Loverboy bridges out of the pin attempt, kicking out, and smirks while flattening his beer soaked hair down on his head again.



Nice to meet you, Mister Muddy, dude!

I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced – I’m “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane. I’m a multiple time champion, the shoo-in for Star of the Month, the representative of the Madness brand and the reigning number one contender to the Universal Championship. You’ve probably seen me winning matches while you were on the bench, or on the X-Tron while you were selling corndogs in the bleachers.

On a more personal level, I’m the dude your sister wishes was fucking her while your inbred ass is trying to find the right hole to get up in them guts by. As if the world needs any more slack-jawed rednecks with extra chromosomes running around in it.

Now dude, I know you have an Alabama education, which is basically the equivalent of learning about electricity by sticking your dick in a power outlet – do you even get electricity in your single-wide? But calling me a and then telling me you like the way my ass looks at the same time doesn’t really make a lot of sense.

For that matter, neither does insulting my Federweight title by calling it beneath me while simultaneously trying to win it for yourself. I mean, it’s awesome for you to acknowledge my spot being so much higher up than yours, but it doesn’t really make you look too good, you know?

Then again, I guess expecting some knuckle-dragging good ol’ boy to use his head for anything other than crushing cheap beer cans onto is having pretty high expectations, huh? Maybe we should start simpler so your ears don’t start bleeding all over your ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ overalls.

That’s a book, by the way. Like the bible you jerk off into at night, but more factual.

Just kidding about the bible, I know you can’t read.

So here’s what we’re gonna do, you little armadillo-fucking hillbilly. I’m gonna kick out of your weak-ass pin here and then go put more Aqua Net into my extensions to make sure I’m still looking like the cover of Rolling Stone and not the BBQ menu your momma queefed out the better parts of you onto.

Then, you’re gonna run along like a good boy and stay the fuck out of my business. I’ll be nice this time and let your bow-legged self walk away outta here under your own volition, but I’m warning you, dude, you try and get in between me and my title again and I’ll kick your three remaining teeth out of your mouth so you can finally give your Uncle Cletus the gummer he’s been trying to convince you to give him since you turned nine.

Do the world a favor, Deliverance, and spend your time trying to make the local pastor squeal like a pig instead of attempting to break into the grown man business of wrestling. You’re just a dumb kid with a dumb name and an asshole three cocks wide. You ain’t ready, boy.

Now git.