As “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane and his fiancée, the incomparably beautiful Roxy Cotton, walk down the evening streets of Hollywood, California, the last of the day’s sun peeks over the mountains in the west.

The pair of blondes, each fake in their own way, make their way down the well-known “Walk of Fame,” walking towards the sunset. They hold each other’s hand and Roxy rests her head on Loverboy’s shoulder, looking up at him and smiling.

The smile, though, fades when she sees the faraway look on Loverboy’s face.

“Baby?”

Roxy says to him quietly, freeing her hand from his and wrapping her arms around his waist.

“Ouch!”

The sharp cry gets Loverboy’s attention. He stops walking and looks down at Roxy, seeing a drop of blood on her inner forearm.

“Hey, Roxy, you okay? What happened, man?”

“It’s the fucking belt, Vinnie! It poked me… why is it so sharp?”

Loverboy steps back and opens up his denim jacket, revealing the shining gold of the Federweight Championship belt across his midriff. The top of the faceplate, like Roxy pointed out, is jagged edges.

“I guess it’s supposed to look hardcore? I’m not sure, dude, really. I’m sorry you got poked though. I’m just dangerous, man!”

Roxy pouts and rubs her arm, holding it up to Loverboy, who takes it in his hand and presses the wound against his lips.

“All better.”

The distance is back in Loverboy’s voice as he looks faraway down the street. Roxy scowls and grabs him, getting in his way as he tries to resume walking.

“Hey…”

“Vinnie, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“Nothing, Roxy, I’m fine.”

“Vinnie… come on. We’ve been through enough together, you don’t think I can tell when you’re full of shit? Tell me.”

Loverboy tenses, he pulls back from Roxy, but she persists, holding his arms and staring deep into his sky-blue eyes.

“Baby. Please?”

“Fine… here, let’s sit on this bench up ahead.”

Together, they walk to a bus bench. Thankfully no one else is around to disturb them at the moment. A rare second of solitude in the bustling city of angels.

“Okay… this is going to sound really weird, considering the match this weekend… but I’m kinda worried about Peter.”

“Peter? As in Peter Gilmour?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, it definitely sounds weird, Vinnie. Why would you worry about him? He couldn’t even beat Mastermind.”

“No, no, not like that. I’m not worried he’ll win the match, dude, I fully plan on winning. I just… I don’t know. I think there might be something wrong with him.”

Roxy looks rather stunned. Her hand, which had been resting on top of Loverboy’s in his lap, pulls back. She adjusts herself in the bench seat, fumbling for words.

“Well… what do you mean, Vinnie? Peter’s just being Peter. He’s the same guy who fucked you over in the match with the Kings, the same guy who lost his dick to Morbid Angel not long after… wait… do you think that has something to do with it?”

“I mean, I’m no psychologist, dude, but he hasn’t been the same. He’s like this neutered, impotent version of Peter Gilmour. Like he’s been taking estrogen hormone therapy in preparation for a full transition, you know?”

“You mean because of the bitch tits he has?”

“No, no, that’s not new. Peter is at his best when he’s a full B cup. I just want what’s best for the guy, you know? He’s got his issues, but I don’t like to see anyone just fall apart. It’s sad. The wheels are just about to come off of the dude, you know? He’s losing to video game characters, and now Mastermind? And this week he’s got TWO matches against me, and probably something upcoming with Tommy Gunn on top of it? He’s going off the rails, man. No way he comes out of this run with a win under his belt, and it’s going to plunge him into the deep end.”

“You might be right… he does seem more… I don’t know… soft? Yeah. He’s softer than he was before.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Roxy. I’m not underestimating him. I’ve been in the same ring with him before, I’ve seen him do some incredible things. When we lost the Trios, he took the worst beating I think I’ve ever seen a man receive, but he kept getting up. I know I can get a war out of Peter Gilmour, but I just have to find a way to drag it out of him.”

“Well, Vinnie, you know what they say about being careful what you wish for.”

“Yeah, true, but I’d rather be caught off guard and catch a beating from the legendary version of Gilly than feel like an asshole for kicking the crap out of the weak, lame version. I mean, here he is, in the same town as us, going to the same clubs, and he isn’t starting shit. He’s falling on his ass at the bar, looking like the BBW version of Coyote Ugly and embarrassing himself… he didn’t even go to the Roxy and cut a promo about being INSIDE ROXY. It was RIGHT THERE, you know? Weak, but still, so obvious you almost have to do it. Instead, we get sad sack Gilly trying to cheat on his fiancé like a creep and breaking his nose dancing to the Eurythmics. Definitely not Extreme.”

“Well, I know no matter what that you’ll make the Madness brand proud. You’ll come out on top at the end like you always do, and this time around you even have some teammates that are there to back you up.”

Suddenly, Roxy perks her head up. She sees a few of the costume performers walking her way down Hollywood Boulevard.

“Oh, Vinnie, look! Let’s go get our picture with them!”

“Aw, babe, that’s so lame. Besides, they look done for the day.”

“Please? I’m sure they won’t mind on more!”

“Alright, alright… anything for you, baby.”

Loverboy and Roxy pop off the bench and head over to the costumers. An Elmo, a Batman and a Spider-Man. They look tired, but when they see the buxom Roxy bouncing up to them they immediately agree to some pictures for a modest price.

First, Loverboy poses with the three of them, then they switch off.

Just as Loverboy clicks the button on his camera phone, Roxy’s eyes widen and she spins around toward the Elmo.

“Hey! Hands to yourself, freak!”

“What happened baby?”

“This hobo in the Elmo suit just stuck his hand up my skirt! I’m not wearing any panties!”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? Elmo, you done fucked up, boy!”

Loverboy rushes in, grabbing the oversized head of the Elmo. As Batman and Spider-Man try to stop him, Loverboy drops the Elmo with a single leg takedown, and then mounts him MMA-style while raining punches into his plush face.

Spider-Man tries to pull Loverboy off, but Roxy kicks him right in the spider-balls from behind, sending him to the sidewalk in a heap.

Batman grabs Loverboy, and Loverboy jumps up, kicks Batman in the gut, and nails him with a rocker dropper right on the concrete.

With all three costumers on the ground, Loverboy dusts himself off and goes to Roxy, wrapping his arm around her waist as he readjusts the Federweight belt, securing it.

“Wow… that was the most Peter Gilmour-like thing that has ever happened to me, dude. We need to get out of here before cops show up. Come on!”

“Fuck... I’ll get an Uber.”

Roxy and Loverboy jog off down the street together, heading to one of the dozen or so bars dotting the streets.






Petey!

Listen up man, because I’m only going to address you directly this last time before Shove It.

Frankly, you’re disappointing me, dude. You’re letting me and the two dozen of your remaining fans down, too.

I got a little stoked when I got booked against you this week because it was going to be our first ever one on one match. For someone like me, who really respects the hell out of the things you’ve done in your career, that’s a big deal.

Yeah, we squared off briefly in that scandalous War Games match, but that was bogus from the start and the two of us really didn’t mix it up. This is just you and me, no bullshit partners, no bullshit interference, hopefully, and no bullshit excuses.

The thing is Pete, you’re barely even trying, and it’s pissing me off. You don’t have that intensity, that spark, that I expect from you, dude. You’re acting like a dipshit in bars, falling flat on your face and being asked to leave, getting carried out by your clone woman, and just generally being a disgrace to your own legacy as well as the XWF.

Peter, when you’re in the ring with me, you need to be at 100%. Hell man, maybe 200%. You need to be mathematically impossibly ready for a challenge like me, dude. I’m not the rookie trying to make a name for himself that I was in August anymore. I’m not the new kid on the block standing in awe of the stars. I AM THE STAR.

This should be a moment for you to shine, to show that you can still roll with the big dogs, but you’re just rolling over instead. Capitulating. We haven’t even gotten in the ring yet and you’re already done.

I’m not going to waste my breath giving you a pep talk that will just fall on deaf ears, man, just know that what I do to you in the ring this weekend isn’t because I dislike you. It isn’t because I don’t respect you. It’s because I’m so god damned disappointed in you.

You should be getting ready for a triumphant return as the HART Champion that you deserved to be before all of this recent bullshit you’ve been subjecting yourself to, man, but instead you’re just going to be fat, out of shape, and unconscious in a pile of splinters while the I go one to fulfil the destiny that at one time belonged to you.

It breaks my fucking heart Pete, but it’s the way it’s got to be.

Hey dude, at least you know it takes a legend to kill another. You’ll always have that to hang on to.

It will be all over soon, dude.

I promise.