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**"Loverboy" Vinnie Lane** · (05-25-2019)

Outside in a meticulously clean hallway, the omnipresent XWF cameraman’s all-seeing eye rests upon a door. Not a bathroom door, for once. Not a door in any of the various 24/7 hallways either. Not even a door to Micheal Graves’ eventual prison cell once the federal investigators on his case finally crack the code into his dark web Lolita chat room.

No.

This a beautiful wooden door. Oak. A gleaming bronze handle that would probably come with a price tag most professional wrestlers would do a double take at while they book another night of twin beds and continental breakfasts in a Red Roof Inn somewhere. In the middle of said door is a modest sign. A simple golden placard, shined to perfection, with a marbled inlay of black lettering.

Vincent Lane.

XWF Owner.

“Good morning, Mister Lane!”

“Morning.”

“Morning, sir! Here’s your coffee!”

“Thank you, good to see you.”

“Mister Lane! You look great today. Still working out?”

“Flattery will get you… everywhere, Tricia. Thank you.”

“Mister Lane, the cameras are ready.”

“I see that, thank you Penny. Please hold my calls.”

“Will do.”

With a rush of movement, Vinnie Lane, coffee cup in one hand, cell phone in another, and an italian leather valise filled to the brim with documents tucked under his arm, walks between the camera and the door.

“Just a sec, Darius, I’ll put you on speaker, let me just get into my office.”

Vinnie presses his head, draped in his famous blonde hair tied into a neat ponytail just over the shoulder line of his hot pink Armani blazer, down onto his shoulder, trapping the cell phone in between to free up a hand. He opens his office door and walks in, and the camera follows as he circles around the gorgeous, laminate cherry wood desk in the center of the room. Pausing only long enough to grab a small remote control and open the mechanical window shades behind his desk, Vinnie quickly settles himself in his plump chair and lays his briefcase out in front of him, taking a single sip from his mug before placing it down on a well-worn coaster. And then finally, he pulls the cell away from his head and sets it on his desk blotter.

“Okay, D. Still there? Didn’t lose you did I?”

“Nope, still here boss.”

“Good. So. You’re telling me there’s a problem with War Games?”

“Well…”

Sounds on the other end of the connection indicate to Vinnie that Darius is fidgeting. Xavier was a great guy, a buttoned-up thoroughbred professional from head to toe. Also, a class act. But he was always nervous to give Lane bad news. If he had a tell, it was the way he wrung his hands together any time the two of them discussed disciplinary actions on the roster. Vinnie recognized the sound of Xavier’s palms sliding against one another easily.

“Let me guess. It’s Rain? What did he do now? He fucked his mother didn’t he?”

"No. Well, probably. But it’s not him… or rather, it is him, but it’s not just him. We have personnel issues, Vin.”

“The main event. I knew those old geezers would fuck off with my money…”

“No! No, actually the main event is in good shape. Page is making people take notice, Centurion is everything he was advertised to be… but the undercard matches… Vince, there are some guys that just look like they aren’t going to be in ring shape for War Games.”

Vinnie sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin while he closed his eyes and took a deep inhale through his flared nostrils. His fingers opened and closed against each other in rhythm, an external visual of a rapid heartbeat, perhaps. Finally, he opened his eyes.

“Who is it? It’s Duke isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I fucking knew it. That twerp doesn’t have half the nuts his old man has. Fine. Whatever. Call Tommy Gunn. He’s on retainer. He’ll do whatever I ask of him, including getting in the ring. Gunn’s twice the performer little incel Thad ever was anyway.”

“I did, Vince. Gunn is ready to go.”

“Great! Awesome!”

“But there’s others. We’re looking down the barrel of a total disaster here, if I can be frank. Not counting the Rain… thing… no one has seen some of the others in weeks.”

“Who? Just tell me. Spit it out.”

“Well, Double G for one…”

“Who?”

“He was one of the retirees.”

“Oh, right. Probably fallen and can’t get up. Fuck him. Who else?”

“Luca…”

“Luca hasn’t shown his face, and we’re 48 hours away from showtime? WOW, next you’re gonna tell me the sun sets in the West. Luca’s asleep with his nose covered in coke in some Thailand ladyboy ass. He’ll get here. Probably.”

“It’s still two people we’ve got booked for prime time matches, boss. No one has gotten hold of either of them in any capacity, either. Then there’s Duke, like I said, and BWP. Destiny. McPherson…”

“Sam McPherson? Did you guys ‘accidentally’ lose his steroid tests like I suggested?”

“... yes.”

“Good. He’s probably just in the gym somewhere. Dude lifts until he pukes.”

“Vince, we haven’t even heard from Scully.”

“Scully…”

Vinnie leans forward, wrapping one hand around his fist as he forms a fulcrum on his elbows and bites into his index finger. His eyes scan the walls of his vast office, tracking the progression of XWF Universal Champion Alumni Portraits until they land on the UK native Scully. Scully’s portrait is, of course, right next to and right after Vinnie’s own.

“That prick. Okay. So, yeah, we’ve got a problem. That’s just too many names. The captains are going into these matches short-handed, and that’s just bad TV. Let’s brainstorm… who do we got?”

“Well, not many are available…”

“What about the Anarchy guys?”

“They’re booked, boss. We promised them a lighter schedule, remember? It’s in their contracts…”

“Right, right. You’re right. Has anyone heard from Vita? Or Game Girl? Fuck it, get my ouija board, I’ll call Doc…”

“None of them, Vin. All on LOA. We’re looking like we might have to put BX3 out there…”

“Absolutely not. No way. On pay per view? Are you kidding me? We’ll be giving out refunds for weeks. Lemme think, lemme think… hey, I know… how about a General Manager Scramble?”

“A… a what?”

“Yeah, think about it. All of us XWF execs we go out there and we put on a show for the fans. You, me, Chubby, Atticus, Bob… it won’t make the War Games matches any better, but it might entertain the rubs enough so that they don’t go onto social media all butthurt and start one-starring the XWF like a restaurant that served them bad tapas.”

“Vin, we aren’t athletes…”

“Yeah, no joke! You look like you haven’t missed lunch in months!”

Vinnie laughs and slaps his knee until he snorts. Darius' tension headache is nearly audible through the phone.

“I think we need to focus. Maybe we’ll get lucky and a couple of these guys will pop up before bell time, but… we need to plan for the worst. What do we do if they’re MIA for War Games?”

Vinnie stands up from his desk and turns to face the window. The outline of his body in his tailored suit throws a dark silhouette like a hole cut into the blinding morning sun of the outside world. He grips his hands together behind his back and lets out a sigh.

“Well, we’ve got Gunn. And that Boston Bruiser guy? Get him on the horn as soon as we hang up. Tell him to be at the show and to bring his gear. We can swap him in for G-whatever or Sam, nobody will know the difference. I got a long, rambling, probably drunk voicemail from Madison Dyson the other night, too. Ask her if she needs a payday. Guarantee she’ll do ANYthing you ask her to do for a hundred bucks. Outside of that? I guess I’ll have to do what I always do when this place lets me down, dude.”

A pregnant pause. Darius clears his throat on the speaker, probably an unconscious cue to Vinnie that he has nothing to add to the dialogue. After another few moments of silence that thickens in the room like a cooling jello mold, Darius sighs.

“Okay, Vince. What do you always do?”

Vinnie turns around slightly from the window, then slides the blazer off of his shoulders. He hangs it on a nearby coat rack, then loosens the matching tie from his neck and hangs it up as well. Off of the same rack, he retrieves a bandanna, the same shade of vibrant, hot pink. Arranging the kerchief on top of his flaxen mane, he rotates his body the rest of the way and faces the phone on his desk with a smirk on his face and two lithe, bare arms hanging from the ripped shoulder holes of a White Lion tee shirt.

“I’ll do it my fucking self.”

With a shake of his head, Vinnie ends the call with a single button press, then lowers himself into his chair and lifts his coffee to his lips as things fade away.

Some time later, “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane is still at his desk. The sun’s angle has moved a bit, throwing his shadow more towards the side of the room rather than the straight-on sunrise glow from his early-morning powwow with Darius Xavier.

The valise, now bereft of its contents, sits open next to his desk like a yawning dog sticking close to its masters shins. The paperwork once stacked neatly between its leather jaws is now a mess of scattered documents cast across Vinnie’s desk in a pattern that could best be described as sloppy solitaire. With a flourish, proving he’d definitely noticed the return of the camera crew, Vinnie decorates one last leaf of paper with his signature and then drops the fountain pen back into its well next to his left hand. His hands come together like teeth of a zipper as he grins into the lens.

“Do you know what I’ve been doing all day today, ladies and gentlemen? For hours? While most of the XWF roster has been out scouting the best places in Moscow to shoot promos, or jerking their dicks to Broken Hart sucking off Kid Kool in Rain and Snow’s rape dungeon? I’ve been working. I’ve been doing my damn job. Every. Single. Day. I show up on time, I put in my eight hours or more, and then, only then, do I worry about what Vinnie Lane wants to do. In between my emcee duties behind the Anarchy desk and the work that it takes behind the scenes to broadcast the best god damn Thursday Night show in the wrestling business every two weeks, in between recruiting and inking the hottest talent for the ever-changing and evolving XWF roster, in between opening our product up to eyes that would never think to look in our direction by cross promoting with other successful companies such as the Circle Television Network or the LFL… in between all of THAT, I might find time here and there to relax. Why? Well, simple really. Because I’m grown. Because I’m an adult. Because I take the work I do here in XWF seriously, just like I always have since I stepped foot in this building for the first time in July of 2014. That’s what it takes to be a winner in the wrestling business, after all. This isn’t a business of handouts or charity. This is cutthroat. Brutal. If you don’t want to put in the time or the energy, well, somebody else will. Before you can even shart in your shorts your name will get replaced on the marquees with the next hungry youngster who wants to make it big. That’s just business, dude.”

Vinnie absently takes a sip from his coffee cup, then grimaces and spits the brown liquid back into the mug and shoves it away.

“Jesus, it’s ice cold.”

He pulls a tissue from a dispenser nearby, patting it onto his tongue and lips to wipe away the disappointing libation.

“Now… not everyone can have the same career path as yours truly. I get that, I really do. How many record-setting, legend-making, top-ten-all-time-great talents can have the business acumen or the mental wherewithal after a grueling and injurious career in the squared circle? I’m probably lucky to still be able to walk, even more so to be the man who gets to broadcast Warfare, Savage, and Anarchy to millions of viewers week after week. It can be humbling. It can be exhausting. Most of all, it can be rewarding. BUT… although not everyone can be Vinnie Lane, everyone CAN be the best THEM that they can be. We see it here in the form of our hardest workers. Guys like Tony Santos. Robert Main. Tommy Wish. Drew Archyle. Lux. Sarah Lacklan. All of our champions embody what it takes to be a WINNER. What it takes to SUCCEED. What it takes to carry a load on their backs heavy enough to cripple most men. When it comes time to put their noses to the grindstone and get it done, those XWF Champions are first in line to lead the way and clear a path for others to follow. Along with some promising upstarts, they make it easy to feel proud of this company and the roster we’ve amassed. But some of you? Some of you make me fucking sick.”

Vinnie stands up, shoving his chair backward with a squeak of wood on wood. He walks to the pictures on his wall. The portraits of himself and Scully, side by side, with a much fatter Peter Gilmour just to the right. Vinnie pulls the picture frame holding Scully’s photo from the wall and seems to address his next mini-soliloquy right down to it.

“Scully, correct me if I’m wrong, but the first time you and I ever crossed paths was at a War Games. 2014. We were both still wet behind the ears in this company, and your team coasted to a win at the expense of mine due to some… unfortunate… personnel issues. Now, five years later, we’re on the precipice of yet another classic XWF pay per view WAY too much of the time you took the cherished Universal Title from around my waist… just to turn around and drop it a few months later in a lazy, half-assed showing against Peter goddamn Gilmour. For the entire time we’ve known each other and shared these hallways professionally, your career has been long stretches of underwhelming disappointment with a handful of unexpected lucky wins to keep things interesting. The fact that I’ve even opted to keep you employed after some of the things I’ve SEEn out of you over the years is a testament to my humanity and professionalism. You? You’re spitting in my face right now. Once again, you’re letting down not only your own fans, both of them, but also the fans of the XWF who pay their hard earned money based on seeing champions past and present meet in the ring. You’re a disgrace. And the fact that you’re making YOUR BOSS come down to the assembly line and do YOUR JOB for you? That’s fucking pitiful. But here we are.”

Vinnie moves toward the windows behind his desk, leaning against the wall with one hand while still regarding the portrait of Scully.

“I expected more from you, dude. I really did. Maybe Darren Dangerous should have thrown you off of that scaffold five years ago and then gone to Birmingham and sexually assaulted your old lady like he kept promising to do. Who knows… maybe that way your kid could have a father to be proud of.”

In a flurry of motion, Vinnie grabs the remote from his desk and presses a button, causing the window pane in front of him to raise. With a click, the glass slides smoothly into place and a gust of breeze pushes Vinnie’s hair out of his face. Then, with a flick of his wrist, Loverboy tosses the photo frame from the window like a frisbee and closes the window.

“Really though, it’s not Scully’s fault alone. Sure, he had the biggest obligation as a representative and ambassador for the XWF, he arguably has the most PPV buyrate to his name among the other handful of you who are making me pull my tights out of storage in Sunday. God knows no one ever paid a cent to watch Double G perform in the 21st century, nor did anyone rush to the box office once we announced the union-minimum contract we’d signed Sam McPherson to… but just because he had the most clout among the sullied doesn’t mean he carries the load alone. War Pig? Blowing off War Games? Wow, what a paragon of virtue your Marine training turned you into, huh? What happened to no man left behind? Did you get scared of the dark after all that time in Robbie Bourbon’s shadow? Did you see EDWARD’s picture on the website and his name across from yours and assume the Taliban had shown up to get some payback for all the desert atrocities you pulled while you were in the shit? Or is it just that you didn’t want to admit you were the fourth best name on a team of five names that included both Rain and Peter Gilmour? Hmmm… I guess only time will tell, dude, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that whatever excuse you come up with is going to be as disappointing as the PTSD-laden two-pump hatefuck sessions you subject every crack whore between Saginaw and Grand Rapids every weekend. Lucky for the rest of your team, Thaddeus Duke was booked against them and apparently his dick is as small as yours. HOO-rah!”

“You know… the worst thing about me throwing my name into the fire here is that I’m almost guaranteed to end up on Team Deacon and be expected to have a good showing against Lux, probably the one and only son (daughter?) of a bitch on this entire card that can probably kick my ass. Who else is gonna do it? Blackwater? Bourbon? Somebody named Brian Storm that I got an EEOC credit on the XWF tax returns for hiring? Please. Lux versus Vinnie Lane should have been something we had the opportunity to promote and sell tickets for all on its own, but instead, IF it happens at all, we’re getting it as a last minute replacement job where a 40 year old out of shape desk jockey gets off the couch and has enough time to do exactly three pilates classes before being expected to carry his half of a five star performance against a reigning champion. Awesome.”

Slowly, Vinnie begins to walk in semi-circles around the front of his desk. He punctuates his statements with sudden, jarring hand motions that would make a semi-pro theater troupe leader proud.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and end up elsewhere, I guess. Maybe I’ll get tapped for Team Big D and get to slap the taste out of pissant Ned Kaye’s mouth personally after he insulted the fans of the XWF with his Millennial whining for a Universal Title match everyone knew he wasn’t ready for. I’d even get a chance to finally get a full straight line in Reservation Bingo by taking exactly two and a half minutes to wipe the floor with Luna Hightower. The only chance that team would have of coming out of War Games with a victory if I end up across the ring from them is if Mastermind has suddenly gotten ten times better than the last time I kicked his ass. Remember that, MM? When I was the center of your whole universe for like two weeks and every fiber of your being was directed at taking a secondary title off of my shoulder… and then you lost anyway? Good times. I’ll bring some raw meat for EDWARD. Problem solved.”

Finding himself behind his desk once more, Vinnie plops down into his chair and blows an exasperated raspberry of air through his lips as he settles into the expensive leather upholstering.

“Oh! You know, it might be more fun to actually JOIN Team Notorious and show that little punk how its done from his own fucking corner! Yeah, you know, the more I think of it, the more I think I like the idea of stepping between the ropes to even up my win-loss ratio against Gilly a little bit more. Yeah dude, everyone knows you scored a few upsets on yours truly when I had bigger and better things on my mind, but the only match anyone really cares about is when I embarrassed you on pay per view when you had the laughable gall to try and take away the Universal Title from me during the middle of the most talked-about reign in modern history. Good job going 1 out of 1,000 in Universal Championship matches, Pete. It’s definitely a record no one else will ever reach. BUT I DIGRESS… what else on team Big D could stop a combination of Loverboy Lane and… well, some other guys? Who? Rain? He’ll be so far up his own sister he won’t have time to do anything else. Lowercase d? Come on. Oh… oh wait, you think Sarah Lacklan can beat me? ME? Why? Because she won the King of the XWF tournament? Pfffft. I did that. Sort of. I’ve done EVERYTHING Sarah Lacklan has done, times ten. But… hmmm… you know what? Hold up.”

Vinnie leans forward in desk chair and presses the intercom button on his desktop phone. A mildly-

sounding Boston accent answers him.

“Yeah boss?”

“Barney, send Roxy Cotton into my office, please.”

“Hokay. Thanks for not firing me today.”

The speaker goes silent and Vinnie snickers, shaking his head.

“He says that to me every single day. Yes, that’s former big shot Barney Green and yes, just like everyone else in this company, he works for me. He’s another guy who thought he was bigger than the company, just like all you fuckers who couldn’t be arsed when it was time to earn the paychecks I spent all morning signing off on. Turns out the only thing that Barney Green was bigger than was his own body from the day before. Well, that and every adult male with a healthy BMI, but that’s not the point!”

Vinnie looks up then as his office door opens up. In walks his golden goddess, the walking centerfold herself, Roxy Cotton. Vinnie rises from his seat and meets Roxy at the side of his desk, planting a kiss on her cheek before sitting back down and patting his lap, inviting Roxy to hop on.

“Hi Vinnie! You asked for me, bb?”

“Sure did, babe. Come on, tell Santa what you want for Christmas.”

“Huh? I told you, I’m a Scientologist now.”

“Just… sit on my lap, babe.”

“Oh! Okay!”

Roxy slides onto the top of Vinnie’s thighs and Loverboy encircles her waist with his arms. Oddly enough, he finds a gleaming title belt there.

“Whoa, hey babe, what you got there, dude?”

“Oh this old thing?”

Roxy says demurely, lifting the gold up and onto the desk.

“This is the UGWC Cross… ugh. Cross-”Hemisphere” Championship. I won it from a title shot there after winning the Global Challenge a few months back. You remember, don’t you?”

“Oh, I totally do. Didn’t you have to beat Sarah in the finals?”

“Duh. That was the best part. She was SO mad!”

“Yeah… see everyone? Sarah Lacklan couldn’t even beat my girlfriend… what makes any of you think she could beat ME?”

“Hey!”

“Thanks babe. That’s all I needed. Can you go check on Atticus for me now? I’m supposed to make sure he remembers to take his pills every day.”

“I mean… whatever. Fine.”

Roxy stands up and smooths her tight minidress out with a cluck of her tongue and marches off after grabbing her title belt back off of the desk.

“I knew it was weird that you asked me to bring this today…”

“Thanks baaaaaabe! Looooove yoooooouuuu!”

“Whatever.”

Roxy exits the office, shutting the door a bit louder than needed. Vinnie focuses back on the camera lens and raises his eyebrows and shoulders in a shrug.

“See that? Duty comes first, folks. Here I am not only risking my health and physical well being, but also risking the mood of my fiance as well as basically flushing my chances of getting any action later tonight right down the same toilet that swallowed the inbred cocktail of sister-brother enzymes Rain spit out after felching his nut out of his own flesh and blood. I really just can’t get that whole debacle out of my mind and feel like none of you should get to go through a day without dealing with those mental images if I don’t get to.”

“The simple fact of the matter is this… you lazy fucks have ruined my weekend because now I have to do the job that none of you wannabes had the stones in your sack to do yourselves. As a result, SOMEBODY is going to have to take an ass kicking they weren’t ready for. And… last time I checked, my name isn’t just on the office door or the signature line of every single XWF paycheck, it’s also in the record books and the All-Time Top 50. So, the smart money is on my giving that ass kicking, not taking it. Sorry dudes… you brought this on yourselves! Maybe you kids will learn a lesson after daddy comes to handle business for himself. Doubt it though… lazy brats.”

“Loverboy” Vinnie Lane smiles from ear to ear and waves his hand outward like he’s trying to fan a draft away from his desk, which makes the cameraman step back and away as things all go black once more.

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