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**Vincent Lane** · (03-29-2016)

Hey Pete. It’s me, Vinnie… but fuck it, you know that.

Honestly, you might know me better than anyone else still on the XWF roster, huh? I mean, you’ve been here way longer than me. You watched me go from a rookie in his first throwaway tag team match – a match I dominated and won handily, by the way – to the reigning and undisputed Universal Champion in under a year. That had to sting, huh Gilly? Me just coming in here as a nobody and flying past you quicker than you could blink to the top of the business? I’ve already had as many Universal Title matches as you have in your XWF career, haven’t I? Difference being, of course, that I actually win mine.

But, hey, look, I might have digressed a little bit. Looks like we really are star-crossed on this little journey of ours, huh buddy? Remember, it was me who finally gave you another championship opportunity when everyone told me that you were washed up and done and didn’t deserve a belt. It was me that chose you to stand by my side and defend those Trios Titles, right? Right up until the moment that you lost them for us. But that’s not important now, right dude? You’re on a fuckin’ roll! “Gilly’s back!” is what everyone would be screaming backstage and at home, if you hadn’t alienated every fan you ever had by being the walking piece of trash that you’ve become in recent years. Star of the Month for a second time. Current reigning and defending Hart Champion… hey you know what, man? Now that I think about it, it seems like maybe it isn’t so much that we’re connected in any way so much as it is that you’re a coattail-riding Hashtag, Wannabe who’s trying to use the blueprints I followed to the top. Think about it. You used to be seen as some sort of hardcore icon, the so-called king of extreme, right? But every time I watch you get into one of those ridiculously overbooked death match scenarios, you phone it in and come up short. Me? I win. I’m the guy who tossed Maverick’s carcass off of a scaffold. I’m the guy who went into a triple-tiered cage against Mastermind, and a cell against Cain. I’m the guy who took two falls out of three against Trax by putting him through the announce table. You’re just the guy who choked to death on Shane

’s shit and then got his dick cut off by Morbid Angel. How EXTREME of you.

So, since you know me so damn well and everything, I guess it stands to reason that I know you pretty well, too. Good guess, Pete, you're paying attention. As a matter of fact, I already know exactly what you're going to come out and tell all these sheeple about me. Hell, anyone who's paid a second of attention already knows your whole narrative, dude.

The talking point for the last year has been a ceaseless choir of how Peter Gilmour has Vinnie Lane’s number. He’s the kryptonite to Vinnie’s Superman. Bullshit. Fucking Christ, Pete, just thinking of the way you’re propagated that falsehood for the last twelve months has me sick to my stomach. Remind me that if I ever want to kill myself, which I’m sure I will after watching you try to suck your gut in for another pointless round of repetitive promos, that all I’ll have to do is jump off of your ego and land on your fucking IQ. You want to go match by match through our history and see who comes out looking like the winner? Fine, let’s do it. I’m warning you though, dude, you aren’t going to like it. You’re going to get a punch in the gut so hard that it’ll burst your third lap band… and I know you can’t keep affording replacements at your payscale.

When was the first time we were in the ring as opponents, Pete? Wasn’t it War Games, in 2014? The very first legendary win over Vinnie Lane for Peter Gilmour, right? But here’s the thing… you and I never even really locked up. We barely laid a finger on one another, dude, and when we did it was always me getting the best of you. Scully had more to do with that War Games victory than you did, man. In fact, wasn’t it Scully who saved your unconscious ass from embarrassing your team with an early loss due to MY Black Label Driver? You and your midcard team only even got the win after gaining a five on four advantage and getting one of your scrubs switched out with a future champion. There were two future Universal Champions in that match, dude, and neither of them were on your team. Yet, here you are, telling everyone that will listen that you beat the Loverboy. Never mind the fact that you spent almost the entire match getting your ass handed to you by Michael McBride. Never mind that you had nothing to do with the decision – a pinfall made while you were lying on your back. Good for you, Pete, you sure looked like a winner that night.

A few days later you had everything stacked in your favor, didn’t you? You know what I’m talking about, dude. I was catching booking hell from the front office for picking you as my partner, and you along with your cock’s new daddy Morbid Angel had me two-on-one. Two of the most decorated and dangerous performers in the history of the XWF, against a guy who’s barely been there three months and who’d just seen his team suffer that loss against you at the Games. What happened though, Pete? What happened the one and only single time that there was a three count between you and I? Do you even remember? I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, Pete, because you sure as shit slept through it. I had you and that fatass pinned at the same time, and Shane could have counted to a hundred. Neither one of you were getting up without help, dude. That’s right, ladies and gentleman. The alleged thorn in my side, Peter Gilmour, couldn’t pin me when he had 450 pounds of help to do it with. But hey, don’t let that dispel the myth that Gilly’s been shouting from every rooftop about his four victories over me.

Yeah, you heard me. Four. Gilmour actually thinks he’s beaten me four times, including that nonsense I already went over with War Games. The thing is, for all his bragging, Gilmour has ONE win over me that could be counted as such. That would, of course, be the highly suspect “Battle of the Brands” show that turned out to be anything but. Yes, Peter, you put me through a table. You got lucky for five seconds and got a gimmicked win over a future Universal Champion, and I won’t take anything away from you for that one. But the fact that you run around calling the battle royal that followed, the one that was supposed to be a Madness versus Warfare team match and which was mysteriously changed for some reason at the last minute, the fact that you consider your win in that battle royal as a victory over me is a fucking joke. Oh, sure, you won all right. And I didn’t. That’s true. But dude, come on. You’re not even the one who got me out of the ring! That was Caroline Burchill, and once again, just like War Games, you had nothing to fucking do with it. I guess if we’re gonna play that game, dude, then when I won the Hart Title in the Madness Stampede finals a short time later, then that was me specifically defeating you to do it, wasn’t it? I mean, I won the battle royal and you didn’t, right? Fair’s fair, Pete… but you only see things the way you want to see them.

Oh, and how could I possibly go through this list of your falsified claims against me without bringing up Lethal Lotto! What a god damn travesty that was, dude. First of all, you LOST in the first round of the tournament. You were OUT. You had no business even being in that match against CorVus and me. That’s problem number one. Problem number two? How the hell did you end up with your favorite partner on your team anyway? How do you constantly find ways to latch onto The Dimallisher’s ballsack and swing your way from one free victory to the next? Oh, that’s right… you helped ensure the drawing for the teams was completely ‘random’ didn’t you? Nothing at all suspicious about the guy who got a free pass back into the tournament suddenly getting the ability to make sure he didn’t end up with another lame duck partner, right? And I’m sure there was nothing fishy that happened to help ensure that you got the partner you wanted, too. Totally, man, I’m totally sure nothing fishy took place. I’d never besmirch the integrity of Peter Gilmour! Certainly not in light of his most recent and totally legitimate ‘victory’ over yours truly! You know, the one that ended in a god damn disqualification? The one that saw CorVus, a member of a stable led by the top authority figure at the time, the same authority that allowed you back into the tournament in the first place, getting spontaneously disqualified for no reason at all and then riding off into the sunset from the XWF with what I have to assume was a metric fuckton of money? Sure, dude, nothing fishy about that. DQ finishes happen all the time in XWF, don’t they? Practically on a weekly basis. And that should definitely be a feather in the cap of someone as EXTREME as you, Gilmour. That was an EXTREME disqualification after all, not a regular one.

So there you are, people. The storied history of Peter Gilmour versus Vinnie Lane. Three completely bogus victories-by-proxy and one actual win that’s completely nullified by the fact that he got his ass handed to him by me when he had someone to help him win. Keep that shit in mind this week while you listen to Gilly try his damndest to sound like the one guy who knows how to beat me.

So here’s what we’re gonna do, Pete. You get your asinine ‘extreme’ stipulations. I don’t care what they are, dude, it’s up to you. Flaming coffin on an island surrounded by cyborg alligators and each of us wearing a suicide bomber vest, fuck it, who gives a shit. The only thing that matters is this – I’m going to win, definitively, by either a pin or a submission, and afterwards you are NEVER allowed to run your mouth and spew lies about how Loverboy can’t beat you. That’s what’s happening. Get it all out of your system this week, Gilmour, because it’s the last time anyone’s going to have to suffer through listening to you say it. You don’t have to like it, dude, but trust me… you’ll learn to love it.

Sorry Pete, Scully’s not gonna be there this time. Looks like you’ll be going to sleep again. Night night, dude.

XOXO

This story continues from the roleplay linked here.

6:00 am in Los Angeles. The sky is an oil painting of colors. Blues and golds swiped across another perfect morning in the City of Angels. LAX stands proudly in the middle of it all, surrounded by the usual traffic. Approximately 75 cars are engaged in airport gridlock even this early hour. The wind is blowing south by southwest at close to six knots. The sun is peeking over the Eastern horizon, ready to greet California’s most infamous city once again, and the early morning light washes away the shadows of everything the night before may have spilled across the lives of the millions of its inhabitants.

Well, almost all the shadows.

“Roxy, don’t worry baby, you just go up there and you do what you need to do. Be with your family, deal with this your way. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

Inside the terminal of the airport, “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane and Roxy Cotton walk slowly toward a gate, holding hands. Behind them, Roxy’s rolling suitcase moves lazily along on its plastic wheels.

Different from normal, Loverboy is not dressed to impress. His hair is tied and hidden beneath a plain baseball cap, and his eyes are covered by dark designer glasses. Sweat pants and baggy hoodies are the garb of the day for the typically dressed to the nines glamour couple. Today, they are under the radar and completely ignored by the hordes of paparazzi that roam the halls of LAX, looking for any drop of fame to feast on.

“You’re really sure, Vinnie? I can change the flight. I can go later, I know this week is a big one.”

“No. No way, babe. Some things are more important than wrestling, and family is at the top of that list.”

Roxy stops mid-stride and turns to Loverboy, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. They stay that way for quite a few seconds before pulling away from one another. Finally, Roxy bites her lip and looks down at her feet, thinking. Eventually, she brings her face back up.

“All right… all right, I’ll go. But I’ll still be there with you, baby. I’ll be watching you from Canada, I won’t miss it, I swear.”

“That’s fine, babe. I’ll be fighting for you. For us. We need to get through all of this together… I can’t believe what happened to your sister. I just… I can’t even believe it, dude. She was there with us, you know? She was at our place… then she’s just… gone.”

“I know… I know…”

Roxy trembles and then breaks down, her face falling apart beneath the weight of her sorrow. As he cradles her in his arms, Loverboy runs his hand down the back of her golden hair, trying desperately to be the rock she needs to lean on.

“Hey, hey, come on… we’re gonna get through it together, baby, I swear. I know nothing can bring Dani back, but you’ll never lose me. Ever. I’m going to be right by your side for the rest of your life, I swear it.”

She sniffles, her tears at bay momentarily. Roxy looks up at her fiancé with her wet eyes locked onto his.

“I love you so much, Vinnie…”

Just then, an echoic, mechanical voice announces Roxy’s flight over the PA system.

“Flight 714 to Vancouver, now boarding…”

Loverboy looks startled, then he turns his head toward the gate and sees the herd of passengers thinning out for Roxy's flight.

“Shit, babe, you’ve gotta get in there. We’ve been standing here way too long, you’re gonna miss the plane!”

“Okay, okay… I’ll go. Just… please. Be safe.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about with me, babydoll. Peter Gilmour is the one who needs to take your advice.”

She smiles then. A moment of warmth she's needed since hearing the terrible fate of her sister Dani. It is fleeting, however, as her visage soon fals back to its somber state.

“I can’t wait to come back home and see my champion again. I love you, baby.”

“I love you too, Rox… Now go! Quick!”

Roxy smiles feebly and gives Loverboy one last kiss before jogging off toward the gate, dragging along her small carry-on suitcase, wobbling back and forth on its tiny wheels due to her hurry. Loverboy watches her disappear into the throng of travelers, stands and watches as she moves up through the boarding area, and until he can no longer see her.

Not wanting to take himself farther away from his love just yet, Loverboy stands in the terminal and continues to wait, watching as hundreds of people move around him. He stares at the departure and arrival boards, falling into mindless daydreams as the times and designations change. He finds Roxy’s flight on the board and glares at it, nearly unblinking, until it changes to show the takeoff. Then, moving toward the windows, he watches the massive passenger plane lift off from the tarmac and head to the north, its metallic fuselage glinting in the morning light.

Only after the plane is completely gone from his line of sight does Loverboy leave the terminal, heading toward a Starbucks and ordering a soy latte. Not a single person recognizes him in his dressed down attire. Such a strange moment for a man typically bathing in spotlight, but here he’s just another man saying goodbye to someone he loves.

Loverboy makes his way through the airport, sipping the hot latte and watching the pattern of the carpet move between his feet as he heads to the correct exit. He’s halfway to the car when suddenly he’s violently tackled to the concrete. He watches the latte cup somersault through the air and splatter into the parking space in front of him as he falls forward, barely getting his hands up in front of his face before hitting the ground hard.

“Vincent Lane! Don’t move! Don’t resist!”

Loverboy struggles, but is quickly pinned down. His arms are wrenched behind his back and twisted together as he feels cold steel tighten around his wrists. A second man secures his legs, making it impossible for him to fight them off. A crowd begins to gather.

“Wait, what’s going on… what the fuck, dude? What are you doing?”

As he’s rolled slightly on to a side, Loverboy sees the men. Uniformed officers. One of them has a gun levelled at his head.

“LAPD… Vincent Lane, you are under arrest for the murder of Dani Cotton.”

A moment of stunned silence, but then that is quickly followed by vicious writhing from the subdued Universal Champion. He screams up at the officer.

“What?!? That’s fucking crazy dude, that’s nuts! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t AAAAARRGHHH!!”

A crackling pops in the air and a bouquet of burning hair and ozone permeates the scent of an otherwise lovely morning. The taser barbs in Loverboy’s chest pump hundreds of volts of electricity into him, causing his body to seize and twitch uncontrollably until the officer finally relents on the trigger.

“Stop resisting! You have the right to remain silent! You have the right to an attorney!”

The rest of the officer’s litany of Miranda rights are prattled off as Loverboy’s arms are yanked up behind him by two burly officers, and he’s hoisted to his feet. His feet kick the hat that’s fallen from his head away, and the tussle loosened his hair, which now spills freely down his shoulders. The broken pair of sunglasses fall from his face, and he’s momentarily blinded by a familiar dazzling light.

Flash bulbs.

As “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane has his head ducked down underneath the frame of a nearby police cruiser and is roughly shut into the back seat, he knows for sure that everyone in LAX has definitely recognized him now.

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