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**Vincent Lane** · (04-05-2016)

Early morning in the City of Angels, Los Angeles, California. The heart and soul of L.A. County, sitting at 34.0522° North and 118.2437° West, glistens in the early morning light – a faint white haze barely piercing the veil of the night before. The temperature is approximately 45 degree Fahrenheit, or 7.22 degrees Celsius. The barometer weighs in at nearly 28%, with winds moving between five and seven miles per hour in a South by Southwest direction.

We see the side of a reclusive road. Nearly deserted, though the noise pollution from a primitive traffic in its infancy trickles over the hills, an echo of gridlock soon-to-be. Currently on the 405 highway, nearly six miles North of this particular road, there are nearly 67 cars, all moving at what could definitely be considered a moderate pace. Out of those 67 cars, 30 of them are domestic. 13 Ford, 5 GM, 12 Dodge. The other 37 cars are of foreign make, with 21 Toyota, 6 Mercedes-Benz, 4 Volkswagen, and 6 Mitsubishi. One of the Toyota cars, which is red, has low air pressure in its rear passenger side tire.

But I digress.

On the deserted road, there is no traffic of any kind. The only vehicle is a 2013 Kia Soul, cobalt blue, with a mere 17, 148 miles on its transmission. The fluids are topped off and the oil has been changed within the last month. The Kia Soul won’t be driving anywhere anytime soon, however, as it is up on its roof, all the windows shattered and the gasoline from the 12.7 gallon tank has seeped onto the grey asphalt and into the overgrown brush around the roadside.

There are a total of 42 trees on the side of this road. 20 of those trees are Fern Pine, with an average of seven birds each in their branches. 12 trees are Norfolk Island Pine, their large cones rolling around the dirt like hand grenades in a warzone. 9 European White Birch trees blend into the scenery, the white bark offering hints of contrast to the darker tones of the pines. And finally, a single Purple Orchid tree sits directly over the wreckage. The undercarriage of the overturned Kia Soul, having sat beneath the orchid tree for several hours at this point, is mottled with the beautiful flowers as if the tree saw the destruction and decided to offer an arrangement for a funeral.

Just as the camera zooms down from across the vast landscape, passing over the traffic on the 405 which has already begun to congest, its pace slowing from moderate to slightly below average, a final orchid breaks free from a branch high atop the tree. The purple petals flutter and spiral as the orchid descends, lifted by the occasional updraft of slowly warming morning air. Our view follows the flower as it falls, then rises, then falls again until it settles on the asphalt, dancing between tiny blue gemstones of broken windshield glass. It settles momentarily, its petals catching enough breeze to almost seem like the orchid itself is catching its breath with gulps of air. Then, it somersaults forward once again, taken by the wind to its final destination – settled in the blood-soaked flaxen hair of a face down man, unconscious in the middle of the street approximately four and a half feet from the wreckage of the Kia Soul.

Though the man’s face is turned away from the camera view, his style of dress - the same blue/grey sweat pants from the airport where we started this journey and a studded leather jacket - along with his wild tussle of blond hair filled with dozens of hot pink extensions surely lead us to understand that it can only be one man. The megastar himself, XWF Universal Champion “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane.

The sunlight finally wins its battle over shadow, spilling over the blacktop like water from an overturned bucket, illuminating the dark blood into bright crimson streaks crisscrossing the street until they intermingle with the pools of gasoline. When the yellow fingers of sunlight finally crawl onto the body of Vinnie Lane, the acclaimed Loverboy shudders, awakened from trauma-induced sleep. With a long groan, he peels his wet face from the ground, turning his head towards out perspective. Tiny bits of glass along with pine needles and excess gravel have attached themselves to his skin, giving him nearly the same appearance as the ground itself if not for the rapidly blinking blue eyes.

From the view at level with the street, we see Loverboy roll onto his back. The sight is obscured by phantom waves of motion, from the fumes rising off of the gasoline, slowly heating in the California sun. With one hand covered in jeweled rings, Loverboy wipes away the flotsam and jetsam of his journey across the roadway, streaking a hand-shaped red smear of blood across his cheek. He closes his eyes and groans again, slowly sitting up before opening them and looking around him at the chaos that his lazy ride back to LAX had become.

Ride.

He had been riding with someone.

But he was here on the street alone.

“H… hello?”

His voice a mere croak, it is nearly drowned out by the songs of the cackling birds in the pine trees above.

“Bev?”

A bit louder now, strength reentering his body at pace with the sunlight warming his chilled skin. Loverboy leans forward and rests his palms on the roadway, sagging his head down and watching as sudden rivulets of blood spring forth, fed like tributaries from the source waters on his broken scalp. He crawls toward the car, every movement feeling like broken ends of bone grinding against one another.

“Bevin… are you all right? Bev?”

He moves closer, slowly. The knees of his sweat pants begin to fray from the friction of the asphalt as he can barely lift his legs from the ground to move. When he finally arrives at the wreckage, peering into the driver’s side of the Kia, which sits like roadkill, its four wheels splayed out into the sky. The driver’s door is wide open, but the seat is empty.

“Bevin? Bevin, where are you? Can you hear me, dude?”

The strength this fervent shouting takes out of the champion is all he could muster. He collapses onto the gas-soaked pavement, still looking inside the cabin of the Soul. It is then that he notices something greatly disturbing. One, a slender sport coat for a woman. Black. Precisely the style of garment Bevin St. Claire had arrived to Loverboy’s interrogation wearing. This top is in a heap on the roof of the upside-down car, and every button has been ripped free. Secondly, and more disturbingly, one of Loverboy’s own rock concert tee shirts is also on the roof of the car… but this is one he hasn’t laid eyes on in months. Not since lending it to Dani to use as a cover-up when she went to the beach back in August. The last day she was seen alive.

“No…”

Loverboy shouts and uses his anger and disbelief as fuel to roll once again onto his back, ramming his bloody hands into the pockets of his sweat pants. His left emerges holding a cell phone, somehow completely unharmed by the crash and subsequent rough landing of its owner. His right pulls free a crumpled business card, the one given to him by the interrogating detective back at the LAPD.

He slowly dials, every movement of his hand a chore, evidenced by the wincing breaths and the grimace across his face. Loverboy brings his cell to his tattered ear with a shaking hand, and waits while the call connects.

“Detective… it’s Vinnie… Lane… I need… help… I’m hurt… a car hit us… I think Bevin is gone… I think… he got her… the magic… man…”

He gulps more air into his lungs, whimpering with every inhalation.

“I don’t know… use… the GPS… to find me… hurry…”

The hand holding the phone drops back onto the road, the call still active. He leaves it lying there on the road while he fishes into his jacket, retrieving a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. After a few shaky failures at flicking the lighter to life, he does so and manages to tremble a cigarette into the flame. He sucks in a deep drag, holding it with closed eyes, before coughing violently and sending puffs of smoke into the air like Indian signals at a camp fire.

“Fuck this.”

He flicks the barely touched cancer stick away… but it lands in the gasoline, sparking an almost immediate blaze as the cigarette tumbles through the fumes and settles into the puddle nearest the gas tank.

“Oh… you’ve got to be fucking… kidding me…”

A desperate lurch to his side later, and the battered megastar finds himself thrown into a pine needle bed at the bottom of a shallow ditch, just as the air is sucked away into a massive fireball as the Kia Soul erupts into a concussive explosion.

Right below the orchid tree.

Loverboy loses consciousness.

A few miles away, Los Angeles goes on with its morning.

The formerly peaceful street is a disco. Blue and red and white lights strobe and flash from emergency vehicles up and down the road, as a fire truck finishes emptying itself onto the sizzled and charred husk of what was once a Kia Soul. Orchids ride the water downstream.

“So, Vinnie,”

The detective talks slowly as Loverboy sits in the back of an ambulance, a tinfoil blanket wrapped around his body.

“You’re telling me that you just woke up and your lawyer friend was… gone?”

“Right. You don’t see her, do you?”

“No, I do not. But I also don’t see this alleged calling card you mentioned when I first got here. The shirt you said would almost definitely be able to clear you in Dani’s murder?”

“It was in the Kia.”

“How did it get there?”

“I don’t know, dude. It was there when I came to, it wasn’t there before. Like I said, he must have got her. The car followed us all the way from the station.”

“And the fire?”

“That… that was me. It was an accident.”

“A pretty convenient accident, don’t you think?”

Loverboy doesn’t answer, instead he looks down at his hands, which have begun to shake again. Suddenly, he leaps to his feet and spins toward the detective, who is caught off guard. Loverboy grabs him by his tie and points a finger into his face as the sheath of his foil cover slides off onto the ground, leaving just a topless champion covered in bruises and cuts and blood.

“Listen to me you fucking prick… I’ve been listening to you try and pin this bullshit on me all day, dude. Do you really fucking think I would get myself in a car wreck, and then set myself on fucking fire just to throw off your god damn investigation, when we both already know you didn’t have a prayer of getting me in front of a judge that wouldn’t dismiss?”

“Vinnie… Vinnie, calm down…”

The detective chokes through his cinched collar. Other officers, though only feet away, have not noticed the commotion as they deal with the smoking wreckage of the crash and fire.

“YOU calm the fuck down, you fucking asshole. My friend is GONE. I’ve been lying here in a puddle of my own blood since last night, my ribs are probably broken, my head is spinning, and I almost BLEW THE FUCK UP. WHEN do you think I would have had a chance to kidnap Bevin? Huh? Use your FUCKING head, detective… or I’ll… I’ll… I…”

Loverboy’s grip weakens, then goes loose as his arms fall to his sides. His eyes roll back in his head as he starts to collapse backward, but the detective manages to grab him and keep from hitting his head on the ground, corralling him into the back of the ambulance once again.

“Hey, HEY! Get this guy to the hospital. But don’t let him out of your sights once you get there, you hear me?”

The ambulance driver nods in the rear view mirror, starting his engine as officers and medics help load Loverboy into the ambulance properly.

As the emergency vehicle’s sirens pierce the morning air and the ambulance pulls onto the street, the other officers go about the business of investigating and securing the crash scene, but Loverboy lies motionless in the back of the ambulance as one young EMT keep an eye on him.

“He’s stable,”

She says to the driver after several minutes of driving towards the highway. The driver looks back at her through the rear view.

“I think he’s fine, probably just got a concussion. We can get him up to -”

BLAM.

The EMT’s head becomes a red mist as her body lumps over, the stump of her neck shooting streams of red blood across the walls of the ambulance like a Jackson Pollack painting.

In the window between the cab and the back of the ambulance, the driver’s hand sits with a smoking gun.

He switches the lights and the sirens off of the vehicle, then turns off of the road and into the anonymity of the 405.

Good lord you can ramble on, can’t you Peter?

You should think about getting a YouTube channel, dude. Those repetitive, vitriolic, misogynistic and homophobic rants of yours would probably rack up views into the high dozens!
I really just don’t get you sometimes, Pete. You spend 20 minutes just repeating yourself, saying the same damn thing over and over again every time you have a few too many Smirnoff Ices and yet you still can’t even keep your own BS straight. How do you not remember that there was no Egyptian Snow anything in our Trios Defense, for instance? Or how do you try and claim you haven’t seen Shane naked when it was YOU who said you did the very last time you opened your mouth? Or talking about Nikki Sixx coming back to life, when the dude is clearly not dead? I mean, these things aren’t really important or relevant to you losing your big shot at the title for the dozenth time, but I’d still like to know exactly what amount of CTE I’m dealing with in the rig on Wednesday just in case you lock the dogs in the pool house before the match and I have to cut you down from a workout machine and make a teary-eyed speech about what a good guy you were while they slice into your battered cerebrum trying to find the reasons you strangled your wife. I don’t like you, Gilly, but I don’t want you to die, dude. Get yourself checked out. Memory loss and the inability to form cogent sentences are signs of concussion-related dementia, and not many people have taken more shots to the dome than you have, dude.
Okay, I lied, that naked Shane thing is relevant. Can I add to my match stipulation? Can it be that Pete has to tell us exactly what the fuck that was all about? Like, were you two just coincidentally in the sauna together, like two heterosexual males often are, and Shane’s potato burst, causing his towel to unwrap? Or were you maybe sharing a bathtub, again, like two grown heteros might, and the soapy bubbles all ran out, exposing his genitalia beneath the clear bath water? We need to know, Gilly. The world needs this information.
Take a few seconds to think before you just let words fall out of your mouth like they were big sets of black balls right after your weekend cuck parties, dude. Try and struggle against the fugue state your bruised up brain is in and fight the good fight against early-onset Alzheimer’s long enough to not embarrass yourself in every promo video you create. In one statement you tried to convince me you’re working harder than ever before to win this match… and then you turn around and say you aren’t losing any sleep over it.

What?

You’re telling me you’ve got a chance to finally be the man, and it isn’t keeping you up at night? It isn’t causing you to have chills up and down your hunchbacked spine every time you think about being on the big stage and fighting for your entire career? Seriously? Maybe that’s your problem then, dude. Maybe you just don’t care enough about this match, this business, or this title. Maybe if you did, you wouldn’t be such a perpetual letdown. Maybe you wouldn’t be a black hole when it comes to profit or merchandise sales. Maybe you’d be more than just the sad old veteran who goes to ever convention and tries to hock some eight by ten color glossies of himself in a muscle shirt three sizes too small and talking about the good ol’ days when he didn’t get his ass handed to him every time he showed up for a match that mattered. Maybe you’d even be able to satisfy the underground railroad your black dick loving whore wife has drooping between her legs if you ever gave a real effort, dude. Who knows? Wasn’t your dick donor some sort of Nigerian mandingo or something? When you got that oversized foreskin of yours clipped off by Morbid, didn’t you end up with one of those BBCs? I tell you what man, I’m pretty tired of my tax dollars paying for

to get new black dicks installed. That shit should be on your dime. Thanks a lot, Obama. But hey, at least your old lady is finally getting the black cock she always dreamed of, especially when you were ‘inside’ her, praying to whatever gods you could think of for fifteen seconds worth of erection so you could dribble out some chlamydia puss onto her six inch deep belly button.

Pete, let me give you a word of advice. If you’re going to try and come out here in front of all of my fans and wannabes and try to insult me, how about you don’t admit that you’re not on my level at the same fucking time? Or at least stay focused and try not to impress anyone by going off on a tangent about how many times you’ve managed to beat Barney Green. I mean really, dude? Barney Green? You have a loss on your record to Ghost Tank, and you want to try to bring up names of former opponents? How about some relevant ones, like Theo Pryce and Eli James? You know, the two who embarrassed you the last time you were allowed anywhere near the Universal Title? Or did you have an episode and think it was ESP again? Oh, wow, you even beat up Shane once! He’s like 110 pounds soaking wet with two potatoes in his ass, dude. No one’s impressed. I mean come on, man, you barely even beat Maverick for that piece of tin you’ve got around your waist right now… who in their right mind is going to take you seriously against the greatest athlete walking the earth today? Hashtag spoiler, hashtag nobody.

For real though, when you fought Shane was that before or after he was naked with you?

Hey you know what would make for a compelling promo video, dude? Maybe if you once again tried to bore everyone into a suicide attempt by running down the list of all the motherfuckers who’ve dragged you to victories, like Sid Feder and Soldier. Maybe you can try to steal their valor like a homeless crackhead wearing a camo jacket with a cardboard sign that has “god bless” spelled wrong on it. Let’s hear about how awesome you are at winning when you’re riding around on a guy like Dim’s shoulders like a special needs kid playing a game of chicken in the shallow end of your trailer park’s pool. Oh, wow, we’re all so impressed that you won the tag titles by yourself! It’s not like dudes like Scully and Johnny Heartsford have managed to be tag champs. It’s not like those belts aren’t currently being held by a pair of virgins wearing promise rings to each other, right? No one gives a fuck about the tag titles, Pete. That’s why you were able to win them. You want to impress someone? Win a Trios Championship against three former Universal Champions with a pair of midcard partners and end up walking out with all three belts to yourself. Except you wouldn’t ever be able to do something like that, Pete, because, like you said, you’re not on my fucking level.

You know what you could do then, Pete? I mean, if you want to REALLY get people hitting their mute buttons… you could try to talk about my fiancee’s pussy some more. Honestly, Pete, the fact that you think Roxy ever wears panties, much less gets even a drop of moisture on them when she looks at you, shows me that you’d probably black out from penile overload if you even so much as got a taste of a woman as fine as she is. That’s why you’re sticking to Granny Brink and her boat sail labia, right dude? Real fuckin’ windsock situation she’s got going down there, if the ten minutes I saw of her on Pornhub are any indication. Guess that’s what happens when you have to rent your snatch out to Kenyan track teams just to come within a mile of an orgasm thanks to being married to an impotent fingerdick like yourself. Don’t be ashamed of your low testosterone, Peter. It happens to a lot of guys, allegedly. Most of them are probably just trying to convince themselves they aren’t gay, but whatever. Your woman has a mannish enough face that you should be good to go no matter what team you’re batting for. You ever notice that no one in the XWF is ever trying to put balls to Maria, while Roxy gets 50 bucks a pop from weirdos like Tommy Wish just for taking her shoes off and wiggling her toes at him? Oh, shit, is that why you can’t get it up anymore, Pete? Is it because you’re married to a natural Caitlyn Jenner? Tell you what, I’ll pay the 12.99 monthly subscription fee for Roxy’s cam site for six months for you, and we’ll see if you can manage to get hard for more than a minute at a time. I try to help people in need, you know? Six months, on the house. Your logon name is SadPeterTheDicklessFaggot. Password is PleaseJustKillYourself.

Pete man, I hope you don’t really think I’m as pathetically fucked up on drugs as you say, dude. Can you imagine how bad you’ll feel about yourself if you get your ass kicked by a worthless junkie? I mean, sure, I ski the fine Colombian slopes on a regular basis, and me and my lady know how to party with Molly and Poppy, you know what I mean? I won’t be winning any “most vascularly intact nose” awards anytime soon, but who gives a shit, right? I’ve got the only two awards I need on me at all times – the belt around my waist and the centerfold on my arm. If you really don’t want to be me, man, then maybe you should… being me is a hell of an improvement over being you. I mean, your big bragging point is that your wife wants to put you in a music video? Let me guess, dude, you’re gonna be the fluffer for the next line of dudes who shows up for a Maria Brink gang bang on Vivid Video? Don’t get it in your eye, Pete.

God dammit, Peter… all you’re doing is saying the shit I said to you back at me. What the fuck is this, kindergarten? Why don’t you say something that has some weight and substance to it instead of just acting like I’m staring at your dick all day. I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, dude, but you can’t go ten minutes without talking about your dick. You ask people to suck it so much I’m beginning to think you’re a malfunctioning Teddy Ruxpin that was abused as a child. You point at the damn thing like you’re still not sure exactly what it is. Maybe you’d recognize it if you could fit it into your own asshole? Just ask Maria to take her fingers out of there first so she doesn’t break a nail.

What, you didn’t think the whole locker room knew you liked to get finger puppeted by your wife on a daily basis? Dude, we know all about your sick shit. That “adult baby” website you’re always posting on gets printed out and passed around at least twice a week, just like when you left your laptop open and we all took turns reading your search history. To answer your Google question, dude, sorry but there’s no way to stretch out a microcock to make it big enough to keep a condom on. You’re just gonna have to keep using those latex finger covers you stole from the medic.

HOLY SHIT did you really go back to talking about wanting to fuck my girl? Peter, Jesus, why don’t you just re-upload the last promo you cut and just change the name? This shit is so old. It’s never going to happen, man.

Real quick before I cut this short and go find an adult to talk to… what’s this Grand Slam shit you’re talking about? Did you just pull that out of your gaping ass, Goatse style? Why would you conveniently leave out titles like the X-Treme and Intercontinental? Or even the TV or Ark or Federweight? Other belts you’ve had plenty of access to but no successes with? Are we just picking any four titles and saying they’re the Grand Slam now, just so you can be the first at something? Stop trying so hard, man, you don’t need to lie in order to break records. You’re already the first guy to have ever suffered a rectal prolapse in six consecutive years – what more do you want?

Okay, okay, one more thing. Pete, I'm saying this not as your opponent but as a human being. If I have to listen to that lispy New Jersey pedophile narrate your promos for you one more time, I'm going to go ballistic. Is he union? Is there some reason you can't fire him? Is he, like, an illegal immigrant from Faggotstan or some shit? I know you're a closet right-winger, Gilly, but sometimes you get what you pay for, dude. Going under the table and paying two bucks an hour for a whiny bitch to read your shit to the XWF universe does nothing but make everybody change the fuckin' channel. Unless he's just tradiNg narration work for blowjobs, which I'm sure you're more than happy to provide.

Fuck it, I'm gonna go kick his ass. See you soon, dude.

XOXO

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