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**Vincent Lane** · (05-30-2016)

“Wouldn’t it be a fucking miracle if my opponent, the Walking Homunculus, Robbie Bourbon, could make a lick of sense when he speaks for more than a minute at a time?”

“Loverboy” Vinnie Lane says this while walking down a busy street in Las Vegas. Construction noises can be heard as a sidewalk is being jackhammered into by a handful of Latino workers. Loverboy walks by and fluffs his blond hair, getting a catcall from one of the men.

“I’m a dude, dude.”

“Oh. My bad, ese.”

“Whatever.”

Loverboy rolls his eyes and turns back to the camera lens as it tracks backward, him walking forward into it at a steady pace. He looks poised to continue, but just then his stomach roils and bubbles loud enough for the boom mic to pick it up. Loverboy clutches his midsection and looks back and forth with a panic… luckily, there is a port-a-potty set up for the workers to use. Loverboy rushes in nd slams the door shut.

“Dude… keep rolling. I don’t have a lot of time, let me just cut the promo from here.”

Loverboy’s voice echoes in the tiny plastic chamber, somewhat muffled but still audible enough to understand.

“Uh… whatever you say, you’re the boss.”

The disembodied voice of the camera operator answers Loverboy from somewhere behind the lens.

“Thanks, dude.”

A grunt and a splash, followed by what might be weeping. Then, Loverboy continues.

“Robbie Bourbon… as I was saying… Bourbon has been running around calling me brain damaged this week. It’s cute, really. I guess because he realizes he can’t beat me physically he thinks he might be able to go for some low hanging fruit and get in my head. Yeah, dude, the whole world knows I spent time in a coma last year. Yeah, it was concussion-related. Yep. However, Robbie keenly ignores the fact that the highest peak in my entire career has come AFTER that fact. He also seems to completely ignore the fact that I’ve passed every test there is in order to remain cleared to compete. Oops! Don’t let logic and reason get in the way of a good narrative though, huh Rob?”

There’s a doleful moan, then another long splashing. Whispers that sound very much like a prayer emanate from the portable toilet before Loverboy begins to speak at full volume again.

“Robbie can’t even wrap his mind around the fact that my initial promo offering took place after Warfare did. Like he’s never heard of tape delays or time zones. That’s cool, dude. It’s not like I specifically was shown making my doctor’s appointment during Warfare, which I then discussed needing to hurry up and get to while training with Joey Amaretto… oh, wait, I totally did. That happened. But yeah dude, I’m the guy with brain damage even though I can fully understand how things like that work. Cool. Meanwhile, you totally think you have a time machine. That makes sense, I guess. I can’t have possibly been at both Warfare AND a promo that took place in Vegas so close together… but you can literally travel time. Got it. Oh, and you’re a zombie. A thing that does not exist. You’re definitely the guy who should be making judgments on what’s real and what’s possible, right?”

Something splatters against the floor.

“Fuck.”

A lot of rolling from a toilet paper dispenser can be heard. Then some hurried wiping.

“So Robbie and Blue Waffle went to court and Rob got his license for ‘ultraviolence’ revoked. Also not a thing, but whatever, I’m tired from trying to keep track of Robbie’s delusions, dude. Reality is on its way to Bourbon in the form of a wrestling boot to his jowls, and I’m absolutely thrilled to be the guy who gets to end one of the saddest careers on pro wrestling history. Check out the XWF Title Histories. Hold Control and press F. Search for ‘Bourbon.’ Nothing, dude. You get nothing. You know who’s on those lists? Maverick. Ghost Tank. Peter Gilmour. LeStrange. Scully. Tush. All of those chumps have a higher success rate in this business than Robbie Bourbon. Hell of a run you had, Rob. Can’t say you retiring will have any impact on the product or the stock prices or anything at fucking all, but it was fun while it lasted.”

Something that sounds like bubbles happens inside the john. The tiny window on the side is suddenly occluded by a shadow of something wet.

“Meanwhile, his opponent, yours truly, has gone on a tear for the ages. We’re getting close to a year since I took the Universal Title, dude. I’ve been the top title holder in this company and in this profession since last August. I haven’t been pinned in a match for a loss in that entire time, overcoming challengers from those championship lists that I mentioned. Maverick almost died in the ring against me. Trax couldn’t get the job done. Peter Gilmour got sent home back to his cuckold life empty handed. I’ve beaten competition that would laugh and turn down matches with Robbie out of pity. Ask Luca Arzegotti, one of the top names this company has ever had… he’s beaten them all, dude, but he didn’t beat me. None of the legends could beat me, dude, even though they all had a crack at me since I got this alleged ‘brain damage,’ but YOU, though. YOU, Robbie Bourbon, the biggest disappointment since Austin Fernando took his pants off in a room with a real live woman, you somehow think you’ve got a shot. Let’s cut to the chase, Robbie. Spoiler alert – you’ve got the same chance as this bowl of greasy shit.”

Finally, there’s a flush. Then a disappointed sigh. Then another flush. And a third. A wet plunging sound then reverberates through the air, floating on a cushion of profanity from the megastar. One more flush and then the door opens, allowing a haggard-looking champion to step out back onto the street. He was DEFINITELY wearing a shirt when he went in, but now he's simply got his denim jacket buttoned at the navel with his bare chest protruding.

“That was a train wreck. I have got to get more vitamins in me or something.”

Just then, Loverboy notices the plethora of business cards and posters on the side of the potty. People will pretty much use anything in order to advertise these days. One of the cards in particular gets Loverboy’s attention, and he grabs it to inspect closer.

“Hey dude, check this out!”

Loverboy holds the card up for the camera, it’s a familiar one.

“Whoa! And check out this shot on the back!”

Turning it around, a hand-written message is there.

“Now even I’m a little sad. A man Robbie’s size has to keep a full stock of pancakes and chicken salad and whatnot just to get through the day. With his XWF contract, he was all set to someday fulfill his dream of being rescued from his trailer via a team of well-wishers cutting a giant hole in the wall and lifting him out with a crane. Now he’ll shrink down to a size that barely calls for the rag on a stick that he washes himself with. He might even see his penis again. I guess there’s always a silver lining.”

Loverboy smirks, then tosses the business card into the gutter where it slowly soaks up the previous night’s hobo urine.

“See, the real sad thing is that all of Rob’s bluster and all of Rob’s bullshit can’t put his Humpty Dumpty ass back together again. His career’s over. Shit, I could go in the ring and lay down for him, give him a moment of fleeting relevance, and he’d still be on his way out the door. I’ve got nothing to gain here. Nothing bad can happen to me, nothing good can happen either. I just get another W for the record books and my life goes on as usual – awesome as fuck. Robbie? He’s done. Win, lose, or draw, he’s out. Yet, instead of trying to be cool and go out with some semblance of dignity, he’s just trying to convince everyone that he eats brains from zombieness and that he doesn’t drink. Dude. Come on. Your name is Bourbon. Not your given name, either. No, you let us all know that you’re an O’Leary… pretty fuckin’ Irish, dude, which means you’ve been a card carrying AA member since the second you slid out of your alkie mother’s cooze. Maybe you don’t hit the sauce on the reg, but you aren’t kidding anybody when you try to play innocent. We’ve been in the ring together. I’ve banged enough single mothers to know the scent of whisky sweat when I smell it. Own up. Your name is Robbie Bourbon, and you’re an alcoholic. The first step is the hardest, dude, but I’m not on to judge.”

Walking a few more steps, Loverboy then stops and holds a finger up in a ‘hold on’ motion. He unzips the fanny pack on his hip and pulls out a sheet of pink paper, then holds it up for the camera.

“Here’s my gift to you, Robbie. This is your pink slip. As owner and proprietor of the XWF, I’ve gone ahead and pre-released you from your contract. As of right now, today, you are officially terminated from this company. You’ll get a per diem for the match with me, but you’re going in as an independent contractor with no benefits. No insurance, either, in case that wasn’t glaringly obvious. You are now Robbie Bourbon, FORMER XWF wrestler. You’ll still get royalties from merchandise until we pull it off the shelves after the fire sale, but let’s be real… that shit hasn’t moved in months. Congratulations, Robbie, you made it out alive! Better than some others can say. You didn’t achieve your goals… or anything at all, really… but you tried. That will be the epitaph on your XWF career. ‘He tried.’ From the bottom of my heart, dude, and from all of us here in the XWF, the pinnacle of professional wrestling, the best of the best and the home of megastars… we would like to wish you the best of luck in all of your future endeavors.”

With a sneer, Loverboy laughs and then stuffs the pink slip back into his fanny pack.

“AFTER I kick the shit out of you at Savage, of course. See ya then, sweet cheeks.”

Loverboy blows a kiss into the camera, then his face twists into a grimace of discomfort and he turns around to run back into the port-o-john once more.

FADE TO PINK

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