The radio crackles to life.

“Delta 446 you’re on approach, copy.”

“Copy tower one. Advise, over.”

“Delta 446 approach runway 7, copy.”

The chatter in the LAX control tower was a buzzing cacophony. Several flights were coming in on late afternoon routes, and Los Angeles was notoriously one of the busiest airspaces in the world.

“Copy tower one.”

“Go on, Southwest 771. Copy.”

“Watch your lingo, newbie. Cowboy phrasing gets people killed.”

“Yes sir.”

The kid couldn’t have been more than 19. He looked mostly calm, hands unshaking as he pressed the call buttons on his headset again.

“Southwest 771 approach pattern six, hold back. Decrease to landing speed. Copy.”

“Copy tower one, over.”

“Good job, kid.”

The trainer sipped his coffee. Just the way he liked it. Strong, black, blazing hot. The kind of shit that made sure you stayed awake at the wheel no matter how few birds were in the air.

“Thank you sir.”

His voice was only nervous, only young and human, when he wasn’t on the mic. A good sign. The trainer knew an integral part of ATC was getting that patter down just right and ensuring every tower jockey sounded the same. This kid got that part quickly.

“LAX North Tower, this is Malaysia Airlines flight 3231, do you copy?”

The trainer was still impressed by every pilot speaking English, no matter where in the world they hailed from. Little Malaysians and giant Russians all sounding like they were born in Nebraska.

“Copy, Malaysia 3231 I have you on approach.”

“Tower we have a serious problem, copy.”

That perked the ears of the trainer, but he had to have faith in the kid. He’d never succeed if he wasn’t let off the leash at some point.

“Tower, we have engine failure, copy.”

“Uh…”

Come on rook, answer him. Say something. Anything.

“I… I…”

Spit it OUT kid!

“I lost the flick!”

That wasn’t radio voice. That was panic. The kid couldn’t find the blip on his radar and he was naïve enough to announce to the pilot of Malaysia Airlines 3231 that he was panicked. Now they both were.

“Tower, what do I do? We need your help, copy!”

“I lost the flick! I lost the fucking flick!"

Again. Over the radio again, this time there was no mistaking the scared little boy screaming into the radio. The trainer had no choice but to jump in. The poor kid was probably not going to be back in the tower after today.

“Malaysia 3231! Calm down, I have you, copy.”

The trainer casually pressed his radio and spoke in the reassuring, calm but strong tone the kid should have had the wits to use. He placed his hand on the kid’s shoulder as a gesture to let him know he’d been pulled.

Only one problem. The pilot didn’t hear him.

“Tower! Tower are you there?”

“Malaysia 3231 this is tower one do you copy?”

Nothing. The trainer’d somehow gone NORDO at the worst possible time. Without his radio, and knowing he probably hadn’t remembered to double check his equipment recently, the trainer suddenly realized the kid might not be the only one out of a job.

“Kid, get the flashers… KID!”

He was a wreck. The skinny teenager looked like he was thirty seconds away from throwing up.

“Give me your headset and get the god damn emergency flasher! NOW!”

God help him.






How’d you like that, Austin? Just sit back and chill for a bit and in due time that tiny wannabe Russian luchador will have his title ripped off of him and have to fume while it’s handed to me. Why? It’s just that easy for me, dude.

You, on the other hand, can’t seem to get your hands on anything more relevant than a title that was such trash it literally got discontinued like a bad sitcom. The XWF would rather cancel a title than have to deal with you having one, dude. How does it feel to be that unloved by the company you work for?

I’m willing to bet that if by some accident you manage to ever win another belt that Shane himself would rematerialize and probably set the damn thing on fire right in front of you, then immediately erase any tape of you having won it.

Here’s the thing about that, dude. As much as the administration hates having to put up with me, I’m not god damn disposable to them like you are. I’m making them money. I’m selling tickets. I’m putting asses in the seats. Did you know there’s already a Loverboy DVD in the works? Yeah man. There isn’t so much an Austin Fernando t-shirt at the merch stands, but I’m getting my own DVD. Probably because of all the highlights I’ve had here while you’ve done… well, nothing.

But dude, for a little bootlicker like yourself to think that just because Paul Heyman is willing to admit he exists that he can talk shit about a friend of mine like Johnny Heartsford is fucking ballsy. The Knight is five times the athlete you are and he’s practically twice your age. While you were sneaking beers at your high school prom, Knight was busting peoples’ heads, man.

See, it’s little snot-nosed fucks like you that somehow were lucky enough to be born with just enough talent to fill up their diapers that show up and expect everything handed to them. I busted my ass for years to get to my spot, dude, and so did Heartsford. You? You just walked in the door still wet behind the ears with your mother’s twat grease and think you’re the shit. You’re not the shit. You’re not shit at all.


I mean, it’s cool of you to sit there and try to suck my dick with compliments while you bash my buddy, but it isn’t going to work. Johnny knows he isn’t as good as me. I know it too. It’s obvious, man. But it doesn’t matter, because he IS better than YOU. You think an awesome champion like Gator would waste his time defending his TV Title over and over again against a loser?

Oh, right, I forgot that you think so lowly of Gator and the TV strap that you pulled out of your match with him the way your dad must wish he pulled out of your mom in order to focus on a DIFFERENT match you couldn’t manage to win.

The fact that you think I’ve been hanging around in the main event for too long is fucking laughable. Like I said, I’ve dragged myself up from basically nothing to get where I am, and it’s all been fairly recent, too. It was only August when I had my first XWF match and was driving myself from venue to venue in a fucking van. Now that I’ve blown up and been trending worldwide for months, yeah, I’m getting my fair shake. But I earned it, man. I deserve every bit that I have. From title shots to the hottest fucking chick on the planet. Yeah, I know, you and your sweet boy band face probably gets hit on by all the chubby chicks in Australia, but listen up Harry Styles, my girl is perfect. You’re begging for scraps while I’m hitting home runs on a chick who not only looks like a living Barbie doll but has the same skin as one – smooth as eggshells. Why? Because I always wanted a girl with neck-down Alopecia, and Roxy was totally down to never have a hair grow lower than her eyebrows again. XWF money can afford electrolysis, dude.

So let’s get this straight right now, Austin. You think I’ve never been the man here… but the truth of it is, I’m already the man. I’m the man you wish you were. I’m the man the girls come to see and the dudes want to be. I’m the man your girl thinks about when you’re trying to last more than your world record of four pumps. I say I’m a megastar because I can fucking back it up. I’ve got the money, I’ve got the girl, I’ve got the record, I’ve got the fame, I’ve got the ability in the ring. I’ve got everything you don’t, dude.

And Fernando, I don’t need you to tell me you won’t leave me broken. You won’t, because you fucking can’t, and that’s really all there is to say about it. It’s cute of you to think you could take me and Knight on by yourself, but trust me, by Monday night you’ll be begging Kendall Sawyer to tag in, dude.

Good job planting your seed in Heyman at least.

Long story short – fuck you, Austin.






“Thanks for picking me up from the airport, dude, I really didn’t want to rent anther car…”

“Of course, baby! I missed you!”

Roxy’s hand found that of “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane’s as they looked over the later afternoon clusterfuck that was Los Angele traffic.

“Well, I mean, I wasn’t gone long. Just a quick Shove It after all, and a bit part on Madness for Kirk.”

“Quick? Vinnie, you killed it in that rumble. I know you last a long time, but even I was a little surprised by your endurance.”

“Really?”

Loverboy answers her meekly, as if she hit a sore spot for him.

“Of course not, I’m fucking with you! I knew you’d come out of that thing a winner, even with what you’d been through. You’re my champion, after all.”

“But baby, I didn’t win. Austin Fernando threw me out, and now he thinks he can beat me straight up.”

“You won, Vinnie. Trust me. Anyone who watched that rumble knows you won it. You might not have been the last man standing, and you might not have won another title shot… god knows Doctor D’Ville is the only one around the XWF who wins battle royals… but you won. You were in there forever, you threw out everyone, and even Fernando got dumped about ten seconds after you did. He didn’t impress anyone, but you sure did.”

Loverboy smiles, relieved. Roxy’s purple convertible coursed down the exit ramp from LAX and headed for the glut of stopped cars attempting to get onto the 405. With the top down, Roxy’s gorgeous hair billowed behind her. Loverboy’s own head, barely stubbled, merely reflected off the sun’s harsh rays.

“I need some sunscreen for my fucking dome, Rox. You got anything?”

“Hmmm… well, I did have something for you.”

Roxy leans back against her seat and fishes behind her, grabbing a hatbox from the rear floor directly behind and under her seat. She grins at Loverboy and peers over her wide sunglasses as she hands the box to him.

“Hey, what’s this?”

“A present.”

“Did you go to Freddy’s of Hollywood again? I love when you dress all naughty, baby, you know me so well.”

“No. Well, yes, but that’s not what that is. I have that stuff on already. Just open it!”

Loverboy smirks and pops off the top of the box, sending a few crinkled sheets of purple wax paper fluttering into the air behind them as they continue to move towards the highway. Inside, something blond and stringy sits motionless.

“Dude, you have to put air holes in these boxes Roxy! This kitten is dead!”

“It’s not a kitten, Vinnie! It’s a wig!”

“A wig? For what?”

Roxy’s eyebrows raise behind her glasses. Loverboy immediately understands.

“Oh… for me? Roxy, I’m a dude, dude. Guys don’t wear wigs. That’s gay.”

“Vinnie, anyone who doubts that you’re straight at this point is probably off of their meds. Give me a break. I know you’re pissed about your hair, and this way you don’t have to let those Asylum weirdos win. You just put that on and go about your life like always, until the real thing grows back in. Simple!”

“Well… I dunno, Roxy.”

“Try it on!”

Loverboy was capable of a lot. He could slam huge wrestlers, beat the best of the best, outlast 27 others in a rumble match, etc. One thing he could never do, though, was find a way to say no to his gorgeous fiancée.

He sighs.

“Fine.”

Pulling the long, blond wig out of the box, Loverboy seats it on his head, adjusting it until he can see clearly and tossing the long strands back over his shoulders. In the box, beneath where the wig had been, Loverboy finds something else as well.

“Ha! Nice one…”

He reaches in and pulls out a pink bandanna, bedazzled with sparkling rhinestones. Loverboy wraps the fabric around his head and wig, tying it on and then looking at himself in the rearview mirror.

“Hey, this actually doesn’t look too bad, babe!”

“See, I told you. You look like your normal self again!”

“Yeah, totally! Thanks, baby!”

Loverboy leans over and kisses Roxy on the cheek, his fake hair mingling with her real hair. As he pulls away, Roxy smiles again.

“Oh, and there’s another surprise waiting for you at home.”

“Is it Bobby? I feel like we’ve totally forgotten about him recently.”

“No, he’s there, he’s fine, but he’s not the surprise I’m talking about. Just trust me and be ready to HOLY SHITT!!!!”

“What? OH!!! OH FUCK!!!!!!”

Ahead of them…