"Your spinal fusion is still intact, Mister Lane."
Vincent sits on an exam table in a doctor's office. A tissue-thin garment covers his body as he sits looking down at his bare feet swinging back and forth like a small child sitting in a big boy chair for the first time. His blonde hair cascades down over his face, obscuring it from vision, as h addresses the doctor.
"Great! So just give me the all clear so I can turn in the paperwork to HR. You know the drill."
The doctor breaths out loudly through his nose before replying.
"I'm not going to do that. Not this time."
"What the fuck?"
Vinnie hops off the exam table, the gust of air generated from his descent puffing open the loosely tied rear enclosure of his hospital gown, momentarily revealing the bright red set of lips tattooed on his buttock before settling back down.
"What do you mean? I need to turn in the proper paperwork in order to get this match cleared with the office. Insurance and liability reasons, you know that, dude!"
"Yes. Yes, I do know what... but I also know that not only do I have to protect my OWN liability concerns, Mister Lane, but I also took an oath to do no harm first. I told you over a year ago that you were done. That one more bad drop could leave you in a wheelchair. You didn't listen and you set yourself back months. You said yourself that you still haven't fully regain full function in your hand..."
"Dude whatever, it's just a little numb in my pinky finger, it's nothing..."
"And when you wanted to get in the ring last time? Didn't I tell you once again that it had to be the final time? No ifs ands or buts?"
"Yeah, but..."
"So what did you expect, Mister Lane? Did you think I was going to tell you your neck had magically healed? That your vertebrae had reconstructed themselves spontaneously since your last X-Ray? Did you think I was going to say you were a miracle case?"
"No, dude, just..."
"Then what? This is simple. If you get into that ring, if you land on your neck wrong even just ONE MORE TIME, not only might you do irreparable damage to your surgically repaired spine, but you might end up dying in the ring. Do you understand that? Do you fully grasp that you are a mortal human being? That just because you THINK you can will yourself into fighting through every obstacle, a broken neck is still a broken neck?"
"Dude, keep it down... my girl's right outside..."
"Exactly. Think about her. Think about how you hide from her the full severity of this. Think of your family. Don't you have a son?"
"Well. Daughter. He's... SHE'S... transitioning. With my full support, in case you were wondering, dude."
"Good. Now put yourself in that young woman's shoes and think about what it would be like for her to see her father die in a wrestling ring with the world watching."
"Come on! I'm not a cripple, dude! I can beat this guy!"
"THAT ISN'T THE POINT! Do you not understand this? It has nothing to do with whether or not you can win a match. This is a simple equation. You have nothing to gain, and absolutely everything to lose. EVERYthing. And the people you love the most will lose it as well. Is that what you want?"
Vinnie stands there, clenching and unclenching his left hand – the one with the numb little finger, which noticeably moves just a little bit slower than the others. He thinks for long, heavy moments before replying.
"What I want is to live my life, dude. My way. And this is the only thing that has ever been completely mine. When I left home back in New York, my parents told me I couldn't do it... but I did it. They were wrong, not me. And they died proud of me. They died knowing their son had become something great. A MEGAstar. Roxy knows the same thing. She tells me all the time that I'm her hero. There's no way I'm backing down now. There's no way I'm quitting just because the odds are tough. Same with my daughter Bobbi. She's been through so damn much, dude, her mother let her down her whole life. I'm not doing that. I'm going out there, I'm getting in the ring, and I'm WINNING. For them, and for me. You've been my doctor for years, and I know you've seen me take the worst beatings a man can possibly take... but I never once stayed down, did I?"
"No."
The doctor says quietly, resigned. The argument has already been lost.
"No. Never. And it isn't starting now. So you can either put pen to paper and give me what I need, or I can walk out that door and find someone who will. Your call."
Another pregnant pause passes between the two men.
"I'm sorry. I can't."
Vinnie's mouth thins into a straight line, and he nods in disappointed acceptance.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Doctor. But I can."
Lane extends his hand out for the doctor to shake.
"But hey... it was nice knowing you."
"James Raven."
The gym is sparse. More like a garage. The tiny ring looks like it's spent more time in storage than having been used, and the stains on the canvas paint a portrait of a dozen years' worth of spit and blood. Vinnie Lane follows his voice into the scene, stepping between the sagging ropes and plopping down on a wooden stool he's carried in with him. A plain par of gym shorts and a spaghetti strapped workout tank on his body. No glitter, no shine, no bright lights. Well, a pair of decidedly expensive and definitely custom hot pink Jordans on his feet... but you have to spend your money somewhere.
"Let's get the low hanging fruit out of the way, because I'm rusty but gay jokes are always funny. Plus, the lower the fruit hangs, the more likely Raven is to put it in his mouth a tongue buff it like John Turturro in Kingpin."
"Ugh."
A slender Latino man enters into frame, carrying a roll of white athletic tape and shaking his head at the predictability and juvenility of Vinnie's opening salvo.
"Told you, I'm rusty. But what am I supposed to say about a guy who spends 23 out of every 24 hours with another man, then has the audacity to call that same obvious domestic partnership a 'Tribe?' The Village People weren't a tribe just because they had a guy dressed as an Indian, they were just talented gay men. Same as Raven and Collins. A Tribe Called Queer."
"Just... no, just stop."
"Fine. You're right. That's dumb. It's dumb and expected and uninspired. I've had to watch a lot of Peter Gilmour promos over the last year or so, cut me some slack. How about instead... we just lay the truth out bare and let it dry up in the sun? Let's talk about James Raven, but let's talk about the real James Raven instead of making a bunch of middle school jokes. But just this once."
The trainer finishes tightening the athletic tape around Vinnie's left hand and wrist, slapping it down on the knuckles. He pulls of a new strip with a stretching, ripping sound and moves to the right.
"Let's talk about who James Raven is. Actually, you know what, why don't we start off at the beginning and talk about who James Raven WAS. I think that really accentuates what he's become. James Raven was a child prodigy. James Raven was a savant. He was like the Bobby Fisher of the wrestling world, complete with the embarrassing haircut. James Raven shot out of his mother's uterus with so much god-given talent for fighting and athleticism that the rest of us were left standing around slack jawed and jealous while he did moonsaults and planchas off of the monkey bars in kindergarten or some shit. James Raven has the genetic makeup of all three medal winners on any given Olympic podium. Honestly, it's like his got a train run on her by an entire Hall of Fame. Who knows? Maybe she did? It's that ridiculous. Raven was 17 and a world champion. When I was 17 I was bow legged and 165 pounds, tripping over my own dick every time I tried to throw a hiptoss. I was just starting my journey as a pro at that age, and he was toting gold around in his senior year while everyone around him was trying to get their dick wet after prom."
Vinnie winces as the trainer yanks the tape on his wrist, visibly blueing the skin on the back of his hand.
"Too tight?"
"Yeah, yeah for sure dude, loosen it a bit."
The trainer then reverses, unravelling some of the tape a bit before starting to wrap it back around Vinnie's swollen and misshapen fingers. Vinnie flexes the digits and stretches them, looking down at them as he fans them apart and then squeezes them back into a balled fist.
"Unlike James Raven, the rest of us had to work. I had to put in countless hours in a ring to be able to what James Raven could do before he was old enough to drive. But, eventually, I got there. And the difference between us now, other than a decade's worth of beatings, is that although we can both perform at the highest of high levels, James Raven has never learned how to have to try. See... when I got started, when I hopped on a ten dollar Greyhound to Tampa from suburban Long Island chasing after a fantasy no one thought I'd ever actually catch up with, I got started from the absolute bottom. I was a joke. I was greener than grass and my body was less physically intimidating than the actual ropes themselves. I went 18 months without going over once, you know that? I was a comedy act in gyms throughout central Florida. An intermission for the fifteen people in whatever local gym we were visiting to go take a piss and buy a hot dog. I didn't even have a finisher until two years into the business. Why would I? It wasn't like I was going to hit it. But I worked. I learned what hurt the most by taking it on the chin and then giving it right back. Slowly but surely I stopped being the comic relief and started getting a few Ws here and there. I made my own merch at a flea market screen printing shop and started to get cool with the regular fans. They started cheering for me, then chanting for me. The bookers noticed. They put me further and further up the card until I was on top of it. I was on the flyers and the posters and then on the marquee outside the building. And soon enough? I was too big for that building. Then I was too big for the next building. Then my phone was ringing to go on tour. You get what I'm saying, dude, I'm not trying to puff my chest and tell you how great I became, that's plain enough to see. I'm sitting at the highest of the highs, pulling the puppet strings for all the ones who came after me and getting to watch the next wave of piss-break wrestlers pull themselves up by their singlets and make something of themselves. It's the greatest feeling in the world, and I wouldn't have ever gotten here if I hadn't worked myself half to death to do it. Because I'm not James Raven."
The trainer rises and steps back as Vinnie stands from his stool. He looks at the tape now coating his knuckles and then in succession slams each fist into the opposite palm with loud smacking noises reverberating through the dark gym after each impact.
"You see, James Raven skipped all that. He's won, what, a hundred matches in XWF alone? More? He's never been anything other than top five since the day he inked his contract. Either of his contracts, really, because let's be honest – if he wanted the Universal Title as soon as he answered the phone when I called him, he most likely could have taken it. He's never had to be bad. He's never had to fight his way out from underneath. He's never been an underdog, not once, for as long as he's lived. When was the last time somebody bet against James Raven? He hasn't taken a real L outside of a divorce courtroom in over ten years. That's why I brought him back from the dead the way I did in the first place. I wanted a game changer. I NEEDED a legend. I put everything on the line in order to bring in the great James Raven, and what did I get for it? I lost everything. I lost the one real power I had in my long-standing rivalry with Theo Pryce and his Kings... I had to share control of the XWF. And why? Because when it came right down to it, the great and mighty James Raven didn't care enough about the XWF to protect it, and he let it fall into the wrong hands. I have to tell you, dude... I was disappointed."
The trainer reappears, this time dangling a pair of low-weight sparring gloves on one forearm. Vinnie holds his two fists out in front of him, and the trainer then opens the velcro of one glove and begins to slide it over Vinnie's right hand.
"The first time I saw Raven wrestle, I was gobsmacked. I was down in Florida still, killing myself in the midcard after ten years of training and scraping myself off the floor six nights a week. I used to watch all the XWF I could find online back then. Here was this kid, probably a dozen years younger than me, carrying the big gold and making it looked like he owned the place. He made it look EFFORTLESS. He was more than a wrestler in the XWF, more than its champion... James Raven WAS XWF. And then, just like that, he wasn't. He was off doing his own thing, turning his back on the place that made him the superstar he'd become. Remember, he didn't have to work hard. He just needed a place willing to show him off to the rest of the world. That's what XWF did for him back then. That's what he walked away from. What he tried to bring down somewhere else. It didn't work, obviously, and the XWF continued on, though it was less of a powerhouse than it had been with Raven in the driver's seat. The schism he oversaw put a lot of cracks in the world of wrestling, and a lot of those wounds have yet to heal. Do you think James Raven looked over his shoulder as he was walking away and thought to himself, hey, maybe I should give a little something back to the company that was willing to make me the star that I am today? Do you think he considered for even a single moment that if he was able to, he should help bring the XWF back to the heights it had seen just a short time before? No. What did James Raven do when he realized he could destroy the XWF itself from the outside as easily as he had dominated it from within? He went home.
That's right. The face of the company. The greatest pure athlete the XWF had ever seen to that point, and arguably since. The man who immediately came to mind to most fans as soon as the letters XWF were spoken... took his ball and left because he was mad. Raven went back to his nest and spent his retired life talking to other former XWF greats. He kept the same crowd he always had. Stayed with the people who were more than happy to keep putting him over for the rest of his life. Surrounded himself with comfort and familiarity and shielded himself from the new and constantly evolving XWF. Even now, after I revived his entire career, has he embraced the place he once called home? Does he spend his time with current top stars like Jim Caedus or Chris Chaos or Robert Main? Does he use his wisdom and experience to help shape careers and improve the business as a whole? Ha. Good one. James Raven spends his days telling Blizzard Collins how pretty he is, just like he always has. Why? Because James Raven spent the last ten years of his life so bitter, so angry, so butthurt over the perceived injustices of the XWF, again, the very place that gave Raven every dollar he's ever had to spend, that he couldn't see it as anything other than the boogeyman under his bed every night. The monster in the closet. Raven and his buddies circle jerked themselves so hard over how much better they all were than the XWF, never once considering the irony of them all sitting there reassuring themselves of that fact while unemployed, while the XWF continued to grow and to thrive. Instead of being therefore his fans, instead of helping the company that made him into a superstar, James Raven sat at home and ate his own heart out of his chest because he was addicted to the bitter taste. Self-pity and woe is me became his drugs of choice, and the world went on without him. As did the XWF."
Satisfied with the snugness of Vinnie's right glove, the trainer moves to his left and repeats the process. Fluffing the padding, stretching the thumb, widening the opening for Vinnie's taped hand to barely squeeze inside of.
"Well while James Raven was at home crying, Vinnie Lane was arriving and climbing the ladder. It's funny to think back on, dude, because the very first guy to pin me in the XWF was none other than Raven's very own husband, Aidan Collins. It was a house show somewhere, it doesn't really matter where. I was a month into my run and was already holding all three Trios Titles on my own. Blizzard was the better man that night, but not by much, and coincidentally the third man in that match looked an awful lot like you, James. He was a little shorter. The Loverboy of 2014 would have considered it a god damn honor to revisit that match with Collins and get a chance to even the score, but something kind of familiar in retrospect occurred that kept that from happening. It turns out that apparently Shane and the XWF brass at the time didn't bust out the knee pads and roll out the red carpet quite enough for Blizz's liking, and rather than stick around to prove that what he was saying was true, that he was the cream of the XWF crop, he cashed in his chips and went the fuck home. Didn't you tell me he was your mentor, James? It all makes sense now. Don't worry, barely losing to Blizzard on the house show circuit didn't exactly derail my XWF career. Turns out, while Raven was pouting in the corner and I was working every day of my life to get better, I managed to get to the same places he did. I won the Universal Title, just like he did. I made it onto the Top 50, just like he did. I even eventually took over the business and solidified myself as one of the best of all time, both inside and out of the ring. Sound familiar?"
The glove tightened on Vinnie's left hand, the trainer backs up a step once more. Vinnie hops in place a little, popping the gloves against each other, getting a feel for them. When the trainer steps back into view, he holds a sparring helmet. Vinnie just shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
"Come on, dude. I need to take a few knocks if I'm getting back into a wrestling ring. Just get me my mouth guard. These veneers were expensive as shit."
The trainer retreats again as Vinnie shadowboxes lazily in his corner, showing some of the quickness that took him to the top of the mountain.
"James, it took me a lot longer to get there than it took you. Shit, you were done and gone by the age I was hitting my stride. You're STILL younger than I was when I first got to the XWF. I just turned 40 less than a week ago, and I feel every one of the bumps I took in my career. The cages. The chairs. The tables. The glass. Every Getaway Driver, Disaster Drop, Robbiebomb, Scullanator, and Ice Pick I've ever taken... they start to catch up to you. I gave my youth to this sport, to the tune of twenty-plus years. I gave my neck to this company in return for metal screws and fused bone. The doctor told me I was crazy to keep going, and I did. He told me I was suicidal to come out of retirement last time, and I did. This time, he told me I was suicidal. So I guess you've got the opportunity to send me full circle, James. The very first time I turned on an XWF program, your face was on it. The very first time I found myself pinned to an XWF mat, your face was next to mine. Now, you might get to be there at the end. Because god damn it, James, I've already given this everything else I've ever had... if it takes giving my life to beat you, to put the past in the past and finally get you to accept what this company means and meant to you before, then I guess that's just what I'll have to do. But I've gotta warn you, dude... in two decades of practice, I've gotten REALLY good at getting back up to you level in a short amount of time. So you might want to cross your fingers and hope I run into a setback. You ready?"
Vinnie says the last part looking off screen, somewhere behind the camera. He smiles and then opens his mouth wide, allowing the trainer to insert a bright pink mouth guard in. Vinnie nods, then makes a 'come here' gesture with his gloves and steps forward into the center of the ring... where he gets immediately dropped by a straight right hand in a blue glove.
"Fughck..."
Vinnie manages to barely enunciate while spitting the mouthpiece out, now glazed with spit and blood. He sits on his rump and looks dazed, shaking off the solid right hand and looking up at the source of the onslaught. An old friend in blue boxing trunks matching his gloves, the word BRAUN in white lettering running down each leg.
Vinnie spits out a thick cord of mucousy blood onto the mat, then reaches a gloved hand up to the outstretched one from his friend and training partner.
"God damn, Alex... what was that for?"
Alex Braun, with what could almost be confused for a smile by anyone who'd never met him, snarls a reply from around his blue mouth guard.
"That was for making me meet you in this shit ass neighborhood, and then being 45 minutes late. Also because you look like you needed a stiff one to the jaw."
"I already took care of all the gay jokes, dude..."
"I meant the punch, numbnuts. Need to get you toughened up if this guy is as good as you said he is."
"He is."
"Well then... let's stop fucking around."
Braun helps Vinnie back to his feet, then immediately lays into him with shots to the body until Vinnie covers up. The two spar around the ring as the scene fades away.
Later. Much later. Vinnie Lane arrives home to his palatial Malibu estate, the Pink Palisades, after hours working on technique in his training session with 'The Iceman' Alex Braun. He walks through the foyer and crosses through the living room without bothering to switch on a light. Finding his way to the staircase from memory alone, he ascends to the second floor and heads for the bedroom.
Once there, Vinnie quietly enters the boudoir, careful not to let the door squeak too much upon entry. In the bed, nestled within a swirling bundle of satin sheets, is the nude form of Vinnie's fiancee, his partner in life as well as business, the bombshell Roxy Cotton.
Vinnie sits on the edge of the bed delicately, aiming to not move the mattress too drastically and wake his sleeping beauty. Successful, he sits and looks down upon her golden shoulder as the sheets around her chest rise and fall in slow, rhythmic pulses. With one hand, he slowly runs his palm across her skin, to her face, and then strokes the loose strands of her flaxen hair between his thumb and forefinger, smiling down upon her as she sleeps.
"Rox... I know you're going to be angry with me..."
He speaks quietly, a whisper in a confessional, not wanting to wake his beloved from the bliss of her ignorant sleep. Unaware of the admission from her paramour, she shifts within the sheets and unconsciously grins, pressing her face against her lover's hand.
"Just know that it's all for you. Everything. Everything has always been for you. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew I was in your debt. I knew I'd spend the rest of my living days earning the love and the passion and the amazing angelic grace that you've brought into my life. Before I met you, I was just a guy in a pair of tights in a wrestling ring. A face in a crowd. But you... you're the reason I'm a megastar. You're the reason I was ever a champion. My muse. My motivation. I promised you years ago that I would always, always, ALWAYS give you the best version of me that I had to give... and I've got to give it my all one more time in order to really feel like I've lived up to that promise. The doctor says I shouldn't... but I have to, babe. For you. For everything I owe you."
Vinnie stops stroking Roxy's hair, then leans forward and kisses her long and lingering on her bronzed forehead. When he finally pulls away from her, his eyes are brimming with wetness.
"I just... I just wish there was some way to ensure I'd make it back to you. Something I could do to guarantee that these next few nights before I leave again for Egypt won't be the last that we have together. I'd give anything to make that happen. Anything."
Vinnie sits there in the dark, looking down at the woman of his dreams in silence. And then...
"Did you say... ANYthing, Mister Loverboy?"
A momentary flash of orange illuminates the room, like the tongue of a flame. Vinnie Lane is on his feet in a heartbeat, placing himself between his still sleeping lover and the new threat.
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The following 9 users Like Vincent Lane's post:![[Image: pwckJcA.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/pwckJcA.gif)
and the XWF brass at the time didn't bust out the knee pads and roll out the red carpet quite enough for Blizz's liking, and rather than stick around to prove that what he was saying was true, that he was the cream of the XWF crop, he cashed in his chips and went the fuck home. Didn't you tell me he was your mentor, James? It all makes sense now. Don't worry, barely losing to Blizzard on the house show circuit didn't exactly derail my XWF career. Turns out, while Raven was pouting in the corner and I was working every day of my life to get better, I managed to get to the same places he did. I won the Universal Title, just like he did. I made it onto the Top 50, just like he did. I even eventually took over the business and solidified myself as one of the best of all time, both inside and out of the ring. Sound familiar?" ![[Image: Gz87KnQ.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/Gz87KnQ.jpg)
