The hustle and bustle of a booming club on opening night.

The grand opening of “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane and Roxy Cotton’s strip club, “Love on the Rox,” is a roaring success. The line is never ending, the champagne room has stayed full all night, the girls have all made hundreds of dollars, and Loverboy has spent the night signing autographs, taking pictures and discussing the next XWF events with throngs of fans.

In the dying gasps of the evening, though, Loverboy finds himself in an unaccustomed position – alone.

The patrons file out and the dancers wait for the coast to clear to head out as well, making sure to leave one at a time under the watchful eye of one of the bouncers. As Loverboy swirls his final drink of the night in its glass, he watches the exodus with doleful eyes, sparing more than a few glances around the room for Roxy.

“Thanks for coming, dude!”

The act is always ongoing. The show must go on, after all. The financial investment Loverboy and Roxy had made in this place was more than enough to keep up false pretenses – shake hands when he’d rather be left alone, smile for the camera when he’d rather cry.

“Hope to see you all again soon, man!”

“It was so great meeting you, Loverboy!”

“I hope you kick John Samuels’ ass!”

Eventually, the velvet ropes are drawn and the last of the stragglers has apparently gone home for the night. Loverboy exhales a deflating sigh and slumps forward, the mask of being Loverboy the Performer sliding off of him like so much water after swimming to the surface of a pool. He catches his breath. Loverboy the Man has to take care of his life.

“Mando, you seen where Roxy went, dude?”

Armando, the head bouncer, was just arriving from walking out the last of the girls, and the lipstick on his cheek as well as the pair of twenties in his hand let Loverboy know she had tipped him well for his troubles.

Mando was a building-sized man. Shoulders broad enough to lay a three course meal across, and hands the size of catcher’s mitts. Suffice it to say, no one bothered giving any of the dancers any trouble when the behemoth was nearby.

“Naw, bro,”

The mountainous Latino replied in a voice with deceptively less stature than his imposing frame.

“I seen her talking to a couple of the girls earlier, man, but that was like an hour ago. I ain’t seen her in a minute.”

“Alright, dude, thanks.”

“No problem, man.”

Rising from his seat at the bar, Loverboy walks off toward the bathrooms to empty his bladder. It’s as he makes his way past the girls’ locker rooms that he hears it.

Whimpering.

Crying?

“Fuck.”

Knowing better, Loverboy tries to ignore the crying sounds emanating from within the restricted area. Just as he turns to walk back to the bathroom, though, the voice cracks and sobs; Loverboy knows who it must be, and he pushes the door to the locker room inward, walking in with his head hanging low.

“What the fuck!?!?!”

“Vinnie!”

There she is, sitting knock-kneed on a bench in the dressing area. Roxy Cotton looks like a reheated plate of leftovers, with her makeup running stripes down her face and her hair a wild mess.

The cell phone charger’s cord wrapped tightly around her arm was the first thing Loverboy saw, though, followed shortly by the empty syringe in her hand.

“Roxy… god damn it… no…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

She dissolves into weeping cries, the words losing form and disappearing inside the sounds of her wracking sobs. Sensing her need for him, Loverboy instinctively moves to her side, sitting next to her and wrapping his arm across her shoulders. She falls into him, the needle dropping from her loose fingers and rolling aimlessly across the floor of the room.

“I’m sorry…”

She tries again. Loverboy holds her tight, burying his nose in her hair and rocking her gently.

“Roxy, don’t be sorry. I know it’s hard.”

“You have no idea, Vinnie… I thought I was done… but today… tonight…”

Her temporary eloquence is lost again as another tide of tears crashes against Loverboy’s shoulder. Loverboy glances down at the syringe as its movement settles, and he crushes it beneath the black leather o his motorcycle boot with a violent stomp.

The movement, having startled Roxy, ceases as quickly as it began. Roxy runs the back of her hand across her nose, stopping the sloppy drips from falling. She manages a slight nervous laugh in spite of her situation.

“This has got to be the worst I’ve ever let you see me. Or anyone.”

“You look beautiful to me, baby.”

“Thank you, Vinnie… you’re a dream come true.”

“But Roxy… we’ve got to beat this. YOU’VE got to beat this. Try as I might, I can’t do it for you. This junk is going to ruin your life. And if, heaven forbid, you end up dying…”

Loverboy’s voice cracks as he struggles to maintain his composure. Roxy’s lips tremble, her anguish at seeing him hurt by her hand apparent.

“You’ll ruin my life too, baby. I need you. We have a life to prepare for now, baby. A life we can’t just… throw away.”

His voice trails off. Roxy knows Loverboy is speaking both of their current relationship status as well as the elephant in the room – the child she lost not long ago.

Loverboy’s eyes wander absently to the curve of her midsection. Just for a moment, but Roxy sees. She knows the words battling to come out on the tip of his tongue.

“Vinnie… I -“

“You told me you lost the baby in the hospital. Back in Chicago.”

“I did, Vinnie.”

“But you went to an abortion clinic!”

“Yes. I know what it looks like…”

“You had an abortion! You killed our baby!”

“NO! Vinnie, I swear, I’m not lying to you! I lost the baby in Chicago, just like I said I did. But I went to the clinic before then, just to talk about it.”

“Why? Why would you talk about doing something like that?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t know what we were! If we were anything at all! Vinnie, before Chicago we were just…”

“What? Fucking?”

“Vinnie…”

“You knew I loved you. Ever since that hotel room incident, in the bathtub. I knew from that moment on you were my soul mate. You didn’t know?”

“I did know, Vinnie, trust me, I knew before then, too. But I didn’t know that YOU knew. You never tell me how you feel!”

“Oh no, no no no… this isn’t my fault, Roxy!”

Angry, Loverboy stands up and fumes. Roxy, still fragile, shudders and begins to cry again as Loverboy’s rage pours over them both in waves.

Just then, the door to the dressing room opens again and a drunk customer staggers into the area, clearly doing his inebriated impression of a white knight routine.

“This fuckin’ guy bothering you, girl?”

The man sways as he speaks, nearly lurching forward, but he is a formidably sized man and could potentially do damage, especially in his less inhibited state.

“Dude, this isn’t for you to get involved in, okay man?”

With a hard smack, the man punctuates Loverboy’s sentence with a punch to the face. Stumbling backward, Loverboy manages to keep his feet below him, but the man advances again.

“You leave this girl alone, motherfucker!”

Leaning way too far forward for an effective right hook, the man misses completely and slips forward, comically landing in Loverboy’s arms like a sleeping baby.

Luckily, Armando picks that moment to enter the scene.

“Fuck me, man, how did this drunk ass bastard hide from me?”

“I was wondering the same thing, Mando.”

Armando grabs the drunk man, now barely conscious, and starts dragging him toward the locker room door.

“I’m sorry, boss. Won’t happen again.”

And with that, the huge bouncer removes the intoxicated, belligerent loudmouth from the area. Roxy and Loverboy look at one another and share a smile, and Loverboy holds his hand out to her.

“Come on Roxy,”

He says it gently, no trace of the fury he unleashed just moments before.

“Let’s go home.”






Man, how much did you all like this past Wednesday Warfare, and the cage match between Maverick and John Samuels on Madness?

I told that chump Pest that he was going to pay for what he did to my angel, didn’t I? And where’s he been for the last week? Laid up in the hospital, that’s where.

Now the guy has a couple weeks to heal up before I go to New Year’s Eve’s special edition of Shove It and throw his worthless carcass from the top of the arena. Poetic justice for a guy who’s taken so many lives of his own recently, killing his little girlfriend and their little bastard fetus.

Look, I don’t condone hurting kids, but that thing is much better off not having to be born to those two, you know?

Then, I made my big statement to Samuels. This motherfucker has had it coming for over a month, dude. He interjected himself into too much of my business to be ignored for long. Yeah, Theo Pryce will tell you that the Kings made a challenge to Morbid Angel, Peter Gilmour and myself, but what really happened is they announced their team, and then we were booked against them immediately. That’s the kind of behind the scenes stroke Theo has, being a heavy financial contributor to John Madison’s private interests and all.

And Samuels? The guy’s a career politician. You mean to tell me a silver tongued devil like a senator can’t work his magic with Madison? The guy is somehow holding office - in TEXAS - after suddenly turning black! That’s more impressive than walking on water any day of the week, dude.

John Samuels is nothing more than a go-between for his master, Theo Pryce. It’s a damn shame too, because Samuels actually has a lot of traits I could respect in a different circumstance. He’s got ability, he’s got natural talent, et cetera.

Samuels is a golden boy, someone who probably deserves to be a Universal Champion, but instead he’s satisfied to just hold on to a contendership he’ll never cash in with and watch Theo’s back for him.

The thing is, Samuels, you can’t just hold back the inevitable, dude. I mean, you did your job as Theo’s bodyguard, the Kevin Costner to his Whitney Houston, when you saw him ducking challenge after challenge from yours truly. You stepped up, Samuels, or so I thought anyway. You made that challenge to me for the contender’s spot after you “won” it by beating up on the mentally handicapped Maverick. Or his body double, or whatever. Did we ever get that cleared up for sure?

No?

Alright, whatever. The point is, John Samuels, you issued a challenge you didn’t think I’d take – but I did. You, just like so many others before you, seemed to think I gave more of a damn about money than I do about winning the Universal Title. How wrong you were, Samuels.

So you disappeared and suddenly you had the pressing engagement of kicking around the freakshows in the Asylum to defend the Trios you stole from me, rather than be a man and put your money where your mouth is.

So you ducked another fight with me, just like your boy Theo. Then you decided to offer me the spot in exchange for cash, again assuming I gave a shit about the money. Hell, Samuels, I even gave you 5,000 more after I already knew the whole thing was a scam! So much for Vinnie Lane clutching to xbux until his dying breath, right?

What a joke. And this past Madness, you got a taste of what you’ve been running from for over a month. You and me, one on one, with nowhere to hide. How did you like the taste of your own blood when I split your lip open, Samuels? How did you like getting dropped on your head and losing consciousness in front of a live crowd? Not something you’re used to, is it?

You can keep running for only so long, dude, and sooner or later you’re gonna be out of time. That Universal Title shot is gonna be mine one way or another, Samuels. If I have to go through you, or if I just go straight to the man himself.

Count on it.

Oh, and Frodo? Fuck you.