07-31-2015, 08:44 PM
Next verse, same as the first. -->
“Dude, you mean to tell me that YOU were the Federweight Champion?”
The incredulity is palpable in “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane’s voice as he looks at Roxy with a shocked expression. The hot pink convertible whips around a PCH mountainside corner at reckless speed, creating flames of peroxide-blond hair to billow out behind the pair as they cruise the LA landscape.
“Yep! Just for a few days though, then John Samuels decided he wanted to be the only female champion in the XWF and he took it from me.”
“Fuckin’ Samuels. For a guy who’s retired he sure pops up a lot, man. Place needs a vaccination against that kind of guy.”
“Vinnie! You know how I feel about vaccines!”
“Right, right… heavy metals causing autism, I forgot. Probably because it’s fucking .”
“Vinnie!”
“Shit, my bad baby. I didn’t mean to say that out loud… it’s just the coma talking, you know how much I respect you and all your kooky causes.”
“Kooky?”
“Whatever. What else did I miss? Gimme the scoop, dude!”
Roxy maintains a serious level of side-eye on Loverboy, completely nonplussed with his opinions. Quickly, though, another twisting mountain turn snaps her attention back to the road and seemingly reboots her mindset.
“Oh! I had a for real match, too!”
“Like… a wrestling match?”
“Yeah! Against Nico Lavey!”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter, he’s probably already quit.”
“But baby… you can’t fight! You’re a girl!”
“Vinnie, don’t be stupid. Girls can fight. You lost the Hart Title to a girl. Ronda Rousey is a girl.”
“I’m not so sure about either one of them, man. I felt a little something extra when I picked that ginger up for a body slam, you know what I’m saying?”
“I’ve seen her naked, Vinnie, we were in the locker room showers at the same time. She doesn’t have a dick.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it, I guess.”
“Uh huh…”
The road straightens out as the pair of newly reunited lovers descend back near sea level. The Pacific Ocean laps at the crags of the California shoreline as the car’s powerful engine growls to the tune of 500 horsepower.
Loverboy begins patting down the side of his American flag patterned Zubaz pants and digging through the glove box of the car. Seeming flustered, he then turns his attention to Roxy’s tiny purse.
“Hey! Vinnie what are you doing?”
“Dude how do you fit so much shit in here? Is this a fucking secret entrance into Narnia?”
“Get out of my purse!”
“I just want a fuckin’ cigarette, god damn. I haven’t had a puff in a month, dude!”
Roxy’s face turns quizzical, looking more confused than Gator when he’s trying to find the piss hole on his pajamas. She turns to Loverboy and stares silently at him as the car rolls to a stop at a red light.
Feeling the weight of his fiancee’s gaze, Loverboy stops scrounging through her purse and tossing crumpled tissues and Kotex singles all over the floorboards.
“What, man? You’re giving me some serious stink-eye right now, dude.”
“Vinnie… you have never smoked a cigarette in your life. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What? Come on Roxy, don’t be dumb. Did you inhale while you were getting spray tanned again?”
“Why are you being such a dickhead right now, Vinnie? I’ve been barely holding myself together the entire time you’ve been in this fucking coma, and you’re gonna wake up and just start spewing macho bullshit at me like you’re some sort of walking, breathing Ed Hardy shirt? You don’t smoke, asshole, but there are a couple of cloves in the side pocket of the purse. Keep digging, you’ll find them.”
Loverboy goes back to the purse like a pig rutting for truffles, eventually finding a mostly crumpled pack of Djarum Blacks.
“Sorry baby. You’re right. It’s just the coma, man. I’m still feeling a little weird is all.”
Loverboy pops one of the two remaining cloves into his mouth, dangling it from his lip while he continues to rummage. Finally, he throws his hands up in the air and shouts loudly, surprising pedestrians on the street.
“FUCK man! Can a god damn megastar get a light or what?”
Quickly, a hot little number jogs over from the corner and sticks a Bic out to Loverboy, flicking the flame on expertly with a black polished thumb. As the light finally switches to green, Loverboy hands the lighter back to the young strumpet and manages a quick slap to her ass as Roxy leans on the gas, clearly displeased.
“Damn dude, you trying to put me back in the hospital? You almost gave me whiplash the way you shot off from that intersection!”
“Yeah, I’ll put you back in the hospital for sure if you keep eye-fucking every piece of ass you see. Probably gave yourself whiplash trying to memorize that slut’s tits.”
“Baby come on. She’s AT BEST a single D. A solid eight out of ten, but I’m sitting next to a solid eleven. Why would I stare at another chick, even if she does have a really cut freckle right on the inside of her left boob?”
“Yeah, you totally weren’t looking.”
“Exactly! See? I’m glad we worked that out, man.”
Loverboy puffs on his smoke, then pulls out his cell phone and starts swiping across the screen with his free hand. After a few moments, wherein he casually ashes the cherry of the clove off into Roxy’s purse while she’s looking away, Loverboy sits upright in his seat and sticks the phone right in Roxy’s face, nearly causing an accident as she stomps her stiletto heel down onto the brake and the tires squeal to a stop just centimeters from the back bumper of a plumbing van.
“Roxy! Holy shit! Did you see this?”
“What? Jesus fucking CHRIST Vinnie are you trying to kill us?”
“Who cares? Look at the god damn screen!”
Loverboy shoves the phone closer, practically pressing the glass against her large sunglasses. He points excitedly at the image on the phone’s screen, giggling like a toddler after a fart joke.
There, on the main page of the XWF mobile website, is a familiar bald-headed face gleaming with a sadistic smile from behind a crimson mask of blood. Loverboy continues to look happier than an old man with a full bottle of Viagra.
“Who is that ugly son of a bitch?”
Roxy, clearly disgusted, shoves the phone away brusquely with the back of her hand as the traffic begins to creep forward.
“Who is this? Who is THIS? Roxy, dude, come on… that is none other than the man, the myth, the legend… Darren motherfucking Dangerous. He’s only one of the most talked about XWF wrestlers of all time, man, how can you not know who he is?”
“He looks like a lunch lady.”
“You’re such a bitch sometimes. I’m calling Gator, he’s got to hear about this.”
“Uh… I don’t think you can call Gator.”
“What? Why not, dude? Did he run out of minutes or some shit?”
“No… Vinnie, I told you. You have a match against him and Doc D’Ville! You can’t just call him up and be all buddy-buddy with him right now. You have to stay focused!”
“What are you talking about, dude? Gator’s my bro! It doesn’t matter if we have a match, man, we’ll always be tight. You sound so jealous and petty right now. Are you on your period?”
Roxy slams the car to a halt right in the middle of the street as cars behind them screech their brakes and lay on their horns.
“Okay Vinnie, you think he’s your buddy? Find his promo. Here, take my earbuds and listen to the shit he said to you while you were still lying unconscious on a hospitable bed and pissing into a plastic bag. We can sit here until you’re done and then you can call him and tell him that his fat boyfriend is back in the XWF. Deal?”
Loverboy just smirks his cocksure smirk and takes the bright purple butterfly-shaped earbuds and jams them into his ears. He finds the Gator promo and then leans back in his seat, plopping his bare feet out over the rear view mirror of the car and folding his arms behind his head.
“Sure man, whatever you say, Rox. I’ll try not to make fun of you too hard when I prove you wrong, okay babe? I know it’s tough for you when it’s that time of the month. Quick reminder though, babe, for when we get back home… you’ve got a couple other holes, you know?”
“Shut up and listen.”
Loverboy smiles and flips down the aviator shades from his forehead, then presses play on the promo, wiggling his bare toes in the afternoon air.
Slowly but surely, the smile starts to melt away from Loverboy’s face as the screen of his phone shows an excited Gator dancing around in his trademark red underoos like some sort of Teletubby cosplayer.
Finally, after listening for a few minutes, Loverboy sits straight up and pulls the earbuds from his ears, his face red with anger.
“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, huh? Well, I guess I know what I’m doing once we get home. Sorry baby, your perfect pink is gonna have to wait a little while longer to get the loving it deserves.”
“I’m sure I’ll live.”
The scene fades away as a CHiPs officer rolls up to Roxy at the driver’s side, gesturing at the long trail of traffic building up behind them all.
“Gator are you fucking kidding me right now, dude?
This is how you treat your buddy after he comes out of a fucking coma? This is the way you come back after taking a half-ass vacation because your neck was a little sore? Dude, I’ve been trying to get your shit selling at the merch booths for you while you were at home with your two fleshlights, Todd and Better Todd, but I can’t make people buy shit they don’t want, man. So my bad if your royalties were getting a little dry, but the fans want what they want, dude. Supply and demand. That’s why there’s Loverboy posters, Loverboy wristbands, Loverboy beer cozies, Loverboy calendars, and, like, seven different Loverboy shirts at every vendor stall in every arena, man. Not my fault the official puka shell necklaces with little Gator faces painted on them were a bust, dude. Get some better branding, don’t blame the guy doing it right.
I shouldn’t be surprised that you tried to renege on the way we bonded since our days in Japan. Yeah, sure, you thought I was some scrappy little curtain jerker the whole time, right? Of course you did. Makes you look cooler to say that, doesn’t it? That’s all that ever mattered to Gator anyway. Looking cool. Man, if you could just BE cool you wouldn’t have to try and ACT cool, you know what I’m saying, man? Quit putting up a front and just be your lame-ass pouty bitch self instead of trying to act like nothing ever ruffles your feathers. Face it, you got put in a funk because you fucking lost a match. You don’t feel like you can call yourself a former Universal Champ because you barely got a minute to even hold the belt, dude, much less relish the victory. See dude, unlike you, when I walk into a match and win a title, I walk out WITH that title. Very few times has that not come to pass in XWF history dude… so congrats on tying John Samuels for being the least significant Uni Champ ever, I guess.
Now you want to roll back in here and act like you own the place. Dude. Seriously. Frodo’s had more matches than you this year, and he fucking quit. You’ve done less work than John Black. You think you have any business challenging the guy who took your title and then beat you to retain it? You think you deserve a shot against ME even? I’ve been a champion more recently than you have, man, and if I hadn’t felt sorry for the little Ginger chick for being born premature I’d still have my belt to rub in your fucking face. What’ve you got again? Five seconds as the top gun and a record-winning owner of a belt nobody remembers? Yeah, you definitely should be in there main eventing the biggest show of the year, sure.
I can’t fucking believe you’d seriously try to come after me for my promos being uninteresting. Dude, this isn’t drama class, man! Just because you watched a few YouTube vids and learned how to add a Microsoft Office wipe effect onto the end of your lazy vignettes doesn’t mean you’re gonna be winning any daytime Emmy’s, pal. Unless it’s the award for ‘guy who looks like he loves his dog a LITTLE too much.’
Hey, speaking of your pets, you never even paid me back for that couch your hair trigger cameraman ruined when he popped off in his jockey shorts while I was babysitting him. You know I don’t put my megastar ass in some cheap IKEA bullshit, either dude… that couch was Italian leather and expensive as fuck! Now it’s got a white shadow on the cushion from that ice cream sandwich loving weirdo making cum angels with his fat ass.
Sup Todd.
Anyway, dude, look, I’d love to sit here and refute every stupid thing you tried to set to your cheap laugh track, but I’ve got actual shit to do that doesn’t involve dressing up like a bum on Hollywood Boulevard and offering five dollar pictures so I can buy my pocket pussy back from the pawn shop, you know? Like training to win a match? I know this might be a foreign concept to a dude who’d rather sit in on a beginner’s yoga class and sneak pics of camel toes, but working out definitely involves more than falling asleep while lying on top of an exercise ball and calling it aerobics.
Listen up, Gator. I know you have a lot of lying to yourself to do in order to pump your anxiety levels down low enough that your shitty heart won’t just pop like the condom your father wishes he hadn’t left in the hot car for week, but if I were you I’d start listening to that little voice in the back of your head. Not the one that told you that puttering by on your little gay scooter was a good segue for cinematic experiences, no, the other one. The one that’s just you, hiding behind the mask and the bravado and the nom the plume. That little, annoyingly British, voice that’s telling you what you obviously already know, dude. You can’t do it. You’re done. Call it a career. Don’t be Muhammad Ali drooling on his opponents before getting knocked onto his overweight ass in the 1980’s. Go out with a little bit of pride. Burn out, dude, don’t fade away. I’m saying this as a friend – you suck now.
Think about it… once Scarlett gets knocked up by someone else and convinces you it’s yours, do you want that kid growing up and being able to find videos of his ‘dad’ getting embarrassed because he tried to hang on for too long? Way after his body and his brain tried to tell him he should hang up the red thermal underwear and go home to milk goats or whatever the fuck English people do once they’re done failing at their first job? No, of course not. You want that kid to be able to see you in your prime, man. So, basically that stretch of matches where you kept beating Knight. You want that kid to be able to see you on TV and say, “Wow, that’s my dad! He’s an awesome wrestler! But why is he white when I’m black?”
Take a look around here, man. Look at all the fresh talent coming into the XWF right now. Robbie Bourbon, Ginger Snaps, Trax, Darren by-fucking-christ Dangerous… you think someone like you should be leading them on to the most prolific period in their careers? You think YOU should be the one they look up to as their champion? Are you serious right now? These dudes need a champ that is going to last more than a night. They need a champ who can shoulder the weight of the entire federation on his ripped-as-fuck shoulders and carry them to new heights. They need a champ who can sell a fucking t-shirt.
In two days, I’m going to be that man. I’m going to forever be known as the valiant hero who vanquished the evil Doctor D’Ville and ushered in a new era to the XWF. And after Sunday? I’m going to lead the charge of the new XWF and wash the taste right out of everybody’s mouth from the old version. The status quo. I’ll make them forget the record-long reign of Doc’s by eclipsing it with my own, and in the process your little cup of coffee with the belt will get forgotten in a heartbeat. You know, almost as long as your championship tenure.
Face it. “Gator” is the ghost of XWF Past. I’m the present and the foreseeable future, and it’s time to ring in the new year, baby. Let the sun set on the stagnant stalwarts and let a REAL champion, a guy who the people want to see more and more of like me, and who doesn’t have a surgically repaired stack of dimes for a neck like you, have his time in the spotlight.
Next verse, same as the first. -->
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