04-29-2015, 08:40 PM
"Loverboy" - Open Up And Say... Ahh! -->
“Mister Lane, this isn’t good…â€
The doctor pulls his penlight away from the sky blue eye of “Loverboy†Vinnie Lane as he sits atop the wax paper-covered plastic cushion in the middle of the examination room.
“I feel fine, dude. Muddy barely touched me.â€
Loverboy’s shaky voice betrays a lack of confidence that undermines the words he speaks. He fidgets with his fingers, pulling at the sleeve holes of his Poison t-shirt and kicking his legs like a kindergartener.
“I mean… it was a tougher fight than I maybe thought it would be, but seriously dude, it’s fine. I felt fine after the match and I feel fine now.â€
“Your girlfriend says you immediately vomited in the locker room and that she spend twenty minutes trying to wake you up this morning. She was scared enough to call an ambulance.â€
Loverboy hops off of the table, smoothing out the wrinkles in his zebra striped zubaz pants. Reaching into his fanny pack, he pulls out one of those sweet fake switchblades that’s really a comb and walks towards a mirror on one wall of the room.
“See dude, I’m not a regular human being. I’m genetically superior to the patients you see on a daily basis. My physique may as well have been carved from stone by Michelangelo or Bernini. My endurance is second to none. My threshold for pain is ridiculous. I’ve honed my body for years, sharpening it like a knife, to become a flawless wrestling machine… nothing that happens to me in the ring slows me down.â€
As he approaches the mirror, Loverboy raises the knife-comb to his flaxen hair – but stops short upon seeing his reflection. With a smile he gestures with both hands toward the gleaming mirror.
“Look, dude! Even my hair stays perfect! I don’t even need a comb! The suggestion you’re making, that a match with a wannabe like Waters could put me on the shelf for even a day is just laughable, dude.â€
“Mister Lane… Vinnie… we aren’t talking about one match. You’ve experienced hellish trauma over the past several months. Tables matches, cage matches, no holds barred matches, battle royals… and Miss Cotton says you’re about to go into a two on one handicap match? In just a week?â€
“Damn right. Don’t you even suggest I let my fans down either, dude. I’m going to be there from bell to bell, getting my hand raised in front of another capacity crowd, just like I always do, dude. And then in a couple weeks after that? I’m going sixty minutes with Doc D’Ville and taking his Universal Title from him. Try and stop me, dude, you’ve got no chance.â€
The last words out of Loverboy’s mouth fade in intensity as he suddenly becomes woozy, staggering forward and placing both of his hands against the countertop. The switch-comb clatters against the tile floor as the doctor hurries behind Loverboy and steadies him just before he collapses to the ground.
“Easy… easy… let’s get you back onto the table…â€
The doctor, somehow, manages to get Loverboy’s muscular frame most of the way back onto the exam table, leaving just one Reebok-adorned foot dangling off of the side. Once again producing the mini flashlight, he pulls Loverboy’s eyelid open and shines it into the megastar’s pupil with no reaction.
“We need to get you in for a CT scan ASAP, Vinnie. You’ve obviously gotten more than a simple concussion…â€
The doctor heads for his paging button and chimes for assistance, while Loverboy slowly tries to sit up on the table.
“Doc… I’m fine, dude… seriously…â€
A drop of blood rolls out of his nostril as Loverboy’s eyes roll back into his head and he flops backward onto the plastic cushion.
“Nurse… NURSE! I need help in here right away!â€
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Jack.
Jack was a regular kid from a regular family and it didn’t get him anywhere.
He was never the strongest.
He was never the fastest.
He was never the best looking.
He was never the smartest.
Jack was nothing more than a middle class middle child, and he never could find a way to get anyone’s attention.
That is, until one day when he watched one too many scary movies and decided to wrap himself in toilet paper to scare the neighbors in his government housing.
How many of us have ever seen JACK’s face? How many of us have laid eyes on the ‘horrific’ scarring he claims sits beneath those gauze wraps of his? Did he even take them off before he got into bed with Pest?
What is the evidence that this dude is anything more than a charlatan in a cheap Halloween costume? I mean, I could cut two holes in one of my 1,200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and throw it over my head, then claim to run a religious cult that, for some reason, led me to a career in professional wrestling, and I’d be just as cool as JACK.
Of course, I’d never get laid again, I’d never get to win anything that mattered, or anything at all, really, unless I was lucky enough to get booked against the Lucius Fyres and Austin Fernandos of this world. I’d never get within spitting distance of a title unless I tricked a tag team partner at LEAST twice as good as me into carrying me to a two week reign.
“So why would anyone do that, Loverboy,†you’re probably all screaming at your television sets right now, “why would anyone try to run around like the second coming of Mumm-Ra and be spooky? By the way, Loverboy, you’re the hottest dude on TV!†Well, first of all, yes, I am. And second of all, that’s a great question, nameless superfan… why be spooky when no one gives even the slightest shit about your Goosebumps routine? Spooky doesn’t fly in the XWF, kiddo, just ask Ghost Tank and Dylan George, if you can find them.
Look, I know it must be hard for average people like JACK, who probably grew up watching real stars on basic cable… sometimes desperate times call for desperate measure, I get it. Some of us make ourselves better, work out daily, train, learn, game plan… and some of us just try to find a freaky gimmick and get attention. It worked for Marilyn Manson and Johnathan Davis, why not JACK?
Let’s just lay it on the line right here, JACK – get down to brass tacks. You aren’t as good as me. You aren’t as good as Morbid Angel. You aren’t even as good as Mastermind or Cain, two others I’ve beaten recently. You’ve got the same chance of winning this match as a porn star’s mouth has of going unfucked for a day. None. You’re going to get cunt punted around the ring until you get sent home with a UTI and a bad case of PMS, but at least you’ll have your ridiculous costume to use as emergency sanitary napkins.
Listen… I don’t want to beat a dead horse, but you know you’re just the third wheel, right dude? The people are paying to see a former and a future Universal Champion settle a score with history and gravitas, to see champion-caliber competitors battle it out for dominance over the greatest wrestling program on television today, Monday Madness. They’re tuning in to see two stars who will impact the upcoming pay per view, Bad Medicine, the show literally NAMED after yours truly, and the future of the company as a whole.
Not to see JACK the human roll of toilet paper.
One-ply, at that.
You get six more days, JACK. Six days to hold your head up high and pretend you’re in a main event for some reason other than taking the fall so that Morbid Angel doesn’t have to. Six days to bask in the warming glow of being this close to a megastar.
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"Loverboy" - Open Up And Say... Ahh! -->
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