Vinnie woke me up early this morning. Like, not long after we went to sleep early. It always surprises me when a guy like Vinnie, a rock n’ roll all night, party every day motherfucker through and through, can somehow also be a guy who gets himself out of bed at the crack of dawn when he needs to just to train or make a show on time. It’s almost like he has some unlimited supply of fuel somewhere inside of him when it comes to his work. Like just knowing that he’s a few hours away from standing in a ring in front of thousands of people he’ll almost certainly never see again is enough to keep him going when a normal guy would just slap the snooze on his alarm and sleep until the afternoon.
“Babe, where’s my Faster Pussycat shirt?”
He was so cute. He remembers the strangest things. He might not remember someone’s name after being introduced to them ten different times, and he may forget silly anniversaries like first kisses or first dates, but then he’ll surprise you by remembering that he gave you his lucky tee shirt one night six months ago because you were feeling chills and wanted something to sleep in. That he pulled it right off of himself so you wouldn’t have to get out of bed and find something yourself. That he smiles while falling back to sleep mumbling about how he loved the way you make his clothes smell like perfume. Things like that. Even the way he compliments you seemingly by accident, like the perfume thing. How he says how much he loves smelling like you not because he wants to say something nice, but because it’s just the simple truth. Because he really cares, and really does love smelling you on him.
Vinnie Lane is somehow the best and the worst thing to have ever happened to me. Like, he took every bit of my soul from my body when he treated me the way he did. He sent me into flashbacks of all the douchebags I’d been with in the last five years. The guys I hated but fucked anyway just to not be alone. The guys I thought I could be done with forever once I met Vinnie. Oh, the way he had just walked up to me an owned my heart within ten minutes of saying hello to me for the first time, it was like a fairy tale. A very grown up fairy tale, but still.
“I have it in my pajama drawer, the top left one. It’s in there next to Bob.”
“Bob?”
“B.O.B. Battery Operated Boyfriend?”
“Oh! BOB! Holy shit, look at the size of this thing…”
So silly. Vinnie turned everything into fun. He could take the worst days and make them seem like the sun was shining bright and birds were singing on your shoulders like you were Snow White. He was born to make other people happy. I think, deep down, a lot of what always seemed like the main struggle inside of him is that he knows he’s got so much to give to others and wants to make sure he doesn’t miss anyone. He knows he’s going to burn white hot like he always says, and that he’ll burn up in the atmosphere instead of fading away. He knows that he’s here to entertain and let others live their dreams out through him… and he knows someday it will kill him.
“Babe, where’s that Viv girl? We need to drop her off or whatever so I can hit LAX early enough to get to the gym down the road. I’ve seen Rocky 4 enough times to know that the only workout I’ll get over there in Stalingrad or whatever is gonna be racing a bear or throwing around a fallen tree. I need to put the finishing touches on my Trax-whipping muscle cuts.”
“She passed out in the kitchen. After the shower. She said she needed milk, then she just fell asleep right there on the tile, naked as the day she was born. I threw an extra blanket over her.”
“Oh, well, that’s cool. Can you maybe get her up though? Just, like, long enough that she can get dressed and into the car. I just don’t want her here alone, man. You never know who you can trust.”
And he went back to getting his clothes. He found the tee shirt and, just like I knew he would, the first thing he did was hold it up to his nose and breathe in. His eyes closed and he smiled, and I knew exactly what he was feeling. The same thing I was feeling outside the club when he put his arm around me and I smelled his cologne again for the first time in… how long had it even been? It felt like forever. So many things had happened. So much stuff he really needed to know. Especially after this morning. But now wasn’t the time, obviously. Vinnie needed to be focused. This match he was going into, even back before we split he had been talking about it, how he and Trax were going to blow the roof off of some arena one day. He knew it was a moneymaker. He also knew that it was an even match, though he’d never admit it. But I could tell just for how dedicated he was this morning. If this had been another Maverick or Ginger he wouldn’t be up planning one last gym session before an international flight. This one was going to take 100%.
“I’ll get her. Do we have time to go to Starbucks?”
“Seriously, Rox? You’re like a Pumpkin Spice junkie.”
“That’s me. Just another junkie stripper.”
He snapped his head up at me, thinking he might have offended me, but he saw I was smiling and just kept on with the joke, laughing along while I found my bra and slipped it on.
“You got it! Just paying your way through community college, right? Hey, you know, speaking of junkies… how about cutting us each up a quick line for breakfast?”
Shit. Now he was going to notice something wasn’t right if I didn’t think fast. A morning ski session was as much a part of our life together as the fucking the night before was. I grabbed the compact from the bed table before he could and I popped it open and shut quick enough that he couldn’t see.
“There’s not a lot left, baby. I’ll cut you one, and I’ll just make a stop after I drop you off, okay? I don’t mind. You’ve got a long flight and you won’t be able to get another sniff until you’re back on this side of the pond, I imagine.”
“Yeah? You sure?”
“Yeah baby, I don’t mind.”
So I turned away and tapped out enough of the mostly full compact to make a skinny line across my blow mirror. I gave it to him and watched while he did his favorite magic trick – making money disappear up his nose. Afterward, I finished slipping on my yoga pants and halter top, then went to the kitchen to wake up Vivian. That was a chore. As much fun as she was the night before she was twice the pain in the ass now. I had to basically pick her up and drag her to the couch, then throw a loose-fitting dress onto her so she wouldn’t just be in the back seat naked the whole way to LAX. Eventually, though, we got everything together and loaded the poor girl into the back of the Mustang and headed south, just as the sun started peeking over the horizon.
Driving down the 405 with Vinnie in the passenger seat playing with his cell, and I’ve got my iphone on Bluetooth connected to the Mustang’s radio. The shuffle moves swiftly through a lot of our favorites. Def Leppard, Whitesnake, Billy Idol, etc. Some of my ‘girly shit’ that Vinnie always groans during came on too. He didn’t seem to mind listening to me singing along to Lana Del Rey while we slipped down the road in the early morning fog. Eventually some of my hip hop favorites came on.
I'm like, Hey, what's up? Hello.
Seen your pretty ass soon as you came in the door
I just wanna chill, got a sack for us to roll
Married to the money, introduced her to my stove
“What the hell is this, dude?”
“Fetty Wap.”
“Fetty what?”
“Wap. It’s cool, he kinda sings, kinda raps… it’s hot right now.”
“He sounds stupid. What’s it called?”
“The song? It’s Trap Queen.”
“TRAP QUEEN? Are you kidding me? Why didn’t I hear this song a week ago, dude? I could have made so many sweet jokes about Trax and his weak finisher. Trap Queen. I’m gonna have to remember that for later. Don’t you have any GNR or Van Halen?”
“Of course I do, but come on Vinnie, sometimes it’s fun to switch it up. You’re, like, the whitest guy of all time.”
“What the fuck? I am not! Dude, I am street as hell.”
I just fall to pieces laughing then. Tears running down my face, snorting like a kid. The whole nine. He’s fuming in his seat, got his sunglasses pulled off and everything, staring at me and turning red while I just keep bawling with laughter and trying not to drive off the side of the road in the process.
“Roxy, I’m for real! I’m OG! I have TONS of street cred. Remember how TJ Wallace would hang out sometimes? He thought I was cool.”
“No, he thought I was cool. He just wanted to fuck a snow bunny. He hung out with Frodo for the same reason. You’re such a goober.”
“Dude. Take the next exit.”
“What? Why? Vinnie we have to -”
“Just get off here. Go and head southeast, man. Do it.”
I slowed down quickly but smoothly and pull off on the exit ramp at the last minute. I hadn’t even noticed how close we were to the airport already, and as we slid off into Inglewood I started to really wonder what the hell Vinnie was up to. He just kept pointing out signs and telling me when to turn, and sooner than later we ended up right smack in the middle of…
“Compton?!!?”
“Yup. Told you, man, now I’ll show you how hood I am. Pull over right there.”
Vinnie pointed to a dilapidated basketball court where a group of knuckleheads were cold shooting some hoops. The three blacks turned and watched the shiny car as it swung up to the curb, idling. Then Vinnie hopped out over the door without opening it. Show off. No wonder he always makes sure to rent a convertible.
“What’s up homies? You guys, like, chillin’ or what?”
I decided to stay in the car. These kinds of kids came into the club sometimes and I knew what they would think of my tits and ass if they saw me in full view. I just hung my face into my palm while I listened to Vinnie try and remember all the words he could remember from the last Tarantino movie he saw.
“So listen, blood. Me and my trap queen here? We were taking a little ride when I saw you boys playing some ball. Thought I might join in? Y’all know who I am, right? Straight pimpin’?”
One of the blacks, the biggest one, of course, walked right into Vinnie’s face then and looked him up and down.
“Nigga who’s you callin’ boys?”
“Wait, fellas, that’s not what I… okay look. You guys wanna ball with me or what? I’m a celebrity, man. World class athlete. I dunked on Kobe once.”
“You full of shit, nigga. Pussy ass white bitch. I know who you is. Trax gonna whup yo’ cracka ass. Get yo’ ass back in the car ‘fo I bust a cap and make yo’ BITCH suck my DICK.”
The kid wasn’t bluffing. He showed his waistband where a gun was sticking up from under his shorts. Vinnie looked a little nerves but he was committed at this point. He wasn’t one to back down, that’s for sure.
“Aiiiiiite. Look, man. You want Roxy to blow you? You beat me in hoops, it’s a DEAL.”
“Vinnie what the fuck?”
He just looked at me and winked, giving me two surreptitious thumbs up while the three black guys whispered together. Apparently they decided it was a good deal, because one of them walked back to the hoop and grabbed the basketball from the ground nearby, tossing it over to the big one.
“You got ball, nigga. First to ten. I’mma nut in yo’ bitch’s hair, fuckboy.”
Vinnie peeled off his shirt, which I liked, but then he started trying to dribble the ball around like a jackass who’d seen one too many Harlem Globetrotter games. Which, now that I think about it, is probably exactly where Vinnie learned how to play basketball. He charged toward the net and posted up to take a shot, and the big kid shot an elbow right into Vinnie’s mouth just as he let the ball fly. Total brick. Vinnie hit the ground in a heap and the kid grabbed the ball, laughing.
“My shot now, nigga. Get yo’ fuckin’ ass up off my court.”
Vinnie popped up, and he looked pissed. He rubbed his jaw but he kept his cool, taking a position in front of the kid and between him and the hoop. The kid was fast though, and he got around Vinnie with a feint to the left that looked like it broke Vinnie’s ankles. The ball dropped through the rim and would have swished the net had there been one.
“That’s one. Nine mo’ and yo’ bitch gets this black dick all up in her mouth.”
This is about when one of the other black teens decided to walk up to the car. I didn’t know if he had a gun of his own so I just tried to ignore him, but when he got close enough to see down my shirt he wasn’t interested in letting me just sit there and watch the game anymore.
“God DAMN girl, you got them big ol’ muhfuckin’ TITS.”
Great idea wearing a low cut top, Roxy. Oh, who am I kidding, it’s all I really own. I paid good money for these titties, I like to get my money’s worth.
“Thanks.”
“Let me suck them titties, girl, yo’ man about to get his ass beat anyway.”
“Fuck you.”
“The fuck you said, bitch? Fuck you said to me?”
He was leaning into the open top now, getting his face too close to mine. I looked up and I saw the big kid draining another basket and Vinnie sitting on his ass on the concrete. Luckily, he looked over and saw me too. Vinnie stood up and put his hands up, catching the ball as it was tossed to him, then turned his back to the big one and started dribbling and walking backwards toward the hoop. When the big guy tried to stick a hand in for a steal, Vinnie quickly spun around and blasted him in the nuts with a knee, dropping him and sending the gun spinning across the court with a metallic scratching sound. The second one over there by Vinnie was too slow to react and got a superkick right to his gold grill, putting him straight to sleep. Then Vinnie started running towards the car. This kid had no chance.
“Hey homeboy!”
“Huh? What the fuck!?”
And then the basketball flew into the kid’s face with a crunch. The kid fell back, grabbing at his nose which was now gushing blood all over the place, and Vinnie dropped him on the spot with a DDT. Lights out. Vinnie jumped into the car and I was already hitting the gas well before he yelled.
“Drive!”
I got around the corner just as I heard the shot fire out.
“Good job, Vinnie. You sure proved… something.”
“Whatever. Those niggas was WHACK, dude.”
“Please stop.”
He laughed. I tried not to because of how pissed I was, but how could I not? Only Vinnie could get himself into such a ridiculous mess and come out of it smiling. He shifted in his seat and pulled the tee shirt out of his back pocket, using it to wipe the sweat off of his forehead and chest, which really got me going. Then he stopped laughing.
“Rox… this chick here. I think you should know, dude, since she was popping those mollies like they were fuckin’ jelly beans last night. When I went to piss this morning I saw a preggo test in the trash. Positive. I think the poor chick’s knocked up.”
I chuckled, trying to remember to breathe. Luckily Vinnie was looking at himself in the vanity mirror and didn’t see the way my jaw dropped when he said that. I might have given myself away. He definitely didn’t need to know yet, though. Not right before the match. I had some time to make up my mind while he was in Russia, and the when he got back I was going to talk to him about it, right away. No excuses. But… not now.
“Oh, wow, Vinnie… you’re probably right! Poor Vivian. I’ll talk to her about the drugs and shit when she wakes up. Let’s just get you to the airport so you can get checked in. You might still have time to work out.”
“Nah, fuck working out. I just got my cardio in. I can lift the logs or whatever once I get over there to Siberia. Let’s hit up Starbucks, babe.”
Worried as I was, he still made me smile from ear to ear just by saying babe. And by suggesting we get those pumpkin spice lattes before going to LAX.
“Great idea, baby. I love you.”
“I love you too, Roxy!”
Everything was going to be just fine.
Nizhny Novgorad, Russia.
Deep inside the empty Trade Union Sport Palace, a black man steps out of a wrestling ring after emotionally giving it his all in a heated promo. The man and the camera crew filming him make their way toward the back, tiny as ants from way up in the nosebleeds, which is where our point of view is. The top row, all the way back against the wall. The cheapest of the cheap seats. Here is where “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane sits, watching the scene unfold far beneath him with his championship gold laid out on his lap and his boots kicked up on the back of the seat directly in front of him. As the tiny people disappear into a doorway, Loverboy slowly claps in appreciation for the spectacle he’d beheld.
“Great job, Trax. Great fucking job you just did. If I weren’t weighed down by all this gold I might have given you a standing ovation. But hey, guess what? The gold’s here, and it’s gonna be here when the dust settles too. Only it will have its long lost friend, the XWF Title, right next to it. No matter how hard you think you are, running around shooting action movies and starring in your own private sci-fi series, and no matter how SUPER you think your abilities are – when you’re in the ring staring across at me, you’ll be looking at a man superior to you. Dude, you thought I wasn’t going to bring it at Snow Job? If you thought that for even a second, man, then I know I’ve already got you. You’re already getting into the ring not knowing what to expect, when I’m sitting petty way up here looking down at you and knowing EXACTLY what you’ve got. I know you’re bigger than me, just like I know you’re slower than me. I know you can fight, just like I know you can’t wrestle. See that’s the thing, man. That’s really the key to all this shit, isn’t it? You and me running our mouths at each other for a week, getting all heated up, so that when that bell rings you get me throwing hands with you, right? Only no, dude. You should have figured out by now that I’m not fucking stupid. Like you said yourself, man, you’re some kind of Floyd Mayweather wannabe. A golden gloves boxer, Olympic level even. I’ve seen the tapes. I’ve seen the way your fists have made the difference in all your matches, setting up that weak kick of yours that could never hold a candle to my own. So no, dude, I’m not planning on just standing there and going toe to toe with you. This isn’t Caesar’s Palace and I’m not a pussy like Manny Pacquiao. I’m the number one professional wrestler in the fucking WORLD and I’m going to beat you by being better than you at WRESTLING. That means taking you down, wearing you out, and then dropping you on that nest of shitty cornrows and putting you to sleep, as many times as it takes to come out on top.”
Loverboy stands up, tossing the title belt over his right shoulder and unfolding his aviator shades, placing them onto his face with a smile.
“Man, Trax, you bring up a real good point though, when you’re talking about our three stages match taking place right here in just a few hours. Talking about the likelihood of getting to that third level, the last man standing. The way I see it, there’s a pretty slim chance. I mean, there’s no WAY you get more falls on me than I do on you in the iron man. That’s just not happening. But you might get lucky and catch a fluke in the opener. Weirder things have happened, man, and I know you always blow your load early. You start out with guns blazing and at top speed. You haven’t been tested the way I have, dude, and you’ve never had to pace yourself. See, I’ve been here before. I’ve been through every test there is and I’ve passed them all. I went a full sixty inside a hellacious cell with the Doc back at Bad Medicine. I’ve taken beatings from monsters for the entire time I’ve been in this company, and in every one of those encounters I’m the one who came out looking like a million bucks, win or lose. You’ve wrestled and scrubs. I made my living going out to that ring each and every week with higher and higher stakes, in matches more and more violent every time. Fuck, look at this one! They’re starting to just piece shit together because they’re running out of ways to make the matches more brutal! I’m surprised they didn’t include flaming ropes or a shark tank around the ring or some other crazy bullshit designed to injure and maim. Next they’ll make me wrestle three guys with guns with a time bomb under the ring. That’s what you’re not ready for, dude. The escalation. Anyone with an ounce of natural talent can win enough fights to get noticed. Anyone with the slightest bit of creativity can come up with a gimmick. Can make a Carlos into a Trax. But when push comes to shove this shit is about being able to SURVIVE. And dude, you’re bleeding out. You’re dying. You’re fuckin’ wormfood, man, just meat for the wolves to pick off your bones. You can’t hang in the main event spotlight, brother, you’re just another wax candle ready to melt because he can’t take the heat.”
Loverboy starts toward the aisle, heading down the hundreds of stone steps leading back to the bottom of the arena. He looks around him in the gigantic, empty venue, taking in the sights of the thousands of chairs that will be filled in just a day’s time. Arching his neck to look up at the massive tron screen and the banners hanging from the rafters.
“Crazy shit, dude. Crazy shit. You know, I really didn’t know where you got your nickname from. I guess I learned something today after all. Good job, man. And that was a good line about the mix tapes. I liked that. But dude, let me tell you something and have you understand that this is as real as real gets. After I put you into the mat at Snow Job? You’re gonna wish you really had cut that demo tape and gone into the music business. You’d have a better chance of winning in that world, man. You might even end up being one of the great legends of hip hop, like, who shot Biggie or is Tupac really dead or what the fuck happened to Li’l Kim’s face. They could have been asking how a six foot four inch set of purple pussy lips learned how to sing and dance. But no, I get it. You left tracks moving from shithole to shithole and being the best of the worst everywhere you went. I’m sure you learned a lot from all those weeks or months or whatever you spent ‘paying your dues,’ right? But the thing is, man, if that were true, then you wouldn’t be standing here tonight telling a MAIN EVENT CHAMPION WRESTLER that you’re going to punch him to death. I might occur to you that someone on MY level would be ready for that shit and have seen it coming a mile away. See dude, with your game plan, your dumbass nickname is gonna end up representing the footprints that I leave on your back after walking all over you. If that’s the legacy you want to leave behind for the next wave of black wrestlers who almost but not quite finally get their hands on that elusive brass ring, then by all means, step into the ring and try to box. If, on the other hand, you decide you don’t want to look like a fucking idiot, then maybe you should instead get on my fucking level and try to keep up. Actually, fuck it, scratch that, you’ll look even worse trying to level up and hang with the real deal when you, quite simply, weren’t born with enough talent.”
Finally reaching the floor level, Loverboy hops the guard railing surrounding the ring and then walks up to the ring itself, sliding under the bottom rope and standing in the center as he continues.
“Trax, I want you to learn from this. I want you to take this loss as more than just another ass kicking from a better man. I have a deep seated love for this business, man, and I want everyone in it to make the most of their opportunity. For you, I think all you really need to do is to settle in to the niche that you fit. The demographic wrestler. The inner city hero. The upper mid-card, occasional main even loser. A belt warmer for when the REAL stars need a vacation. You need to just embrace your glass ceiling and stop trying to break through it, dude, because all you’re gonna end up doing is cutting your own throat on the shards. And when it’s all said and done and you hang up those boots, you can look back on a REALLY good career of having been on the receiving end of a lot of REAL stars’ finishers. Having been second place more than anyone else has EVER been second place. I can really see that in you, man. Really. I can easily see you as the Buffalo Bills of professional wrestling, because god damn it, man, as much shit as we’ve talked this week I do know you ARE that good. You ARE Bills good. Just don’t try to fly too high, man. The air is thin up here, and if you weren’t born to soar, you were born to fall. That’s not my fault, dude, I’m not the one who’s made you as limited and un-special as you are. I’m just the guy who’s gonna remind you.”
With a flourish, Loverboy gestures with both hands above his head, pointing at the big screen over the rampway, which suddenly springs to life with a huge picture of “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane with the Universal Championship held high above his head. A picture that could easily be yesterday, today… or tomorrow.
“Get some sleep, Trax. You’ve got a long night in front of you.”
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and scrubs. I made my living going out to that ring each and every week with higher and higher stakes, in matches more and more violent every time. Fuck, look at this one! They’re starting to just piece shit together because they’re running out of ways to make the matches more brutal! I’m surprised they didn’t include flaming ropes or a shark tank around the ring or some other crazy bullshit designed to injure and maim. Next they’ll make me wrestle three guys with guns with a time bomb under the ring. That’s what you’re not ready for, dude. The escalation. Anyone with an ounce of natural talent can win enough fights to get noticed. Anyone with the slightest bit of creativity can come up with a gimmick. Can make a Carlos into a Trax. But when push comes to shove this shit is about being able to SURVIVE. And dude, you’re bleeding out. You’re dying. You’re fuckin’ wormfood, man, just meat for the wolves to pick off your bones. You can’t hang in the main event spotlight, brother, you’re just another wax candle ready to melt because he can’t take the heat.”![[Image: Gz87KnQ.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/Gz87KnQ.jpg)
