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**Vincent Lane** · **01-24-2016, 10:19 AM** "Loverboy" - Dream Come True -->

2010 - Tampa

“Great job, Loverboy!”

Tank said and slapped his big, meaty palm into the skin of my back. The smack echoed in the locker room, bringing a chorus of “Woos” from the other boys.

“You too, Tank,”

I told him, then went back to unwrapping my wrists and ankles. Tonight’s show had done well, the Clubhouse’s seats were as full as I had seen them since we started renting the place earlier in the year. Our events had started generating buzz among the locals, and there was even talk about the big time coming in to check us out. My match with Tank wasn’t the main event, but it got the biggest pops of the night – his spinning slam, the Ten Car Pile-Up, and my superkick were big crowd pleasers.

Big Tank Mahoney was a guy who had been with CFW since the get go. He was a big guy, almost seven feet, and when he hip tossed you with his trademark overhand throws you felt it. I was more than happy to ‘do the job’ for him that night. Making guys look good in the ring is what wrestling is all about, after all, and soon enough he would do the same for me.

Once the last of the guys filed out, I made my way to the showers. I’ve never been a typical jock, never been comfortable showering with a bunch of naked dudes, so I prefer to wait until I have the locker room to myself. I walked gingerly into the first stall thanks to a gimp knee I’d been nursing for a few weeks and turned on the hot water. Dropping the towel from my waist I walked under the hot cascade and dropped my head, letting the steam rise from my bleached hair. It helps to have long hair when you’re working in small venues – when you sell a punch, you whip your head and flip your hair around, and it looks like you’ve been hit my Muhammad Ali. And, although my natural hair color was a dirty dishwater brown, I always used peroxide to change it to a bright, platinum blond. It fit my glam rock persona better. “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane had to be a blond rock star, even if Vinnie Lane was really just a nerdy brunet.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, head down, aching muscles being massaged by the scorching flow of the shower, but after a few minutes I was sure I wasn’t alone.

“Looking good, Loverboy.”

I spun around at the female voice. It was Valentine, TNT’s girl. Valentine got her name from her heart shaped ass, because in pro wrestling women are either depicted as sexy or crazy – or both. TNT was the champion, and right in the ear of the bookers.

“Val, what the fuck?”

Valentine liked to mess with people, so it wasn’t all that surprising for her to try and haze someone while they were at their most vulnerable. Her position as TNT’s girlfriend made her just about untouchable, so she got away with murder.

“I wanted to congratulate you, that’s all,”

she said and stepped into the stall. I started to step back but halfway slipped on a soapy patch of tile. I instinctively put my arms out to either side to prop myself on the stall walls, but doing so exposed my little loverboy. Valentine is an incredibly good looking woman, with red lips matching her hair and dress at all times. There had been a little bit of a metamorphosis going on inside the cocoon I’d made with my hands over my crotch. She noticed and made sure I noticed her noticing.

“TNT liked what he saw tonight, he wants to push you,” she wasn’t looking at my eyes anymore, “and I like what I see right now, and want you to push me.”

“Whoa, wait, Val,”

I started. I was going to stop her, I swear, but she pulled down the top of her strapless dress over her perfect, fake chest and I forgot how to speak English. Before I knew it, she was on her knees right over the floor drain and had me in her mouth. I was trapped. Everything was just warm and soft and wet, and my hands pressed out against each wall of the shower like Samson between two pillars. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back and under the cascade of water from the showerhead, and just let nature take its course. It wasn’t long, trust me, Valentine knew exactly what to do. Her tongue and her hands seemed to be everywhere at once. After a couple of minutes I started feeling myself tense up and I opened my eyes to see the big finale. There she was, looking up with those smiling, brown eyes and a mouth full of me. And there he was, TNT, right behind her.

“Oh, Fuck,”

I managed to croak out before he slammed his gigantic fist into my slack jaw. I was already way into the final moments of a great blowjob by then, so there was no stopping my eruption. The last thing I remember seeing as I flipped backward and the lights went out was a perfect pearl rainbow arcing into the ceiling lights.

I had to take a week of shows off due to my concussion, and the whole time my cell was going off with texts and calls from Valentine. I didn’t reply, I didn’t even want to think about what it was going to be like in the Central Florida Wrestling locker room after what had happened in the showers. Big Tank had stopped by once to see how I was doing, and to offer me some blues. I was in agony and my head felt like an egg someone cracked on the side of a frying pan, but I really didn’t want to get involved in painkillers, so I turned him down.

“You alright, Tank?”

I asked him. His knee looked like a volleyball poking out from under his cargo shorts.

“Ah, it’s nothing. Went for the Baptism a little too hard is all.”

Big Tank had two characters in CFW. The big, fan favorite Tank Mahoney that all the kids loved, and the mysterious, masked priest, Church. Tank often did double duty at the shows, especially when the crowds were big.

“That looks fucking awful, man. You’re too big to be coming off the top rope.”

“Nah, nah, it’s a good spot. Besides, I got these,” he shook the pill bottle at me, “I don’t even feel it.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

We both knew what the elephant in the room really was, so I decided to just jump into it.

“What are they saying, Tank? TNT’s pissed, right?”

“Fuck yeah he’s pissed, what do you think? His girl sucked you off in the toilets.”

“I don’t know what happened, Tank, I was just trying to shower,”

“Hey, hey, hey… it don’t matter, man. He ain’t gonna fire you or bury you, you’re a draw.”

He was right, my merch table was always the busiest and the place usually went off big when my music hit.

“You’re probably not gonna get that big push anytime soon, though.”

“Yeah, I guess not. But they can’t curtain jerk me forever, man, I get great heat from the crowd.”

“I know, but TNT is the man right now. He’s the big draw, he gets what he wants.”

“No shit. The title, the money, the girl,”

Tank cracked up and slapped me on the shoulder with his lawn chair sized palm.

“Dude, you got the girl, too, you have got to tell me about it sometime.”

Tank and I chatted for a little longer but the concussion made me pretty tired. If I was going to get back in the ring anytime soon I was going to have to get rested up, so I cut it short with the big man and walked him out to his jeep. I had already put my hand up in a wave and turned to go back in my trailer when Tank’s voice thundered at me again.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you,” I turned around and Tank’s big head was sticking all the way out of his jeep window with a huge grin, “the big leagues are scouting us next week. Those podcasts and YouTube videos really paid off.”

“Well, then I definitely need to get my rest. Probably be you and me against the Samoans, right?”

“Makes sense. We work good together.”

Tank drove off, and I headed to bed trying to think of some new spots I could work into a match against Jim and Jason – or Tuk and Tuffa, the Samoans. Things have definitely come a long way in the world, what with gay marriage and black presidents, but some things stayed the same. In wrestling, minorities were heels, or they were comedy acts. Blacks were either gangsters or savages from “deepest, darkest Africa” and Asians were all martial artists from Japan, no matter what. It was funny, but also kind of sad. Jim and Jason were Hawaiian, but they played the part of cannibal Samoan warriors pretty damn well, and the crowd ate it up. Sure, it’s 2014, and the more enlightened journalists on the internet or in magazines would chastise us for trotting out tired stereotypes like that, but we had to sell tickets, and the lowest common denominator put asses in seats. You want a bad guy? Make him gay or foreign or gothic. In the middle of Florida, none of those were popular amongst the common man.

I had already settled into bed when my phone lit up again. Valentine. She just wouldn’t take a hint. I looked at the screen and rolled my eyes when I saw the picture message. A revealing selfie, of course. That heart shaped ass. I hated liking it so much. But there was text, too.

LOOK AT THE BIG BOARD TOMORROW. TOLD YOU HE LIKED YOU BABE.

I tossed the phone on the nightstand and fell asleep still thinking about what to do with the Samoans.

2016 – XWF Headquarters

A scene fades in, blurry. A row of snow globes sits on a shelf in a mostly dark room. Each globe depicting a scene from XWF over the years. There are dozens. Each individual one comes into focus one at a time as the camera finds its settings. Mastermind pinning Evertrust to become X-Treme Champion. Sebastian Duke and Azrael Erebus inside of the horrific House of Horrors. Doctor Louis D’Ville locked in battle with Gator.

As the camera moves sideways and gains more focus, a hand places another globe into a vacant spot on the shelf. “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane standing tall with the Universal Championship high over his head. A second later, and the hand grabs a different globe from the shelf.

With a zoom out, we see that it is none other than Loverboy himself, standing in some sort of stockroom for XWF merchandise. Foam belts and tee shirts are everywhere, along with packing material and other various knick-knacks for the fans. Loverboy, standing in his leather pants, bedazzled denim jacket, hot pink bandanna, and Aviator shades, hoists his massive Championship onto a shoulder as he walks around the room pensively staring at the globe in his hand. He shakes it from time to time, watching the flakes fall and swirl in the water within. This is the newest item on the XWF website. The sculpted figure of Universal Champion Trax holding a globe with Loverboy seemingly trapped inside. It’s nearly sold out.

Loverboy pulls a metal folding chair towards him and sits, still looking down into the glass bauble and contemplating its appearance. Then, without even looking up, he begins to speak as if to no one in particular.

“You know… I’ve been through a hell of a lot over the past year and a half. This time in 2014 I was still making ends meet in the indies. I was driving a piece of shit van from one state to the next and breaking my back to be a headliner in various little promotions for a couple of hundred bucks a night. I was working on a dream, man. I was gonna make things happen or die trying. Two years ago I was 28, getting ready for 29, and I had to make a decision on whether this wrestling thing was ever gonna really pay off enough for me to keep on doing it into my thirties as my body started to take longer and longer to shake off the effects of this line of work. Now, Snow Job happens the day before my 31st birthday. I’ve done every god damn thing I set out to do. I’ve sold out the biggest arenas in the world, I’ve gotten to the top of the highest mountain, beaten the best of the best and come out holding this Universal Championship Title belt around my waist for months. I won it against the toughest test there is, Doctor D’Ville and Gator, and I defended it successfully. I have my name carved into the record books for all time. I’m one of the illustrious Top 50 performers in this company’s long, rich history. Probably top ten. Some would even say top PERIOD. And what does it mean?”

Loverboy tosses the globe up a little bit, catching it in his opposite palm and continuing to look down into the frenetic snowflakes as they rush around within the glass.

“What does it all mean? For a young kid to move halfway across the country chasing an idea. To give up on things like school and family and security, chasing after the possibility of making a dream come true. Here has it gotten me today? After reaching the dream, hitting all the goals? I’ll tell you where it’s gotten me, dude. It’s gotten me the same place as it’s gotten the other greats in this business. Fucking nowhere.”

With a sudden burst, Loverboy smashes the globe onto the concrete floor between his black motorcycle boots. The glass bursts and water leaks from the shattered remains of the snow globe like the yolk from an egg. Tiny white flecks scatter across the floor as the small figurine of Loverboy snaps from its base and lies amidst the broken bits of the destroyed globe.

“You look around this room and you see memories. Great memories, man. The best of the best have all had their name in lights, been spread across magazine covers and posters and tee shirts like fucking whores for the public to fuck. Cash cows for the masses to throw their dollars at, where they line the pockets of suits with no face. Executives who’ve never been on a magazine or a television ad. White collars whose names don’t equal fame, but who pull the strings of the puppets who DO make the cash. And hey, guess what? They made the Loverboy dance for them just like everyone else. When I signed my contract in 2014, I thought I was finally getting everything I ever wanted, man. I thought that everything I’d done had paid off, big time, and that there was no way I was going to let anyone stop me now, you know? I knew I’d get a chance to be the man, and god damn it, I am the man. Just like Gator and John Samuels and Azrael Erebus and Aidan Collins and Shades and even Barney fucking Green before me, I am the face the fucking runs the place. I’m the guy on the posters. I’m the guy on the tee shirts. I’m the guy selling all the tickets and filling up the seats from town to town, country to country. I. AM. THE. CHAMPION. And just like all of those champions before, when Shane

’s done with me, I’ll be a footnote and I’ll be gone. Mostly forgotten. Fucking replaced by the next million dollar body with a box office face. Look at this, dude. Just look at this shit!”

Loverboy kicks at the broken pieces of snow globe on the floor, knocking the Loverboy figurine over onto its front and breaking another piece of porcelain off of the Trax holder. Frantically, he reaches down and grabs the Loverboy figure from among the shards of sharp, broken glass, cutting his fingers in the process. He holds the figure up to his face as a single drop of blood runs down his index finger.

“The Loverboy of the XWF has been trapped in his little glass prison ever since the ink dried on that contract in 2014. He’s been drowning underwater for the sake of others to make money off his injuries, off of his blood and his soul. He’s danced until his legs gave out, bled until there wasn’t a drop left, and now the last few dollar bills are getting squeezed out of him while those vampires in the front office make their plans for the next guy. Look, man, this isn’t a conspiracy theory. This is business. My XWF contract that I signed 18 months ago has exactly ONE match left on it. Snow Job. It’s the end of my commitment to the dream come true. Do you think my cell has rung at any time with an offer for an extension? Do you think

or any of his fucking goons have come to me backstage with a new deal? No. Fuck that, of course not. Look around, man. Where do you see the faces of the ones before me who held the banner of this company high for so many years? Anywhere? Do you see any of the names I mentioned anywhere? No! They’re gone! History! And why do you think that is, dude? Why? Do you think it’s because they couldn’t keep up? That they couldn’t stand toe to toe with the next wave and the next wave and the next wave? No way, dude. No way. They’re gone because this business, this company, is a soulless shell. This isn’t a dream come true, it’s a nightmare. I let the real dream come true, the thing I really wanted all my life, I let her walk out the door in exchange for all of this, and after Snow Job there won’t be a damn thing left of it.”

Loverboy presses his thumb into the plastic of the Loverboy figurine until it snaps in half, then drops it into the wet floor below. He leans forward and grabs the sculpted Trax and looks down into its eyes while holding it in both hands between his knees.

“Trax, buddy… you and I both know what I’m supposed to do. You both know you’ve been hand-picked, selected by the powers that be. It might have been open to interpretation at one point, dude, but ever since the XWF reopened its doors and that little houseboy of yours, Uncle Tom Tyrone, showed his face here.. well, dude, we all saw the hand writing on the wall, didn’t we? I bet you’ve had no issue getting an extension sent your way, huh? I bet you’re not going into this match at Snow Job knowing that it’s the last one. They wouldn’t do that to the new face of the company now would they? That sort of treatment is reserved for the ones they don’t need anymore, for the ones they want to show the door. They got the money they could make and now they want to hit a new dynamic, man. A new hero for a new section of the community to look up to. Now all they need is for the torch to be passed. For the past to make way for the future. They need me to walk down the aisle one more time and pass the baton to the guy who’s gonna find a new finish line to cross. But here’s the thing, Trax… I’m not gonna do it.”

Loverboy finally looks up into the camera, the sunglasses sliding down to the tip of his nose revealing the sky blue eyes behind the lenses. His cocky grin spreads across his face as his eyebrows raise. The face of a Megastar shining out from behind the clouds.

“Oh, dude, don’t get excited and think I’m not showing up. I wouldn’t dream of making it that easy on you. No, dude, I’ll be there, but I’m not gonna dance for the puppet master anymore. I’m not gonna follow the script and make you look good for all the poor little black boys who want to grow up and be just like you. All the hopeful little inner city kids with their bellies full of food stamps and their futures down to a choice between being good at sports or slinging drugs on the corner. No, dude. You want to send the Loverboy riding off into the sunset, then you’re gonna have to earn it for real. You’re gonna have to beat me to be me, man. You’re gonna have to put the fastest horse down to win this race. And now you gotta ask yourself, man… if this dude is serious, if he’s coming out there and ignoring the way things are supposed to go and fighting me for REAL… can I beat him? Can you beat me, Trax? You’ve seen the things I can do. You’ve felt the snap of my boot in your face. You’ve watched me fly high through the air and crash and burn on the ground, and you’ve seen me get up when a normal man would have stayed down, dude… so can you beat me? The answer is no.”

Loverboy stands up from his chair and sets the broken Trax sculpture onto a tabletop before turning back to the camera, pushing the glasses back up his nose, and smiling his million dollar smile.

“The answer is no, Trax, you can’t beat me on your best day with me on my worst. Because you’ve been walking around with the weight of that title on your shoulders and you know you haven’t earned it. You know you took the easy road, you know you’ve sat back and let the fans call you a champion when you’ve never been in a single match with that baby on the line. You never had to fight for it. You never had to EARN it. You found you a little loophole and you exploited it, and you’ve got the nerve to stand there and call me a coward or an idiot for not doing the same thing to defend myself with? You want to stand there and tell me a REAL champion would have bought a loophole of his own? Or would have done anything other than EXACTLY what I did, which was stand there in the ring across from you, running on fumes, and fighting for what was mine? You can stand there and say that, dude, and expect me not to see the cracks in your façade? To see the way living under the weight of your lies has nearly broken your back? No way, dude. No way. You’re broken, you’re empty, and you KNOW that you can’t beat the real thing. That the only thing keeping you from sitting in the back of a high school gym and selling 8x10s of yourself for five bucks a pop is your lighter-skinned brother sitting in his ivory tower and using some sort of imaginary guilt to demand reparations for you, to exploit the concept of Affirmative Action to get you places that you haven’t earned. To make you the black flag on the sinking pirate ship of the XWF, here to steal more money from the pockets of those who REALLY got them where they are.”

Loverboy composes himself, lowering his voice a little and taking a step back from where he had been, pointing and shouting into the camera, letting his anger get the better of him.

“Now… don’t get me wrong, Traxy-baby. You’re a tough cookie. You’re good at what you do, but I’m better. And I got where I’m at by BEING better, not by skirting the system or taking advantage. I got where I’m at today by standing face to face, eye to eye, with the best in the world – and beating them. So what you are to me, Trax… what you are to me isn’t a champion. It isn’t someone above me. It isn’t the big bad man holding me in my little glass prison… all you are to me is another name, another body, another WANNABE across the ring from the MAN. And when you aren’t good enough to beat the man, dude… you’re not good enough to become him yourself. When you’re not number one, you’re just another zero at the end of an XWF bank account. So come and get it, big boy. Come and try your not-good-enough best. Come and EARN what you got handed. I’ll be there to make sure your dreams never come true.”

Loverboy’s face suddenly turns stern, and he storms up to the camera, swatting his bloody palm right at the lens and pushing it away, knocking it back and distorting the view. When the scene finally adjusts back to normal, Loverboy is gone.

Fade to black.

In a bedroom somewhere, the black cutaway from “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane’s promo zooms back from the screen of a laptop computer sitting on top of a pair of golden thighs.

Roxy Cotton sits in her purple negligee and thinks about what she’s seen. She remembers the passion of the Loverboy she knew before and wonders what to make of the things he said. What dreams he watched walk away.

“What are you watching, babe?”

The man in the bathroom says before sticking a toothbrush back into his mouth and looking into the mirror.

“Nothing sweetie. It was nothing.”

Roxy downloads the video and closes her laptop, setting it on the bedside table and pulling the chain to switch off the lamp before turning onto her side and staring at the cell phone next to the computer. It would only take pressing three buttons to get the answers.

She closes her eyes.

“Aw, come on, baby! You’re going to sleep on me? I thought… you know…”

“I can’t tonight, babe. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t feel good anymore.”

The man sighs heavily and then mumbles something under his breath, stomping his way out of the bedroom and shutting the door a little too loudly.

Roxy falls asleep as the sounds of the living room television drift under the door.

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