((As a scene opens up on camera, we hear the familiar disembodied voice of the man who is quickly, and unfortunately, becoming "Loverboy" Vinnie Lane's go-to favorite for on air discourse.))

Voice: So, I'm trying to have a quick lunch when I get a text message from new XWF talent and self-titled 'megastar' "Loverboy" Vinnie Lane. Well, two texts really. The first told me to meet him in someone else's dressing room bathroom, which is pretty terrible, and the second was just a picture of some naked blonde chick, which was actually kind of cool of him.

((The camera work gets shaky as our voice takes us up a flight of stairs and then into a hallway lined with dressing room doors.))

Voice: I guess it's a nice little peek behind the scenes for XWF fans who might be curious to what life is like on the road to various arenas across the country, but the last time someone asked me to meet them in a strange bathroom I woke up with a rash and a criminal record.

((After walking past a few doors, the camera view stops and a cell phone screen pops into the bottom of the view showing a very nude, very unconscious blonde splayed across the screen.))

Voice: Oops!

((A thumb swipes the image away, and the screen shows some blurred text.))

Voice: Ah, good, here we are, this is the right room.

((Turning to the left, a hand reaches out and pushes the door to the dressing room open. Inside is a sparse room with nothing much more than a bench, locker area and small dressing table.))

Voice: Mister Lane? I got your text, are you in here?

Loverboy: For sure, man. Come on in to the john.

Voice: Ugh.

((The camera then pans to right side of the room and through an open doorway into a tiled bathroom. Passing the shower stall and a pair of urinals filled with stagnant, yellow water, the camera finally stops in front of the sinks, looking into the oxidized mirrors behind them. We finally see the poor face behind the voice: a pudgy, balding guy in an XWF Crew t-shirt as he frowns in front of a row of toilet stalls scribbled with random graffiti.))

Voice: Where are you, Mister Lane?

((Suddenly, one of the stall doors in the mirror image swings open to reveal "Loverboy" Vinnie Lane, pants around his ankles and with a two month old Rolling Stone magazine barely concealing his nether regions, perched on top of the tank of the toilet inside with his sandal-clad feet tapping on top of the lid of the seat. As usual, a ridiculous grin is spread across his ruggedly handsome face. The camera view spins around suddenly to face him.))

Voice: Whoa! What the hell are you doing? And... JESUS, that smells terrible!

Loverboy: Yeah, man, me and the boys had Indian food last night. Curry tastes great but it gives me some pretty bad grease shits.

Voice: Oh, God...

Loverboy: But yeah, man, I was having a blast with the band and our roadies, Derrick the Pill Shovel and Itchy. You know them?

Voice: Itchy?

Loverboy: Yeah, he rescues all these stray cats all the time and gets scabies a lot.

Voice: That's... oh man...

Loverboy: So anyway, we're sitting around and having a good time burning through some of this sweet WWX signing bonus, and Derrick -

Voice: The... pill shovel?

Voice: YEAH! You DO know him!

Voice: NO! Not at all.

Loverboy: Well, if you want any knock-off Xanax, he's the guy to talk to. Anyway, we're relaxing and eating some curry and butter chicken, and they all start ribbing me about not having a match booked yet. They keep busting my chops about all these other new guys, like Aaron Reign and Socrates, getting more TV time than me. I'm like, yeah, of course they're on TV, they walked in the door and just started trash talking everyone!

Voice: Just a second... are you sure you're okay? That smell...

Loverboy: I know. I know. I'm good though, promise. Just a little mud butt.

Voice: I think I'm going to be sick...

Loverboy: Look, stay with me, I'm gonna keep it short.

((Loverboy's face momentarily twists into a grimace just as a loud splashing noise comes from beneath him.))

Loverboy: Aw, yeah, that's the big one. What I needed you here for was to document this challenge I'm laying down here. This isn't just a regular old upper decking of a toilet. This is a message, filled with Bengali herbs and spices. I don't know who's rooming with who in this arena, and I don't care. It can be anyone - Dawson, Leteri, Gilmour, Gator, Smackins... I don't care if it's the champ Morbid Angel himself. Whoever comes to use this can and flushes himself a tidal wave of Indian food shit can consider himself challenged. I'm here to make a statement.

Voice: With your ass?

Loverboy: Yeah. With my ass. Then my fists. Now get out of here, I gotta stand up and wipe, and I don't want to make you suicidally envious of my whammy bar.

Voice: You don't have to tell me twice...

((The camera view swings toward the door again and fades to black as Loverboy calls out in the background.))

Loverboy: Oh, dude, there's so much in here... this is going to be EPIC.