((A terrifically messy and ruined hotel room. The familiar scene of a room inhabited by the always considerate “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane, especially when he has a friend to share the bed with. Pillows, sheets, comforters and random items of clothing scattered across end tables and the floor. Random gold championship belts in various spots among the debris. The bed itself is nearly bare of linens, as they have mostly been pulled to the floor, leaving an almost entirely uncovered mattress. From below the level of the naked box spring, a hand reaches up from the floor and searches around the knot of sheet which rests on the bottom corner of the bed. Eventually, the hand finds a cell phone and brings it down to the floor, where “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane is lying, naked other than a fitted sheet wrapped around his waist like a makeshift toga. His hair is a matted, sweaty mess. His skin has the slick sheen of a man who has sweated, let it dry, and sweated again repeatedly. His eyes dart around the room as a shaky hand presses buttons on the phone’s screen, entering the codes for Loverboy’s voice mailbox.))

First message… yesterday, 11 am…

Diesel: Yo, Shawn, man, where you at? We’ve gotta talk shop about our big match next weekend against Bulldog and Yokozuna at In Your House 3! Page me!

Next message… yesterday, 12 pm….

Diesel: Dude, my pager turned out to be something called an iPod. Sorry if you got confused, little buddy. iPod me!

Next message… yesterday, 12:30 pm…

Roxy: Baby… I’m in Houston. Where are you? I got us a room at the Hotel ZaZa, and the pool is amazing. I want you here with me. I got a lot of party favors, and I know you can beat that uggo Louis D’Ville. Even I wouldn’t fuck him. Hurry up and get here, baby, I miss you and I’m worried. Kisses.

Next message… yesterday, 2 pm…

Diesel: DUDE! Shawn! Did Cornette get you? Oh my God, was it those 17 off duty marines? I’m gonna find you, Shawn, you just stay right there and try to stay safe! ((Diesel cries)) I won’t ever let anything happen to you Shawn! I never forgave myself for what Sycho Sid did to you. There’s some guy down here ((in the background, someone who sounds a lot like Scott Hall says “down where?”)) who says he’s a doctor, and he’s waiting for you? Did you make an appointment with this guy, Shawn? I tried to research him but he doesn’t even have an AOL profile. Loser. Anyway dude I’m running out of quarters so I have to get off the phone. I miss you. Kisses.

Next message… yesterday, 8 pm…

Alex: Vinnie. It’s Alex. Listen, I know we haven’t really talked in a few weeks, but I’ve been keeping up with XWF TV and talking to Donny, too. We’re a little worried about you, Vin. I know this time of year is tough for you after losing Nikki and your dad a couple years ago, but getting mixed up in the junk again isn’t the way to go. Seriously, Vinnie, that’s what killed her, you know? The party has to end sometime, man. Take a break. You’ve got a lot going on, too much on your plate, and you’re going to crash and burn. You want to be the next dumb ass rock star to be dead before 30? The next Cobain or Morrison? Come on man. Give me a call. I’m your friend. You need to talk to someone.

End of new messages.

((Loverboy sits up, bunching the fitted sheet around his waist and leaning over for a half empty bottle of Jack sitting near the bed, sucking down a deep gulp as he dials more buttons on his phone’s screen. After waiting a second and listening, Loverboy looks frustrated and rolls his eyes as the sound of an automatic beep plays from the phone.))

Loverboy: Dude. Alex, it’s me, Vinnie… listen, man, thanks for calling… I’m okay though, dude, I swear. It’s all under control. Yeah, it’s been real stressful the last couple weeks, I know you must have seen the video of what happened after Madness went off the air last week. Seriously, I think everyone’s seen it. It’s all anyone can talk about anymore. But dude, really, I was just pissed off. I think I got screwed over, man, but it’s cool, I’m gonna get it back on track this week. Doc D’Ville? He’s toast. Pest? The guy’s nothing, man, not compared to me. Did you see what I did to him in Moscow? You’re right though, man, I am gonna take a week of and get focused and prepared for what’s coming up… I get a title shot, dude! It’s gonna be so good, man, I get to name the title and everything when I win it, man.

((Loverboy takes another swig from the bottle and looks up over the bed nervously, trying to see something but not finding it apparently. He sets the bottle down and goes on.))

Loverboy: Look… Alex… if I can be really honest with you right now man, there’s kinda some weird shit happening right now. I hooked up with Sasha Grey, you know, and she’s been seriously the best lay I’ve ever had, dude, but yesterday it got a little crazy. I mean, she sucked me off in ten seconds flat out in some alley, man, and then jumped on me for more. Then, she practically dragged me back to the hotel and dude… dude… I’ve been non-stop fucking this chick for like 12 hours now, man. I mean, I filled every one of her holes like I was making a cream filled fritter. But she kept wanting more, and more, and more, man. I mean, she was barely finished gargling my chowder before she’d spin around and tell me to pump her asshole full. By the end of it, dude, I swear I was cumming puffs of dust. She drained my balls into little raisins, man. I’m actually a little scared, you know? It doesn’t seem normal, even for a porn star, and even as fucking bad ass as I am in the sack, for any chick to want it that much, right? It’s really almost like… dude, this is gonna sound totally wacked out… but it’s seriously like she’s living off of it, man. Like she’s a zombie eating my brains, dude. Crazy. Anyway, man, I gotta get going. I just woke up and I don’t see her anywhere… I might have a little time to recover. Later dude.

((Loverboy hangs up the phone and sets it next to him on the floor, then finds his Poison t-shirt crumpled next to the foot of the bed. A leg of his blue jeans is sticking out from underneath the bedframe, and as he reaches for them a pale white hand shoots out from under the bed and grabs him by the wrist.))

Loverboy: Fuck!

((Sasha Grey crawls insectally from under the mattress’ shadows, naked and bestial, her swollen midsection heaving beneath her as her breasts, which seem to be leaking milk, swing back and forth.))

Sasha: Yes. Fuck. Now.






((Some time later. “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane stands on the balcony of the hotel room, clad in only the fitted sheet again wrapped around his waist. Once again, the cell phone is in his hand, along with a small plastic baggie of white powder. Dialing in the passcodes for his messages again, Loverboy sets the phone on the balcony railing and pours the contents of the baggie onto the screen, pushing it into a crude line using his fingernails.))

New message… today, 1 pm…

Diesel: ((Sobbing)) Shawn… buddy… everyone’s saying you aren’t gonna make it to the show tomorrow, dude! That doctor guy is acting all smug and stuff, like he’s already got you beat. He even said you were delusional. What’s going on, man? We’re best buds! You can talk to me! Get to Houston and we can go see your mom down in San Antonio, okay? Be safe, bro, get here and shut this guy’s stupid dicklicker mouth!

End of new messages.

((Loverboy leans over the phone and inhales deeply through his nose, the white, crystalline powder vanishing up into his nostril. As he blinks away the sudden rush from the cocaine hitting his bloodstream, Loverboy braces himself against the railing and looks over the city.))

Loverboy: This Diesel guy… he’s a little messed up in the cranium, but he’s doing me a serious solid, man. Letting me know about all the crap D’Ville has been up to in the last few days. Smug is definitely the right word, dude, and that smug little bastard is gonna learn a thing or two about underestimating Vinnie Lane. Guy wants to talk about me losing my cool after last week’s Madness… you all sound like broken records, man. You think because you got some sort of undergrad psych degree from Everest Online that means you can diagnose someone, dude? You want to psychoanalyze someone, Doctor Freud, how about you start with yourself? Narcissistic. Overconfident. Unbalanced. Are you bipolar? Schizophrenic? Do those two things nullify one another? I don’t know, dude, I’m not gonna pretend I’m some kinda doctor like you do, man. I know what I am. I’m “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane, a wrestler, a rock star, a fuckin’ megastar. I’m a guy that none of your other patients have been able to beat. A guy no one in this fed seems to think is as good as I actually am.

((Loverboy reaches down behind the railing, retrieving the bottle of whisky he had inside the room before. He unscrews the cap and sets it on the rail, but doesn’t take a drink, instead just turning the bottle in a circular motion, swirling the brown liquid into a tiny maelstrom.))

Loverboy: See dude, I’m not really the type of guy who talks a bunch of mad trash before beating up on someone in the ring. I let my record stand for itself, you know? Yeah, sure, I do what needs to be done to let you know I’m paying attention, that I’m ready, but you’re not usually gonna hear a whole lot of threats and promises from me, man. I could sit here and tell you I’m gonna kick your ass, or I’m gonna pick you up and drop you on that bald, jail-tatted head of yours, man, but the whole world already knows it so why bother? Hell, dude, you already know it. I’ve seen your little segments, that fake cocky smile you give every time. But I know that losing last week got to you, man, probably a lot more than it got to me to lose my match. I lost a triple threat match, man. I wasn’t even involved in the fall, you know? I did the heavy lifting and everyone watching knows the real winner of that match was Loverboy. You? What did you do? You got too confident and you forgot to get Gator away from the ropes before covering him. That’s rookie shit, man. Mental mistakes. Screw ups like that keep you on the bottom, Doc, and that ain’t where I’m at, am I? I’m a champion, I’ve beaten some of the best, and the only guys here who can say they’ve gone over on me are some of the best of all time here in the XWF. You’re just a gimmick guy who can win a battle royal with a bunch of scrubs in it. That’s where they stick the dudes who are too boring to put asses in seats, man, sorry to tell you. You’d think a guy who prides himself on his intellect and his ability to assess others’ mental states would be able to see the fuckin’ forest for the trees, right? But not you. Nah, man, you just keep running your mouth and thinking you’ve got me all figured out – I like it better that way, really. That way, when Madness rolls around tomorrow night you’ll be standing there with that obnoxious smirk on your face and I’ll get to be the guy to knock it off your face.

((Loverboy stops spinning the bottle and lifts is slightly, looking into the settling brown fluid.))

Loverboy: You see, Doc? You shrinks spend a lot of time talking about seeing the glass half empty or half full, right? But me, man? I look at this bottle and I think it’s a lot closer to representing you than me. I just take you in the ring, all full of fire, and I drain it. I dump it out. I pour you and your BS all over the mat, man, until you’re nothing but a few drops of spit and watered down backwash, a diluted shadow of what you were at the beginning. You got everyone’s attention coming in the way you did, but after tomorrow night…

((Loverboy tips the bottle over, pouring the last of the whisky out over the ledge, smiling as the last drops fall. Then, with a distant smirk, he drops the bottle itself, leaning over to watch it tumble through the sky.))

Loverboy: … you’re just gonna come crashing down to earth, pal. Empty, broken, and worthless. Maybe you’ll even land on someone else when you finally hit bottom, man, but the fall starts with me, and it ain’t gonna be pretty. I'm not ready to fall, dude. Like Axl Rose said, I bought me an illusion and I put it on the wall - I let it fill my head with dreams and I had to have them all. I've worked too hard for my illusions just to throw them all away, man.

((Somewhere down on the streets of New York City, a glass shatters and a woman screams.))

Loverboy: See you in the ring, Doc.