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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
"Loverboy" - Beautiful Girl
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Vincent Lane Offline
Rock n' Rolling XWF Owner and Megastar
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#1
08-28-2015, 02:59 PM Heart  "Loverboy" - Beautiful Girl -->




“Hey! Dude, come on! Wait up!”

The high pitched clamoring wail of “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane echoes out of the elevator as the doors slide open in the lobby of the posh hotel.

In a huff, and clad in only a barely-long-enough Twisted Sister tee shirt, the CCWF Goddess Sitre Renenet VIII stomps out of the elevator and heads for the hotel doors.

Trailing along behind her while trying to hold the massive CCWF/IWGP Universal Championship belt around his otherwise naked body, Loverboy staggers from the elevator and scowls at the crowd watching with their mouths open.

“Sitre! Come on! What’s the big deal, babe? It only hurts for, like, a second, man!”

The Goddess’ only reply is to stick a middle finger up in the air as she shoves the doors of the hotel open and storms out into the night, moving towards a taxi near the curb.

“You didn’t hear Abby bitching about it, did you? Jesus, man, how was I supposed to know that wasn’t allowed?”

Before Loverboy can get out the doors, the Goddess is in the back of a cab and shutting the door. Loverboy sticks his head out of the hotel as the cab begins to pull away.

“YOU NEED A SAFE WORD!!!”

The taxi speeds off from the area with a screeching of tires, and Loverboy dejectedly heads back into the hotel lobby. As he walks towards the elevators again, he pauses and sees the lobby bar from the corner of his eye.

With a cursory glance at his inappropriately undressed state, Loverboy smirks, shrugs, and then walks over to the bar, hopping onto a stool in the corner and flagging down the nervous bartender.

“Hey, grease ball, pour me three shots. Patron. Bill it to my tab.”

“Uh… yes sir.”

The barman hurries off to grab the top shelf bottle, along with three shot glasses. While the drinks are poured, a young couple walk into the bar. The man kisses his date on the side of her face and walks toward the lobby bathrooms, never noticing the way she keeps looking over at the mostly naked, entirely athletic, and drop dead sexy Loverboy sitting at the end of the bar and dropping shots like they were water. After her man is at a safe distance, the girl sidles up next to the megastar and watches him drain the final glass.

“Tough day, or are you part fish?”

“What, huh? Oh, right. Yeah man, a little pain killer to put me to sleep you know what I mean?”

“I do. I assume there’s a good story to go with why you’re sitting at a bar bare assed other than… what is that? A shield? A platter?”

“No dude, look, it’s…”

Loverboy had started bringing the belt up so his visitor could get a good look, but she stops him with an extended hand, nervously looking around the bar as she does.

“Keep it covered, mister. I don’t want to see you arrested for indecency.”

“Right. Good point. Uh, well, this is a title belt. I’m a champion. THE champion, actually. The top wrestler in the business, baby. I’m sure you’ve heard of me. “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane.”

“Nope. Not a clue. I haven’t seen a wrestling show since I was eleven. So, maybe ten years or so.”

“If my math is right, that makes you old enough for me to buy you a drink.”

The girl smiles sheepishly, looking around the bar again. She cranes her neck to see the restroom area, but, doesn’t see any signs of life from that direction.

“Make it quick… “Loverboy.””

“Done and done. Bardude… six more.”

“Six?”

“Six!?”

“Relax, chica. I’ll handle whatever you can’t.”

The smile broadens across the girl’s face and her eyebrows raise.

“Oh, I can handle anything you’ve got, mister champion. I just didn’t know we were going to race. But you’re on. Chico.”

The glasses are set down and the new friends exchange some knowing eye contact and a pair of gleaming smiles. They each reach out for a shot, then, when both of them have their fingers on a glass, they blurt out together.

“Ready?” “Ready?”

They laugh. Then, without a word, they simply move with dizzying speed emptying their shots. Each of them emptying three in the time it takes to say “on your mark, get set, go.”

As Loverboy slams the third shot glass down onto the bar, he’s stunned to see the radiant woman smiling at him with her arms crossed over her plunging neckline. All three of her shot glasses are already empty and taken by the barman.

“How…?”

“Don’t know what to tell you, champ.”

The girl smiles and bats her eyelashes. Loverboy, perplexed, opens his mouth to say something else to her, but she sees her date coming from the restrooms and walks briskly away to meet him before he can see her standing near a naked stranger.

Loverboy gestures for the barman again, this time asking for a double Jack, neat. As the barkeeper repeats the order and then begins to turn away, the woman’s voice stops him short.

“Make that two. If you don’t mind, Loverboy?”

“I don’t mind at all, Barbie doll. But where’s Ken?”

“Ken had to run. He’s on call at the hospital and apparently something life or death came up. Again. Typical. So I guess I need someone to keep me company on my anniversary after all.”

“You’re married?”

“Not right now I’m not. Drink up.”

So Loverboy and his new friend communicate through eye contact over the rims of their glasses as the dark liquid within them slowly lowers. About halfway through, Loverboy sets his drink down and smiles again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he coughs slightly.

“Ugh. Wrong hole, man.”

Without missing a beat.

“No such thing.”

Loverboy's jaw drops a little but the woman doesn't waver from her confidence or try to backtrack from the obvious innuendo. Instead, she finishes her drink and opens her purse, sliding a hotel room key card onto the bar next to Loverboy’s glass.

“Oops. Looks like Ken left without his key. Silly doctors and their priorities. You’ve got ten minutes, or I’ll be passing this off to someone else instead.”

She turns and walks away, exaggerating the sway of her hips to make her ass swing back and forth like a pendulum.

Loverboy got to her room in five minutes.




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Ginger. Jesus Christ, Ginger.

Is this really what the ‘edgy’ version of you is? Trans-phobic type quasi-insults and tired jokes about diapers and ovaries and every other bullshit trash talk trope that low-level performers ran into the ground in 2014? Aren’t you supposed to be fresh and new? No? Fuck it then.

Let’s get some facts cleared up right now. You don’t deserve a shot at the Universal Championship. I earned my spots by working my way up from god damn nothing to the place I am now, a thousand miles above you. I won titles, I won contenderships, I won special events, I won the respect of everyone who had the misfortune of being on the opposite side of the ring from me.

You? You got a fucking gift. You got to be in the right place at the right time, when a tired, broken, bored Hart Champion gave a half-assed effort defending a title that was becoming meaningless. You think I wanted to waste my time being king of the rookies when I knew I was the next Universal Champion? Please. My time is valuable. My attention is sacred. I beat guys five times better than you could ever hope to be while defending that title. You think you would have survived against Mastermind in that insane cage match? You think Cain wouldn’t have ended your career if it was you he was facing at Lethal Lottery? Are you fucking joking? I took out the ENTIRE ROSTER when I won that title. All your little fuckin’ favorites. Gilly, Fernando… ALL of them. In one night. In the same one week span that I progressed to the semi-finals of the Lethal Lottery tournament only to get fucked over by shitty officiating and CorVus’ dumb fuck ass. A tournament I dragged deadweight like LH Harrison and Marilyn Manson’s least favorite spooky kid, Dylan George, up into main events.

Again… what can YOU do?

The Hart Title win is the ONLY thing you have that makes you even slightly relevant. The fact that you did it on your debut and against the top star in the company is the only reason you managed to bat your eye lashes into a title shot. One that you’ve already proven yourself laughably undeserving of. Shit, what did you have the Hart for? A week? Two? Before you dropped it to some greasy-ass rookie who didn’t even stick around in the company? You lost a title that I made matter by defending it week after week against the top contenders to a dude who wasn’t even eligible. Bra-fucking-vo, Ginger.

Now look at us. I’m the biggest attraction in the wrestling business. I’m an international sensation. I spit in the faces of these wannabe fans and they STILL tune in every week because of me, and they STILL buy out my merch at every vendor stand and fill my pockets with royalties. I’m the XWF Champion. I’m the CCWF Champion. I’m the IWGP Champion. You? You’re a contractual obligation.

Now take a deep breath, Hermione, this is where shit gets hurtful.

I want you to know that I have fucked Wednesday night strippers. I’ve fucked homely, bored housewives. I’ve fucked bored pizza delivery girls. I even once fucked a mother-daughter tandem of groupies after a house show in Kentucky. I’ve stretched my standards to their limits, dude, that’s what I’m saying. Let it be known though, Little Miss Sunshine, that I would not fuck you with Peter Gilmour’s disembodied dick. You have got the world’s first recorded case of a concave ass, a chest that look like someone jammed two number two pencil erasers into a plain white wall, a mouth full of chiclet teeth, and enough freckles to make it look like you have some sort of fucked up reverse vitiligo. Your own boyfriend won’t fuck you, and if he does, honey, sweetie, sorry to break it to you, but the reason he closes his eyes isn’t because he’s being romantic. It’s because he’s thinking of someone else. Anyone else.

You run around talking about how cool Roxy Cotton is, and you don’t even realize that she’d never be caught dead in public talking to someone like you unless you were spelling her name wrong on a paper cup full of soy latte. You have literally got more chance of being swiped right on Tinder, on purpose, than you do of ever having a girl like Roxy be caught dead in your presence. Meanwhile, all I had to do was snap my fingers and she’d drop to all fours and hold her ass cheeks open for me like I was giving her a colonoscopy. Spoiler alert, I kinda did.

The only way I see you getting dirty dicked anytime soon is if you cut your hair off and let some online sexual predator think you’re a 14 year old boy. I’m sure it won’t be the first time that the cum drying between your legs came from a dirty old man who thought you were a guy. Ever been to Thailand? You could probably make a killing there.

I’ll make you a little bit of a deal though, because I’m a nice guy. I’ll let my junk linger on your head for a little extra long when I’m setting you up for various moves. I’ll send you to heaven before I send you to hell, baby doll, so don’t ever suggest I’m not fucking charitable.

Jesus fucking Christ. Why couldn’t I get an opponent who at least had the ability to make me look good in the ring? All I’m going to get is a bunch of hate mail from SJW twats bitching about how I beat up a defenseless special needs girl on live television. I get two fucking things from spending five minutes’ worth of effort on you in the ring next Wednesday – JACK and SHIT. Not that I need it, as high up in the fuckin’ stratosphere I am compared to the rest of you minimum wage chumps in my undercard. It just pisses me off to even allow you the opportunity to get the rub off of being seen “competing” with me. I’m not sure if you could hear me stressing the finger-quotes around the word “competing,” but I assume my reasons for doing so go without saying. Fuck it, I’ll say it anyway – you suck, Ginger. You’re the least threatening competitor in this federation in years, and that’s including shitstains like Ghost Tank, Hero Xtreme, Thunderbolt X, Lucius Fyre, Tommy Wish… I could go on and on naming the “enhancement talent” – hear those quotes again? – the “enhancement talent” that would make you look like a kindergartener earning how to finger paint with her own loose stool if you got into the ring with them, but even I’m starting to feel a little bad for you.

Maybe I’ve been too hard on the widdle bitty baby girl… tell you what, Ginger. If you ask me real nice and open up real wide, I’ll spit down your throat so you can go home worth more than you were when you showed up. Happy birthday, bitch. Don’t say the champ never did anything for ya.

Now try and do something about your face. For real.



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