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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » Lethal Lottery 3
"Loverboy" - Stairway To Heaven
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Vincent Lane Offline
Rock n' Rolling XWF Owner and Megastar
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#1
03-26-2015, 06:37 PM Heart  "Loverboy" - Stairway To Heaven -->




Where will you be when destiny finds you?

Some men are called to action in battle, instantaneously transforming from children to adults amidst the sound of machine gun fire and the smell of burning oil.

Some men lead the way to new eras of technology and science with ingenious innovations and never before seen inventions.

Some men harness the very essences of the world around them and capture them in testaments of visual, theatric, musical and fine arts.

Others, like the HART and Federweight Champion, “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane, are called in a combination of all of these things.

The ring is his battlefield. Men fight, fall, and even die between the ropes of the squared circle. Weapons and blood and the passion of violence abound.

The act of wrestling itself is a constantly evolving set of skills. A never ending growth from move to move. Every day, every match, every moment inside a structure as imposing as a steel cage necessitating an increase in skill, violence, and recklessness.

The match. A work of art. A body of sculpted marble. A set of movements as balletic as it is dangerous. A test of wills more engaging than any stage play.

The sound of flesh on canvas, music to his ears.

Not content to be a dilettante surrounded by true artists, Loverboy has climbed through his career as if every accomplishment were the bars of a cage itself.

Pulled himself from the ground to his debut.

From his first win to his next.

From his first championship to his next.

Faltering, but never stopping. His ascent merely suspended at times, never vanquished.

Trios Champion.

X-Treme Champion.

Federweight Champion.

Hart Champion.

Number One Contender.

The top of the cage is closer than ever. One more final step to take.

But first, Loverboy must acclimate himself to a somewhat unfamiliar position.

He must defend, rather than chase, his precious championship.

For all of his accolades and accomplishments within the ranks of the XWF, one thing that has escaped Loverboy throughout his career is the ability to say he successfully defended the titles he has won.

The Trios slipped from his grasp in a pinfall he wasn’t involved in.

The X-Treme taken away in a since-outlawed method of 24/7 assault.

Now, inside both a literal and metaphorical cage, Loverboy has nothing to contend with but one man. One opponent. One night. One championship.

Cain.

Lethal Lottery 3.

Loverboy exorcises the demon.



[Image: 5UaL8iH.jpg]


Man, nothing brings me more joy than watching Cain try and convince the world that he’s working with a bazooka and not a kid’s squirt gun. Watch the big lug run around his bathroom with some Peter Jackson-level CGI swinging between his knees. I haven’t seen a more shameful attempt at post-production special effects since CorVus and his dead kid’s tombstone.

This son of a bitch actually goes from talking about his little lowercase d straight to proving that he’s too out of shape and inflexible to dry his own ass with his fancy towel. He’s literally turned himself into the fat guy who washes himself with a rag on a stick.

Come on, Cain. Seriously? You’re on camera with a fleshlight dangling off of your pinky-sized dingaling trying to show that you’re a bad ass by having a girl rub you hard with a fucking linen towel? What’s next, man? Gonna buy some one-ply toilet paper to show how rugged you are? Gonna wash your hands after taking a piss but NOT squirt Purell onto your palms because you’re too HARDCORE? Gimme a fuckin’ break, dude. The only thing hardcore about your B-movie shower scene was your girlfriend’s gum disease.

Watch this stillbirth of a promo if you can, people, it’s pretty much the worst attempt of a gay man trying to convince the public that he’s into girls since Tom Cruise married Katie Holmes. Cain found himself the manliest looking chick in all of England, which is a pretty hotly contested race, and still couldn’t even work up enough interest to gain even a half chub. Then again, his little demon might have just been weighed down too heavily by all that plaster of paris and papiere-mache. Better luck next time, Cain, maybe let her grow in her goatee first so her tartar flavored gumjobs are more in your comfort zone.

Dude, if you manage to get past Cain getting rubbed down by a flat chested Oliver Twist sound-alike, you can even see Cain’s newest strategy… to not have a strategy at all.

Cain’s already said he doesn’t need to train, now he’s saying he doesn’t have to prepare at all. Hey Cain, just a guess, but is that the same mentality you had going into all of your other losses, too? I’m guessing ‘nah, I got this, lemme just sit around and try to break my personal record for fingers in my asshole instead of getting in shape’ is the same sort of attitude that got you bent over like an altar boy when you went against guys like Eli and Duke.

Here’s a chess move for you, Cain. Pawn to King four. That’s when a little nobody tries to walk right into the middle of a warzone like he makes a difference. What happens immediately after that is that anyone who feels like adding another dumb pawn to their collection comes along and takes him. Or, since we both know you have fucking clue how to comprehend a game of chess, think about it like me plopping my fat, red checker over all your little lined up black ones. King me, motherfucker, I’m already beating you.

Cain. Even your hermaphrodite doesn’t believe you when you say you think I’ve given up. Either it was the way your voice broke when you said it, like a pubescent boy trying to ask out the head cheerleader, or it was the simple fact that even she knows there’s nothing scary about you other than the thought of you forgetting to pull out before the third pump.

Tiny Tim there is even the brains of the two of them, since she seemed to be the one who understood that me saying the Cain was dumb enough to drag down the average human intellect wasn’t in any way an insult to the fans. Hell, Cain thinking that is just an insult to math. I can throw 100% on my practice free throws, right? Then Cain can come lay some bricks and miss everything. Our average then, with me being perfect, is 50%. Get it now, Cain? That’s just about the best example of your own impressive stupidity as there can be, so thanks for handing it to me.

Hold on to your military-grade tablets, people, this backwoods brain fart didn’t stop talking for quite a while.

In fact, he did everything he could think of to try and do what he does best – change who he is – all over again. I’ve never really seen him try to do it this quickly before, but after seeing how hard he’s trying to become a carbon copy of yours truly, I guess it’s just easy enough for even him to see which one of us is the better man heading in to Lethal Lottery 3.

Look at him. Listening to cool rock music, talking about his dick, spending all his time getting laid and hanging out with his girlfriend… any of that sound familiar? How about the way he speaks? The tone he takes? Does he sound like a serial murdering demon or a rock n’ roll sex machine? Ha ha… trick question. He doesn’t sound like either. He sounds like a panicked wannabe who doesn’t even know WHAT or WHO he wants to be.

Talking about me banging fat chicks when my Playboy bunny fiancée is on TV for the world to see more often than he is. Like he hasn’t witnessed me lifting giant like Morbid Angel, Barney Green and Ghost Tank into the air and sending them crashing down with Black Label Driver after Black Label Driver.

Talking about me having a womanly waistline when the only thing womanly about my waist is the woman wrapped around it. All the while, his beer gut with a queer sunshine tat around the belly button heaves over his pants with every out of breath gasp he sucks in during his matches. Walking around with his fly unbuttoned like every day is Thanksgiving night and he’s perpetually filled up with taters and gravy.

Talking about me letting down the fans… let me ask you something, Cain… where are you? Right this second, where are you? Because I’m right here in Tampa, Florida, about a mile away from the Amalie Arena, and I’ve been here for days. I came straight here after Warfare in Charlotte to interact with the fans of the XWF. I’ve been signing autographs and shaking hands every day this week while you hang out in your own home and try to tell me I’m letting my fans down.

You got down here to South Florida, what, today? Maybe an hour ago? Spent your day at the beach with your chick in her size sixteen two piece, trying to ignore the fact that she looks like a shepherd’s pie?

Still running around talking about how you don’t need to prepare any further than watching some TV. If you think you can beat me by watching tape, dude, you’re in for a rough night. Probably a rough morning the day after, too. You’ll be lucky if you don’t wake up in a hospital room with a halo around your neck.

Keep talking, Cain.

Keep talking.

I can’t go one day without having to listen to you try and run me down with weak insults and a soft will, and yet you don’t even have the backbone to put your money where your mouth is and show up.

Talk all you want, Cain, but I for one am getting sick of it. I’m biting at the bit to get into that cage this weekend and put a stop to that constantly yapping mouth of yours.

Trust me, Cain, the only way our match doesn’t end with you being carried to the back and your girlfriend eye-fucking me while you unconsciously shit yourself is if next time you’re standing out at the beach and watching the gulls fly by, you listen to that siren song of the deep blue sea and just walk in.

Walk in until the waves lap over your balding head. Until your nostrils draw in nothing but salty, blue-green water. Close your eyes and walk into the ocean and float away from everything.

It will be the first time you didn’t disappoint everyone who knows you.

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