((“Loverboy” Vinnie Lane and Roxy Cotton walk into a bank in Liverpool. Loverboy’s head is still banged up from the sneak attack perpetrated on him by John Madison’s best friend Pest, and Roxy seems visibly concerned as he has trouble stumbling in through the door.))

Babe, you sure you’re okay? You should see a doctor…

I saw a doctor, dude, I’m fine! Didn’t you see the lab coat I wore during the main event? I got it from the doctor who totally cleared me and said I was good to go!

I know… I know baby, but that match was brutal! You put yourself through hell in there.

And then I got to go home to heaven, didn’t I babe?

Yeah, you sure did, baby.

((The teller calls on the two of them to come to the counter, where Loverboy leans heavily against the tabletop, bracing himself, while Roxy rubs his back and speaks to the woman behind the counter.))

Hi, we’re from America, and my boyfriend lost his wallet…

Ah, yes, “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane is it?

Yeah, dude, you recognize me?

Of course! The whole town is excited to see the show tomorrow. What can I help you with, my friend?

Well, I need to get some money! And to cancel my cards, too. I’m in your system, so can we…

Certainly! I just need to see some identification.

What? But you know who I am! You just TOLD me my name!

This is protocol, Loverboy, we are very strict with our systems, checks and balances on this side of the pond!

Well, I don’t have anything! My whole wallet’s gone! There’s got to be some way I can prove my identity…

Alright, Loverboy… let’s try pulling you up with the basics… what is your social security number? They have it listed on the account.

That’s easy! It’s… uh… wait, I know this…

Baby, I told you! You’re not okay!

I’m fine! Look, skip that question, ask me something else! Like the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow or something else English!

Very well… what is your mother’s maiden name?

OH! Mom’s name is Sharon… Sharon, uh… uh… Lane?

Baby!

No, Mister Lane, that is her married name.

Crap. Okay, look, I took a couple of shots to the head yesterday and I’m still a little woozy. That’s how I lost the wallet to begin with. What if I give you one of my sweet autographed photos? That should count as photo ID, right?

((Loverboy gestures to Roxy, who rolls her eyes and reaches into her leather handbag, pulling out a stack of 8x10 color glossy photos, pre-signed by Loverboy. Loverboy hands one off of the stack to the annoyed looking clerk.))




There you go! Authentic! My handwriting and everything. So, can I get dollars here, or just shillings?

Mister Lane. This will not do. There is one final thing I can ask you, perhaps, but it is shameful… your security question on the account. Such a filthy mind you have.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, dude… but let’s give it a shot. I need to get some cash for dinner and party favors. Gotta keep the missus happy, you know?

Mister Lane… the security question is…. What is the safe word?

What?

What is the safe word?

I still can’t hear you, man, you’ve gotta open up those pipes and let it out!

WHAT IS THE SAFE WORD?

((The bank patrons all look around in shock at the volume of the teller’s voice. Instantly though, Roxy and Loverboy’s eyes light up with recognition. Simultaneously, they respond.))

PEANUT BUTTER!



You know, Mister Madison, I find it pretty damn funny that you’d try so fuckin’ hard to convince me you don’t matter.

I mean, at your age, and with your lack of conditioning, it must have been downright exhausting to even speak for that long, dude! How the hell do you manage to take dicks over and over without completely breaking down? Blood pressure meds? Fuck, dude.

Look, I’m sincerely sorry if a lot of what I said before has been said by others, man. It’s just… I mean, when have I been around to even see that, dude? When was the last time anyone had any reason to tear you down? Sorry man, I’m a busy guy, you know? I don’t sit around in skin-covered basements watching footage from the archives and beating off like you and Frodo do.

Dude, relax. I know that you and the other two old farts are gonna come barging in the door at the last second, hooting and hollering about how bad ass you all are. I’ve known that all week, but I just kept calm and kept working. So, here we are, right at the witching hour, and we get to hear all about Samuels crawling through a pipe of shit as if it’s the first time it’s happened. That, and we get you and Theo playing kidnapper/kidnappee at a Denny’s of all places. What, you had 100 million lying around but you couldn’t pop for Applebee’s, motherfuckers?

Mads, you sit here and you tell me you agree that you don’t matter, but you already showed me on Madness that you do. You sent your little cock-crowned testicle warmer Pest to get involved in my match with MacAlister, just to what? Send a message? Or was it because you damn well know that the three of us going at a hundred percent against your little convent would make a quick end for the supposed dream team?

Here’s the best part though Maddy – you think you not tagging in is gonna save your ass. Spoiler alert, buddy, but you’re getting in that ring either under your own power or by getting tossed in by me personally. How you thought you’d ever get to walk away as a possible champion by just standing on the apron is pretty amazing to me, dude. Part of me hopes you really do just cower outside the ropes and let Samuels and Pryce take your beating for you, but another part of me really wants to give you something to remember me by. I’m not talking about a tattoo on your ass to add to your collection either, dude, though if I could make a suggestion there I’d recommend you add your own name right over the small of your back so that at least those trannies you whore yourself out to will know what to call you when they’re pumping your rectum full of chowder.

Just do me a favor, alright, Madison? Just tag in. Once. You don’t have to stick around in the ring for long, and I won’t even pin you. I want Theo to take the fall, not you. I want Theo to know deep in his bones that he’s an empty husk of a champion, and for him to know that I’m coming to take it away from him sooner than later. But first I want him to get a chance to sit there helplessly and watch his good buddy Johnny Madison get the shit knocked out of his mouth by the guy that’s gonna take that title from him. Give me…. I dunno… five minutes? Three, at least. I’ll even give you a free shot if you’ve got the balls to hit another man who isn’t handcuffed to your bedposts. Three minutes of me whipping you like Samuels whips his monkey Abe, then you can get back out of the ring and go back to slobbering all over Theo’s gamete cannon. Do we have a deal, John?

Speaking of Theo… hey bud. How’s it feel knowing you’re this close to being stuck in the ring with me again? How’s it feel knowing this time there’s no mask to hide behind and that the whole world’s gonna get to see that you can’t beat me? I bet it’s gotta be pretty much terrifying for you, dude. You held onto that little briefcase of yours for so long, and the first thing that’s gonna happen to you after cashing it in is getting your ass kicked by the same dude who took your last belt away. Fuckin’ irony, right? So you get to roll into Warfare, lose to me again, then try and convince your “fans” that it was some kind of fluke, that you really are a solid champion, and then guess what? I’ll be there again. I’m coming for you, dude. I’m coming for that Universal Title and I’m gonna make sure that your first title defense is your last one too.

Face it, dudes, nothing you can say at this point of the game is gonna give you any better of a shot at winning this match. You’ve got too big of odds stacked against you, and you have since the start. Oh, you made a big splash and threw around some well-established names, but like I said from the very beginning, man, you part-time, washed-up, midlife crisis bastards with one foot inside the retirement home have no chance against today’s cream of the crop. You should stick to what you’re good at – getting killed on tropical islands or dreaming about the Trios champs. Whatever the hell Madison does. Lure young boys from the internet to his house in the middle of the night? I dunno.
I’ll give you all a little bit of credit where it’s due though, guys. The three of you have REALLY made us look good this week. That continues tomorrow night at Warfare.

See you there, suckers.