There was a specific moment when the pain became unbearable and my body just shut it off.

CRACK!

The problem is, I couldn’t tell you when exactly that moment was, anymore.

CRACK!

See, I remember certain things. My fingernails being pulled off by a pair of pliers, for instance.

CRACK!

Or when I was leaned back, dunked into a pool of ice water until I thought I was drowning.

CRACK!

Eventually, though, things start to blend together. It’s funny, you’d think something as poignant as torture would keep you focused, but your body has a strange way of defending itself.

CRACK!

Sometime between having the bottoms of my feet sliced open and having needles pressed into my abdomen, I lost track.

CRACK!

So, maybe it was the fingernails, then the water; or maybe the other way around?

CRACK!

Regardless. Here I am. Strapped face down on a table, the tatters of one of my favorite shirts being ground into the widening gashes on my back by whatever lash the lunatic Ghost Tank was using to whip me like a runaway slave.

CRACK!

Staring at the floor between wincing in pain, I can still see piles of my own blond hair. Strips of bloodied t-shirt are starting to join them down there, sent flying from my back with each crack of the whip.

CRACK!

Sometimes he went a little high. The back of my neck stings with the throb of an open wound mixed with sweat. It’s enough pain to keep me passing out every few minutes, but then wake me up again with the next

CRACK!

I’ll give the motherfucker credit. He didn’t seem like was getting tired. Maybe bored though. Behind me, I think I hear the sound of a heavy leather whip being dropped onto a counter. A moment later, a rough burlap bag with a stink of potatoes is stuck over my head, obscuring my vision.[/i]

“Arm… getting a little sore… huh Tank?”

Inhaling was a chore, but speaking with a torso with at least three broken ribs was way worse. Gotta do what you gotta do, though.

“Makes sense… you’re a big fucker… out of shape… slow…”

“Shut your fucking lips before I cut them off.”

“Come on, Tank… what’s the end game here, man? You’re no killer. Not the ‘new breed of monster’ you play on TV, you know? I’m getting out of here. You already fucked me up about as bad as you can, dude, you might as well let me walk now.”

“Hilarious. When I’m done you won’t be walking anywhere.”

“Oh yeah? You going to cripple me, Tank? This little fantasy world of a profession we both share is a lot of things, but above the law it isn’t. I could already have you and your little butt pirate ‘brother’ locked up for 20 years for this bullshit stunt. The XWF brass might help sweep this all under the rug, but crippling, maiming or killing me? No way. Shane ’s a psychopath, but he’s a psychopath who covers his ass first and protects his friends second. No way he doesn’t give you right up.”

“Yeah? What’s the matter Loverboy? Not enjoying my company?”

“Can’t say you’re the best conversationalist I’ve had recently, to be honest, dude. I mean, don’t get me wrong, man, I’d sit here and try to figure out that fucked up brain of yours for a week if I wasn’t booked in a few days. This little massage you’ve been giving me is going to take a few days to patch myself up from too. Didn’t even get the happy ending.”

“You aren’t making any booking, Lane. That’s the fucking point.”

“What kind of sense does that even make, man? I’ve got title shots locked up already as it is! I could go after your prophet-puppet Hysteria tomorrow if I want to! After today, I’m thinking I probably will. If you dipshits hadn’t shown up after the contender’s match at Turning Point, you probably wouldn’t have even been on my radar. What gives?”

“Oh… you don’t know, do you? I guess you were a little busy for the main event.”

“Yeah, busy getting cheap shotted and abducted. So what gives? John Samuels spend my own money hiring you jackasses to soften me up? Won’t work. I doubt he even won the damn match anyway.”

“He did.”

“Well good for fucking him. Guess he can’t duck me like before anymore, can he?”

“No need, Lane. He isn’t the Universal Champion.”

“What? Oh, right, of course. Pay Per Views equal cash in season for the chickenshits with briefcases. No way Justin Sane has anything to do with you freaks though. So who? Doc? I’d expect more from him.”

“Not Doc.”

“You don’t mean to tell me that gay space wizard Evertrust popped back into existence for the sole purpose of fucking with me AGAIN, do you?”

“No.”

“Well what the fuck then, Tank? Spill it already. Jesus, talking to you is the real fucking torture.”

“The Higher Power has revealed himself, and come away with the XWF Universal Championship that you covet so dearly, Lane. He’s assigned me to ensure you come nowhere near taking it from him.”

“Too god damn bad, GT! I’m the number one contender! I’m the contest winner with a title shot in his back pocket! And when I get out of here? And I will get out of here, dude, trust me… when I do, it’ll be to get right into the Shove It Rumble and win a third shot to go along with the other two. Your ‘higher power’ really is high if he thinks he’s beating me three times in a row, dude.”

“You really are a fool, Loverboy. The Higher Power does not lose. The Higher Power has NEVER lost.”

“Wait…”

“The Higher Power knows only VICTORY. Forever!”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right? Morbid Angel? You know he loses all the time, right? You know I have personally beaten him twice? Hell, Tank, YOU beat him. If you beat him you don’t think I’ll take him out with one of my title shots sooner than later?”

“All a part of the Higher Power’s grand scheme for the XWF, Lane. You really can’t see anything outside of your own narrow scope, can you?”

“He never could.”

My heart stopped beating and sat in my throat like a dead animal. It couldn’t be.

The echo of stiletto heels against concrete came closer to me, teasing like the pendulum of a clock. Every click a stab to the heart.

“Hey there baby. Miss me?”

It can't be.

I strain against my bindings, the flayed skin of my back screaming in protest as the muscles beneath undulate and swell in an effort to rip my arms free from the table.

My heroics are quelled easily enough when I feel the meaty palm of Ghost Tank’s massive hand pressing the scratchy burlap into the newly bald flesh of my head and pushing my face down to the table.

I taste wood, blood, sweat… and the salty newcomer that I know is the tears I’m pretending not to feel coursing down my face.

For the first time, I’m grateful for the bag.

“Cat got your tongue, baby?”

“What the hell is going on? What are you doing, Roxy?”

“What do you think, Vinnie? I’m leaving you. I’m keeping the ring. Oh, and I’m fucking the shit out of the Asylum, in case you were wondering.”

“So, a few gallons of penicillin are in my future then? Great.”

“Always so funny, aren’t you Vinnie? You know what’s really funny though? You. Thinking you could ever have a perfect ten like me for the rest of his life. I’m done watching you lose over and over again, Vinnie. I’m with a winner now. A real champion.”

I hear her coming closer, so I put on a good show. I don’t let her hear me sniffing and choking on tears.

It’s when I feel soft hands on either side of my face lifting up the rough material of the potato sack to above my nose that I get a sense of how close she really is.

Her scent is permeating the air. Her breath on my skin.

Then, her lips press against me in the coldest kiss I’ve ever felt, and I understand.

“I thought you’d like a kiss goodbye, Loverboy.”

Ghost Tank laughs behind me, and this time I laugh along. It seems to silence the room.

“Sugar… whoever the hell you are, your mouth tastes like shit. Who is this cunt, Tank? Some dollar store hooker from Craigslist?”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say the temperature of the room went up five degrees at least just from the anger I set off in the hulk of green-haired mediocrity.

The heels skitter away from me as Tank’s heavy footfalls stomp around to stand in front of my head, and then the bag is harshly ripped from me.

He doesn’t look happy. Neither does his little girlfriend, Alysia.

“Nice trick, slut. Too bad you can’t taste as good as you can sound.”

“Fuck you!”

The voice act is dropped, that was her real vocal pattern screaming at me as she turned and left the room.

The last thing I should have done then is keep talking.

“Your girlfriend is kinda pissed, Tank. Should I have given her more tongue?”

Damn it.

The fist puts me right to sleep.




Sometime later, “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane wakes up back in his original place – tied to a chair in the middle of the sparse, grey room. A garage, really.

Ghost Tank is there, icing his massive hand. Frodo Smackins is nearby, chatting on his cell phone. Something about Katie and Wallace. He doesn’t seem happy.

“Ugh…”

“Oh, great, the ’s awake. I’ll be out back making sure my daughter doesn’t end up growing a pickaninny in her womb.”

Frodo departs, and Ghost Tank looms over the beaten and battered form of Loverboy as he slumps in the chair.

“Damn. You’re not dead.”

“Yeah, I feel the same way actually.”

“After you ran your mouth about Alysia, I thought about putting you down for good. You’re lucky for Frodo.”

“That’s really not something I thought I’d ever hear. Send him my regards, okay?”

“You don’t learn, do you? I should pull your tongue right from your head.”

“I’ve got a better idea, Tank. How long have we been in here going at it? I’m fucking starving, man. And I know I heard that big ass belly of yours rumbling like thunder.”

“What’s your point?”

“Wars have truces, dude! Order some pizza, man. Seriously. I’ll even pay you back. I know my wallet’s fatter than yours.”

“Smug son of a bitch.”

“Yeah. Totally. So come on, man. Papa Johns. Better ingredients, better pizza. Deal?”

Ghost Tank hesitates, but another rumbling from his midsection seems to make the decision for him and he digs a cell phone out of his pocket and begins to dial.

“Attaboy, Tank. You ain’t so bad.”

Ghost Tank walks off as he begins to speak into the phone, leaving Loverboy alone with his thoughts and his aching body. Time stretches. Even the silence seems to echo.

Every muscle felt as if the tendons were pulling themselves from the bone, and the ribs shifted in his chest every time he inhaled. Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Time is almost nonexistent in a vacuum.

Shuffling his unbound feet, Loverboy leans himself forward and spits out an acrid mouthful of blood onto the dirty concrete floor, then shoots a rocket of red-streaked mucus next to it.

Loverboy hangs his head, closes his eyes against the throbbing in his skull, and waits as the minutes tick by.

“Sit up, fucker.”

“Good to see you again, Frodo.”

“Aw. You lie so sweet. Maybe I won’t rape you after all.”

“If that dick of yours comes anywhere near me, you’ll never get it back.”

“I knew you’d want it forever. .”

“Can you just get Tank back in here to get back to kicking the shit out of me? Seriously, I’d rather be punched into a coma than sit here and chat with you.”

“How about we do a little of both, pussy?”

Frodo cracks his knuckles and walks forward with a grin only a man with a raging erection could manage. Before reaching Loverboy, however, a knock comes from the outer door. Frodo pauses and looks around.

“What the… Tank, get the door! Tank?”

No response from Ghost Tank, and the knock comes again a bit more urgently.

“You are SO lucky I’m waiting for a Thailandish ladyboy from Backpage. Sit tight, sweet boy.”

Frodo scampers toward the outer room, and we hear a door answer… and then a scream. A blood curdling, primal scream.

Moments later, Frodo runs by like a bat out of hell as if he’s seen a ghost. A puzzled looking pizza deliveryman steps into view, holding a stack of Papa John’s pizza boxes.

“What the hell just happened?”

“You got me out of here, that’s what. Thanks dude.”

Loverboy stands, lifting the chair on his back with his arms bound behind it, and runs out of the dungeon, out of the front room, out of the door, and into the night.