.”
Loverboy does just that, putting on an impressive display of calisthenics and stretching routines while Joey Amaretto leans into a corner and scratches one of his many, many flesh pockets.
Eventually, Loverboy seems ready. He bounces around and shadow boxes, his fists becoming a blur of motion as he bobs and weaves, rope-a-doping all around the ring. His fists of fury come ball-hair close to Amaretto’s bethonged nose, and Loverboy laughs at the big man’s lack of mobility.
You viewers know anything about the concept of hubris?
“Hey baby… lemme take a Snap of you! Smile!”
“Huh? I thought you were playing Candy Crush… okay, well, CHEEEEEEEE - !#$$%$!^%&##?
There’s really no way to properly convey the sound it made when Joey Amaretto’s canned ham-sized fist collided with the perfect bone structure of Loverboy’s face. A bowling ball being thrown by shot put world record holder Randy Barnes into a side of warm beef, maybe? A condor dying midflight and crashing into a Cheesecake Factory? Either way, the next sound everybody heard was the massive thud of the Universal Champion’s body dropping to the canvas.
Well, not everyone. Loverboy didn’t hear a thing, since his lights went out like he hadn’t paid the electric bill the second that hamhock made contact with his dome. The curtain dropped on him like he was a bad talent show entrant, and all he saw was
BLACK.
In my dreams, I can usually understand the world around me and make decisions. Lucid dreaming, I think it’s called.
But this time. I don’t know, dude, maybe it’s the concussion or maybe I got a subdural hematoma from that gargantuan pole smoker cheap shotting me when my back was turned, but I think I’m actually awake!
I can see and hear and smell and taste… there’s trees and little forest critters running this way and that, and it’s all in bright technicolor. I can’t move, though. I’m more vegetable than man, like Stephen Hawking but with better hair.
I can’t even feel pins and needles, it’s like I’m not really there… but I AM there. I can SEE it and KNOW it, dude. Who would imagine they were in some cartoon woodland if they weren’t, right?
Right.
So, I’m a disembodied wight or something, just sort of hovering and existing in this little copse of trees. You know how they say when you lose one sense the others get stronger to compensate? Well I guess becoming non-corporeal is like that times a thousand, dude, because I can sense fucking EVERYTHING. I can hear the wet squish of rabbits a dozen miles away while they make more rabbits. I can smell the estrus of every doe in season for acres.
Watching motes of dust filter through the jaundiced sunlight dripping through treetops like honey, I know the mathematical patterns each one produces as it inevitably struggles and loses its fight against gravity.
Deep shit going on in my disembodied head, dude.
That’s when the squirrel talked to me.
“Hey there, did he get you too?”
I didn’t think he was talking to me, of course, I figured he was talking to one of the other squirrels that were sitting there eating and shitting and generally doing squirrel things while I continued to exist or not exist or whatever the fuck I was busy doing. He was definitely talking to me though.
“Vinnie. Vinnie Lane. Did Robbie Bourbon fuck a creampie into you?”
“What the fuck?”
What the fuck? I had a voice? I didn’t even have a mouth, why did I have a voice?
“What are you talking about, squirrel dude? Why can you see me? Fuck that, why can you talk? And why is there some pearly white jism dangling out of your backside like you were some sort of fuzzy Boston Crème donut?”
“I can see you because you’re visible, duh, you’re a squirrel just like us. I can talk because this is a brain-damaged fever dream. And I’m dripping dollops of hot dick soup because this is the Dreamscape… and in the Dreamscape, Robbie Bourbon facilitates his nocturnal emissions by fucking dreamsquirrels in the ass until he busts.”
“Don’t be , dude, I’m not a squirrel. I’m the XWF Universal Champion, “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane. I’ve been in Playgirl. They make dildos from molds of my cockmeat. Squirrel. You’re stupid.”
“Suit yourself, Squirrel Number Forty-One. Take a look in the river first, though.”
And that’s what I did, or do, or am maybe about to do. Time is fucked in the ether of dream, you know? Here I am, surrounded by a bunch of man chowder-filled rodents THAT CAN TALK, and for whatever reason it seems too far-fetched to me that I might be one of them. Time to bite the bullet and see for myself.
So, let’s lean over and look into the crystal blue water. Shouldn’t be too tough, just climb up onto this rock using my tiny brown claw hands and then twitch my whiskers out of the way until I can see my reflection…
…
…
…
Fuck.
Yeah. Yeah that’s a squirrel face, and it’s me. This dream officially sucks as bad as it can. Well, that’s probably what I would be thinking if the ground wasn’t suddenly shaking and ripples were forming in the water like that scene in Jurassic Park when Sexy Rexy shows up to try to eat those kids in the car.
“Robbie’s here.”
Thanks, Squirrel Number Sixteen. I can see the five story-tall ballsack stumbling towards us just fine, thank you, and I’m also perfectly aware, suddenly, that I’m the only squirrel without an asshole ravaged by Bourbon Batter.
So, hey, anyone out there that might be able to catch radio transmissions from the subconscious… help a dude out and wake up the champ before he gets raped?
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"Loverboy" - Sleep to Dream -->
in the area trying to sully his good name). And three, by getting paid to ‘spar,’ which usually entails him just getting winded and beat up for a few minutes. The life of an obese addict is never easy.![[Image: Gz87KnQ.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/Gz87KnQ.jpg)
