"Loverboy" - Something So Strong

"Loverboy" - Something So Strong - Printable Version

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"Loverboy" - Something So Strong - Vincent Lane - 10-20-2014

((A downtrodden street in Auckland. “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane keeps finding himself back in New Zealand’s capital, drawn to the urban scenery. Most of the islands are just brush and rural homesteads, jungle even, and so the taller buildings and clamor of traffic are like a siren’s song to him. Loverboy the city boy, same story all his life. Walking among the street urchins, children playing in the gutters, peddlers and panhandlers, Loverboy finds his way to a beaten down storefront.

Excuse me, mister…

((The voice catches Loverboy off guard, as he didn’t see the panhandler sitting on the ground near the building’s corner.))

Hobo: You got a couple you can spare for an old kiwi, mate?

((Loverboy pulls off his aviator shades and smiles, looking down at the gold belt around his waist.))

Loverboy: Hey man, I wouldn’t be able to consider myself an international megastar and hero to the third world people of New Zealand if I couldn’t spare a few bucks for someone in need, dude! Here!

((Loverboy digs into his tight vinyl pants and pulls out a wadded up note. He slaps it into the homeless man’s waiting hand with a firm smack, then stands back, proud of himself.))

Loverboy: There you go, dude! Five big ones! Now you can grab a kangaroo burger or some dingo dogs or whatever, right man?

((The beggar’s grin falters a bit at Loverboy’s ignorant assumptions, then vanishes completely when he opens his hand and sees an American five dollar bill in it.))

Hobo: What the hell, ye wanker? I can’t take this shite to a pub anywhere here, ye git! What’m I gonna do with a picture of some bearded yank, hang it in me room? Oh! Right! I ain’t GOT a room!

((The hobo angrily wads the bill up and tosses it at Loverboy, then stands and stomps off down the street. Loverboy catches the balled up money as it bounces off of his face and smooths it out, looking down ate Abe Lincoln and shaking his head.))

Loverboy: “Some bearded yank.” Can you believe that, Abe? That drunk, dirty tramp totally dissed you, dude! You! The coolest president in American history! You lived in a log cabin, were like eight feet tall, and could wrestle, too! This guy just doesn’t respect America, the place that INVENTED dollars!

((Loverboy slips the bill back into his pocket, then turns back to the storefront. He looks up at the neon window sign, just noticing the business he’s found himself in front of.))

Loverboy: “Melissa Mills – International Psychic Medium.” Oh, cool, man! I can get my palm read and see my future!

((Loverboy opens the door and walks inside, stepping through a stereotypical beaded curtain on his way into the darkened interior. At a table, a pretty brunette sits in front of the usual psychic trademarks – crystal ball, candles and a stack of tarot cards.))

Loverboy: You must be Melissa! I was kind of expecting an old crone, or at least someone kinda ugly. You’re pretty hot, dude!

((The medium smiles, but rolls her eyes.))

Melissa Mills: Well, thank you smooth talker… by the way, we only accept NZ dollars here, Mister Lane.

((Loverboy is completely flabbergasted. His jaw drops wide open and he staggers back, clearly blown away by this perfect stranger knowing his name.))

Loverboy: Dude! You’re for real! How did you know my name? And about the money? Could you find Gator for me? He left a message on my voice mail, sobbing. Someone needs to find him so he can feed Todd.

((Melissa chuckles and shakes her head.))

Melissa Mills: You don’t have to be psychic to watch a CCTV feed from right out front of your own store, Loverboy.

Loverboy: Okay, but you know who I am?

Melissa Mills: Look, mate, you’ve got your name bedazzled onto the back of your denim jacket in pink rhinestones. It’s pretty hard to miss.

((Loverboy spins around and arches his head back over his shoulder, trying to look down his own back. He sees the gleam of the rhinestones and it brings the wide grin back to his face.))

Loverboy: Oh, yeah! This jacket’s pretty kickass, isn’t it? So – are you not psychic then? I lost a lot of money once on one of those 900 number psychic chicks, dude, I don’t need to go down that road again!

Melissa Millls: Well, did she give you any good advice at least?

Loverboy: Well, it turns out it was a phone sex line, actually. 45 minutes and 140 dollars later, I got her real number and we met up down in Ybor, but she ended up looking more like the end of the “Sweet Emotion” video and nothing at all like the beginning, man.

((Loverboy sits down across the table from the psychic, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and opening it to wad of papers.))

Loverboy: So, anyway, I’ve got travelers checks, man. You’ll take those I assume? AMERICAN Express, right? Ha ha.

Melissa Mills: I’ll make an exception for an international megastar, Mister Lane. And before you get excited, Vinnie, my boyfriend is a big fan of the XWF. He watches Mastermind’s matches religiously, and was pretty excited when he picked you and Gator for his team at War Games. That’s why I know your name, and why I know not to let you get anywhere near me other than this conversation. I’m a monogamous woman.

Loverboy: Well, good for you, man! I had mono once when I was 15 – it cleared up though. More people should have your kind of courage! But can we get to the reading now? I really wanna see what the New Zealand gods have to say about War Games. And me!

((Melissa Mills shakes her head again and begins waving her hands over the crystal ball. Almost immediately, the ball begins to glow with a soft pink hue.))

Melissa Mills: Well… Vinnie, I do see you… I see you standing tall in a ring full of broken bodies… I see you holding your belt high over your head with Gator, Mastermind, McBride and Zeke standing behind you, holding you up on their shoulders even, as the hero of the War Games match!

Loverboy: That’s awesome, dude, but I already know I’m gonna win! I just want to know which one of those punk asses to drop on their head and pin for the three count, because I can’t decide!

Melissa Mills: Vinnie… I see an unconscious man in a flak jacket, snoring in the middle of the ring. His face is a bloody mess! None of his teammates are anywhere to be found to help him, either!

Loverboy: Oh, that must be SWAT. Yeah, I could beat him pretty quick, man, but that would be kinda boring don’t you think? I mean, the guy can’t even defend himself, you know? I don’t even think the dude knows he has a match, or that he’s even a wrestler! Honestly, I don’t really know anything about the guy at all, because he never shows up for shows and has definitely never set foot inside the training facility. You can tell that just by that gut he sucks in all day. What else do you see, dude?

((Waving her hands over the ball again, the glow turns a more yellowish glow.))

Melissa Mills: I see… I see you standing head and shoulders over another man! He must be on the ground, but… oh, no, he’s standing up. He’s just embarrassingly small.

Loverboy: Oh! Yeah, that’s Frodo. Or, well, I thought it was Frodo. I guess his name is Simon. It makes more sense now that I think about it, because I actually always thought Frodo was kinda cool, man. But this little English midget someone hired to pretend to be him is a real pain in the ass. Like, the dude acts like Frodo, right? He does the same tired routine about calling me a queer no matter how many times he sees me get laid by the hottest bitches in the world. He runs his mouth about me being a nobody, then rattles off a bunch of names of people who aren’t even around. I’d say he learned that garbage from Pest, but Frodo’s actually been doing it longer, so I guess Simon’s just done his homework. But yeah, he’s just some tiny, one eyed, loud mouthed little fucker, and it would actually be pretty cool to knock him out, dude, I’m not gonna lie. The problem is, it might be too easy. I mean, he really is tiny. Like, Polly Pocket tiny. He’s like one of those old treasure troll dolls but with a worse hair and less eyes. He got a fluke pin on Johnny Heartsford, a dude everybody beats, and he thinks I’m supposed to be impressed because – and this is great – he isn’t a wrestler and hasn’t put any training in. Whoa, dude, way to get me shaking in my awesome silver boots, man. What ever will I do in the ring with someone small, fat, out of shape and with no idea what he’s doing? It’s not like I’m a champion, right? Not like I didn’t take this awesome belt right off the waist of the REAL Frodo’s main man crush, Azrael Erebus, right? Yeah, we should keep talking about Sid Feder and other guys I’ve never met like Hank Lane and Scorpio, just because the only thing the little walking glory hole has to try and be proud of is his ability to flap his rotten gums. Well, guess what, dude? Once the bell rings the only thing that fuckin’ mouth is gonna be able to do is catch a super-sized helping of my fist. Honestly though, dude, I was pretty much cool with all of that shit since I really just laugh off everything the little bastard says, but then he went too far. This motherfucker called me the Scully of my team. Scully. The dude so stupid that he falls asleep when you shut the lights off like a fucking chicken. Scully, the dude so

that his own teammates hate him, and will probably just try and go the whole match without tagging him in out of fear that he, somehow, will manage to discover a way to pin himself. I think you might be right, Melissa, I think “Frodo” might be the right guy to go for when I win.

((With the crystal ball held in both hands, the psychic lifts it up and shakes it, trying to get a new reading as the glow vanishes.))

Melissa Mills: I can’t get anything on that Scully guy you mentioned…

Loverboy: Oh, dude, don’t expect a light bulb to come on whenever you have him around. He sucks the energy out of a room like Peter Gilmour sucks his own dick every night before bed. And I say that with respect. I know how important to Pete it is to be able to suck his own dick. It’s the dream he’s always held onto, even when every, single, other, thing he’s ever given a damn about has walked away and left him behind. Dude had to clone his own AIDSy wife, can you believe that?

((Suddenly, the ball flashes bright white, and Melissa drops it onto the table. Her palms suddenly reddened and covered in bumbps.))

Melissa Mills: What the hell?

Loverboy: Oh, man, your hands look like Pest’s mouth, dude. You must have got psychic herpes from looking at him. Don’t worry, man, they make creams and shit for that, and you can just wear gloves or something when you wipe your lady business. What did you see?

Melissa Mills: I saw… dildos? Broken dildos, rolling around the canvas. That’s pretty much it. Can… can we cut this short? I’d really like to go to a doctor.

Loverboy: Oh, of course! I must end the match by dropping Pest in the Black Label Driver! I swear, man, that move must be Pest’s secret fetish – he just keeps coming back and getting crushed by it over and over and over again. The guy’s gonna end up shaking like Muhammad Ali by the time he retires if he keeps fucking with me, you’d think he’d learn. Honestly, though, he probably just doesn’t remember. Hell, I doubt he remembers shitting his pants every morning, either. Maybe he needs more protein in the Gerber food he has that little Munchausen By Proxy minor he’s got humming on his limp dick these days. Of course, if protein would help him out he’d have a MENSA level IQ thanks to all the baby batter he’s been chugging down. Don’t worry, Pest, I don’t think you gave in to the pressure and finally gave Pete that gagger he’s been begging everyone for – I just think you’re the kind of sick fucker who probably nuts right into his own mouth every time he jerks off. That pretty much settles it, dude. Pest is the big winner for his team. He gets to go down in the blaze of mediocrity and get spiked onto the mat one final time. Then he can wheel himself to the ring long enough to count my win against Peter and Morbid next week. Poetic justice, dude. Poetic justice. Alright, Melissa, you did a great job. I’m gonna throw in a little extra since I got you exposed to those hand-herps. Does twenty bucks sound good to you?

((The scene fades to black on the shocked and appalled face of Melissa Mills as Loverboy clicks a ballpoint pen open and starts to fill out his traveler’s check.))