((The camera view fades in to a single image – the bright silver Heavy Metalweight Championship belt’s ornate façade, with red letters spelling DILLIGAF across. As the point of view rolls back and zooms out, We see the belt is once again snugly around the firm waist of “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane, who is, as usual, also wearing his two Trios Championship belts. With his three title belts gleaming like bejeweled dragon scales, Loverboy stands with hands on hips and a gigantic shit-eating grin on his face in front of a standard XWF backdrop used for pre-match promos. With a smirk, Loverboy rolls up the sleeves of his denim jacket, adjusts his leather, fingerless gloves, and then removes his reflective aviator sunglasses. A quick glance to the belts on his waist from his sky blue eyes, and Loverboy begins to speak.))

Loverboy: You know, I don’t usually do these tacky sort of trash talking segments unless I’m contractually obligated to do so. You might think that seeing me in front of this obvious green screen running my mouth must mean that a certain “Aerial Knight” Johnny Heartsford has gotten under my skin. The thing is folks – like I said – I don’t do these unless I’m obligated to. Turns out the fine print in my match contract with Heartsford specifically demands this little segment for use during XWF programming and commercials for local TV channels carrying Madness in the Columbus area. Fine. Whatever. I can understand the XWF brass figuring out that their most handsome, most charismatic, most talented and most decorated athlete should be on their broadcasts as much as possible. My only problem is talking about Heartsford any more than is necessary. You see, Johnny Heartsford is nothing more than a pain in my gorgeous ass. He’s a thorn in my side. An annoyance. A pet peeve. And that’s all this dude is. Do any of you out there in TV Land really think this little punk is gonna roll in off the street and beat me? I’m not enhancement talent, folks. I’m not here to make other guys look good. That’s what guys like Heartsford are for. And hey, let’s give the guy credit where credit is due – on Monday night, he is going to make me look great.

((Loverboy adjusts the belts around his waist in a clearly unnecessary manner, obviously just drawing attention to them as usual.))

Loverboy: Every time I knock him on his ass is gonna make me look like a strongman competitor bench pressing cars full of ladies or something. Every time I punch him it’s going to make me look like Tyson fighting Robin Givens. I’m gonna look like Dean Malenko when I slap cloverleafs and figure fours on him, and submission isn’t even really my game. You know what I mean, man? I already look pretty damn good on my own, after all, I’m a megastar, but when I’m in the ring with someone whose offense and skill level is going to be on par with a first grader learning how to finger paint? I’m gonna look like a god. I mean, what exactly is Johnny Heartsford bringing to the table? What are his credentials, other than being an understudy in the local Camelot production? He claims to be a high flyer, right? But have you ever seen it? All I’ve seen the dude do is slap at a heavy bag held by a woman and beat up a homeless guy in a park. What, you can do a moonsault? So can I, man! Hell even Brock Lesnar can throw a moonsault. His probably looks better than yours, too, dude. Here, look.



Loverboy: Boy, that was ugly. I hope you’re coming at me with something less innocuous than that, man. If you think you can come cruise in on my party, rain on my parade and shit in my corn flakes, well, just like the great Rob Halford says: you’ve got another thing coming. You need to be on you’re a game, Mister Knight. Not just following me everywhere I go and sneaking out of closets and bathrooms to take things you don’t deserve.

((Loverboy hooks his thumbs into the lip of the Heavy Metalweight belt, lifting it slightly from his hips.))

Loverboy: This title is mine. It’s staying mine. I’m a current and two-and-a-half time Heavy Metalweight Champion for a reason, dude. All you are is a decimal point. I’m two out of three Trios champions. You? You’re a zero, just like the one in your win column. I’m tired of you already, Heartsford, and we haven’t even had a single sanctioned match. I feel like you’re John Hinckley and I’m Jodi Foster with your sick need to mimic me and follow me across the country, trying your damndest to get my attention. If I didn’t know that Richard Ramirez was dead, I’d think he scored a contract in the XWF because all you are, buddy, is a Knight Stalker. Have you got a crush on me, dude? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. And not that I’d blame you either. If I looked like you, and I saw me? I’d wanna be me too. The only problem is, little Johnny, you’re never gonna be me. The best you can hope for is this Monday night, when you get to be face to face with your idol, and have him break you in half on national television.

((Loverboy puts the shades back on his face and smiles big for the camera again, running his hands through his long, blond hair as he does so.))

Loverboy: So there you have it, cats and kittens, XWF officials and fans of the megastar worldwide. One, hot, bona fide and legally binding television spot from a true celebrity. You guys deserve it, and you got it. And you, Johnny Heartsford? When I crack your head on the mat and take away any hope of you ever, EVER holding this belt again? You’ll have gotten what you deserve as well. See you soon, Sir Loser.

((The camera zooms in on the HMW title belt once again as the scene fades to black.))