Current XWF board time: 06-21-2018, 04:43 PM (time should display as Pacific time zone; please contact Admin if it appears to be wrong)
Post Reply 
"Loverboy" - Megalomaniac.
08-28-2015, 10:50 AM
Post: #1

In his sloppy hotel room, we see the usually ebullient “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane as he struggles to balance a Universal Title belt covered with lines of white powder across his lap, a cell phone in the crook of his shoulder, and a rubber tie-off around his elbow with his teeth while pulling back the plunger of a single-use diabetic syringe from the spoon on his nightstand.

When the tie-off slips from between his teeth and slaps against his arm with a snapping sound, Loverboy flinches and shakes the belt, causing his lines to blur.

“Fucking god damn it.”

He moves the belt to the side, setting it next to his red heart-adorned boxers as he ties the rubber tighter around him and watches in anticipation as the veins of his forearm start to swell and bulge up from his skin.

“Shane? Dude, yeah, it’s Vin. Well save my fucking number already, asshole, it’s not my fault you don’t know who it is. Fuck.”

Loverboy listens for a second longer, dipping the microscopic tip of the needle into his soft, purpling flesh and raising a single drop of blood from the insertion.

“Dude, are you paying attention to this Ginger bitch? You need to step in, man. The chick is knocked up.”

With a dexterous flourish, the plunger moves back. A wispy tendril of blood floats up and into the cylinder of the syringe, spreading through the water inside like the tired tentacle of a tiny octopus.

“No, dude, listen, I don’t give a fuck about defending the title against whoever, you know that. Shit, did I go out there and have a non-scheduled match against that slanty-eyed loser, Tamagotchi or whatever, just because you asked me to? Duh, of course I did, dude. You’re my boss and my compadre, man, I do what’s best for you and what’s best for the CCWF at all times. But this chick is gonna have a fucking miscarriage in the middle of the ring if I hit her too hard.”

And in a flash, the plunger is downed, the contents of the translucent cylinder pushed deep into Loverboy’s bloodstream. The flesh around the needle momentarily rises, then smoothes over as the concoction spreads through his arm, and then, as he loosens the tie-off, into the rest of his body.

Loverboy’s eyes flutter and roll back into his head as the rush hits him. His jaw slackens slightly and his features relax. The calm hits him like a wave.

“Shane… dude… all I’m saying is that if I give some girl an unplanned abortion on live TV, it’s really gonna fuck up my social media, you know? There are a lot of chicks out there that might stop following me over some shit like that. I have over 300k right now. That’s just Twitter, man. If you look at my IG and my Snapchat, there’s probably another two or three hundred thousand. And who knows about Vine, I never use that shit anyway.”

Loverboy leans over, rubbing at his forearm to regain the feeling from the blood loss, and places his face directly over the plate of the Universal Championship belt. With a quick inhalation, he sniffs up one of the less-scattered lines of powder, blinking as the sharp feeling of cocaine hits the mucous membranes of his nose.

With a second insufflation, more or less gathering the loose grains of coke from the belt, Loverboy straightens up again and grins as the two drugs mix and interact within his body. The speedball fluctuates between slowing and speeding his heart, his eyes pulse with dilation and relaxation.

For a second, it looks like Loverboy might crash and fall over, as his body sags backwards toward the linens knotted up on his hotel mattress, but he pops back up and sits straight suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath.

“Huh? Say that again? Sorry man, I just… couldn’t hear you. WHAT? What the fuck do you mean ‘is it mine?!’ No it isn’t fucking mine… I mean… uh…”

Loverboy starts to stare up into the ceiling, watching the slowly rotating fan as it sends rhythmic shadows across the room. Syncopating beats of light and dark. He seems perplexed, deep in thought. Then, suddenly, satisfied.

“Ha! No, it isn’t mine. You had me worrying for a bit, dude, then I remembered that I don’t fuck knock-kneed little middle school boys with ass-breath. Unless that scunt snuck into my locker room and squeezed my seed out of Roxy’s panties like she was making some fresh orange juice to go with her shitty crumpets, she hasn’t been within swallowing distance of my baby gravy, dude. That shit’s a commodity, man, I keep it on lock. You know how much a Lane Baby is worth on the black market? Well, neither do I but I bet it’s a lot, dude.”

Loverboy chuckles as he gathers up his works and tosses them into an overnight bag on the floor. He stands and stretches his back, looking at himself in the mirror across the room and shooting imaginary finger guns at his reflection as if to say ‘you’re awesome.’

“Shane, dude, just do what you can, man, alright? Can’t we, like, have K-Money take her out at the knee like Nancy Kerrigan or some shit? Can’t we slip her a mickey or a laxative or something? Or just have Darren Dangerous visit the arena with a backstage pass and a bottle of Viagra? Something? I don’t want my first scheduled title defense to end with the death of a baby. Fine, FETUS, whatever, you know I don’t vote.”

Just then, there’s a knock at the hotel room door. Loverboy’s face lights up and he gives himself one more once-over in the mirror before grinning wide and smoothing his flaxen hair back and straightening his bright pink bandana over his forehead.

“Alright Shane, my man, the party just got here. I’ve got to get off the phone here and focus on my raining and whatnot. You don’t want me showing up to the ring all stressed out and frustrated, right? Gotta find my zen, dude. Keep in mind what I told you, dude. That whore needs daily preggo testing worse than Ghost Tank needs to be tested for HGH or Trax needs to be tested for HIV. YES, BECAUSE HE’S BLACK. Fuck, Shane, pay attention. Anyway, peace, man.”

Loverboy drops the cell phone onto the bed and grabs a pair of crumpled American flag Zubaz pants from the floor and pulls them on, then does the same with a nearby Twisted Sister tee shirt as the knock on the door repeats.

“Hold on, dude, I’m coming!”

Heading towards the door, Loverboy pauses and then turns around, grabbing the huge gold title belt from the bed and wrapping it around his waist, watching as the leftovers from his coke lines slowly cascade to the floor like shining dust motes through the setting sun from the window.

Happy with his ensemble, Loverboy spins back around and swings the door open just in time to see Abigail raising her fist to knock again, standing next to the Goddess Sitre Renenet VIII. The two women look both amused and annoyed at being made to wait, but they hold up the bottles of Cristal they’ve brought with them and wave them like they’re showing off a backstage pass.

“Ladies! Glad you could make it! Welcome to the party!”

They both roll their eyes and suck their teeth at Loverboy as they walk into the room, and he closes the door behind them as the scene fades to black.

[Image: KDAWanX.gif]

I should have stayed in bed. Fuck.

Ginger, god damn it, every time you open your mouth or upload a new boring-ass promo to the XWF website you prove exactly why you should never be and will never be the Universal Champion.

Do you really think these dumbass fans around the world want to sit around and watch their champion talk about missing her period or painting her nails? You have a fucking headache? Are you serious? What other tired cliché are you going to trot out for the viewing public to change the channel on? You gonna break a nail next? Shit.

By the way, nice play. You can’t act for shit. That’s probably why your dude can’t remember if he pulled out in time or not, man, because your fake orgasms probably lulled him into a fucking state of hypnosis. Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if you poked a few holes in your boyfriend’s snug fit rubbers just to come up with some sort of new drama for us all to fall asleep trying to sit through.

Chickadee, don’t you wish you were getting pounded by a gift from god like me instead anyway? That pale, boring, cockney fool isn’t nearly Essex enough to make your life exciting, man. Look at me. I’m bling from top to bottom. I’ve got the looks, the gold, the charm… your love tunnel wouldn’t even know what to do with my disco stick, baby girl. You need at least a few more years down in the bush leagues, pun intended you hair eurotrash twat, before you even think of stretching out for a real man like me, dude. My sperm would probably rip right through your papier-mâché uterus anyway. You’d end up dribbling my man chowder out of your leaky anus for weeks.

Now, we need to discuss something. Yeah, strap in, sister, for once I’m going to make you talk about something other than your own boring ass and your own boring life. You think I didn’t notice you stocking up on some failsafe measures to stop Trax from cashing in on Wednesday, don’t you? You cheeky little cunt, you. I appreciate the offer, dude, and you’re probably right on the money in assuming that savage is gonna do anything other than take the easy way out and attempt to cash in on me rather than climb the ladder the hard way like I did, but the fact of the matter is that if he shows his corn-rowed face during or after our match, I’ll just do the same thing to him as I’ll do to you – leave him lying in a puddle of his own piss and blood.

Wait… honey, no… you didn’t really go out and spend all that bread because you think YOU’LL need to stop Trax from cashing in on YOU, right? Tell me you don’t think that. Oh… Oh god… Oh sweetie, just no… let’s be clear, here. IF I get struck by lightning or some shit during the match and you manage to somehow come away with this title, Trax would simply beat you in a five minute match in Poughkeepsie or some shit and take it away from you, and keep his shiny briefcase for another rainy day. Probably for whenever I defy all medical understanding for a second time and come back better than ever to take the title back from him.

See dude, briefcases are a coward’s way of winning titles. It’s for people who are SCARED to fight a real champion. And baby girl – NOBODY is afraid of you. Not even Mister F’n Amistad over there. The dude came from a family that would rather “cash in” with food stamps and welfare than go to work, but he has no qualms about snatching a little white girls goodies from her, you know what I mean, man? You aren’t work to him, you’re just a victim. Probably a willing victim, too. You got mulatto baby fever, little girl?

Trax… fell asleep at the wheel and lost his little title, but not before getting his hands on yet more government assistance. Congratulations to him, I guess.

Damn, man, I really wish I was dealing with that dude instead of this little waste of my time over here. At least Trax has a slight inkling of credibility after somehow overcoming Dimmy, though it isn’t exactly impressive to outsmart a guy who learned to read in 2014. At least if I was going up against that guy I could count on a high ratings bonus for my appearance. Champ vs. champ matches always bring the asses to the seats, dude, and he’s basically a tag team champ right now. Also, there’s a reason Obama’s election had record breaking turnout, too. Cousins always support cousins.

But no, I’ve got to get dressed and try to seem excited about trying to teach a dumb bitch how to wrestle in front of a bored crowd in a piece of shit city in a piece of shit country on a piece of shit continent. I’d rather stay home and make more dreams come true for the sluts of the world, you know? But instead I’ve got to go through the motions of a foregone conclusion and break the hearts of all three of Ginger Snaps’ fans. Oh, and quite possibly end up with PETA on my ass after causing the spontaneous miscarriage of some sort of animal. Gross. I don’t think I’ll be wearing my lucky silver boots this time around, man, those fuckin’ things are expensive.

Take your looming piss-stick reveal as a sign from above, sweet cheeks. You shouldn’t be in a ring, you should be pouring tea for some chimney sweep of a boyfriend, or whatever the hell the English do for a living besides “keeping calm” and “pissing me off.”

Are we done? Can we be done? Good, I’ve got shit to do, man, this is killing my fuckin’ buzz.

Update your resume, Ginger. You’re about to get a new job.

England sucks.

[Image: fnHp1OT.jpg]

Edit this post
Hate Post Like Post Quote this message in a reply
Post Reply 

Possibly Related Threads...
Thread: Author Replies: Views: Last Post
  Megalomaniac. Imperial 0 155 09-12-2017 09:55 PM
Last Post: Imperial

User(s) browsing this thread:
1 Guest(s)