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**Vincent Lane** · **10-03-2014, 04:00 AM** "Loverboy" - House of Pain -->

Baby? Baby, wake up…

I can hear her, but for a few dark and nauseous moments I’m not sure exactly who “her” is. I decide the best course of action is probably to keep my eyes closed and try to stay asleep, but she’s persistent. She’s shaking me, not roughly, but enough to let me know that she isn’t giving up. The weight of her body straddled across my hips is also making it super clear that I need to get to a bathroom, sooner than later. So, the second time when she says

Baby! Baby, come on!

I go against my subconscious reaction and groan audibly, so she knows I heard her. I open my left eye, barely a sliver, but the minute amount of sunlight it lets in pierces my skull like a 9mm bullet. Immediately I throw my arm over my face, cloaking myself in darkness again.

Baby!

She’s relentless.

Baby please wake up, please! I can’t lose you!

Wait, what? With all the strength I can muster up, I pull myself up onto my elbows and slowly open my eyelids, although they cramp up in protest against the dizzyingly bright light of the… morning? Afternoon? Even with eyes full of knives and a stomach battling a sea storm, the angelic sight of Roxy Cotton looking down on me with her gorgeous face and figure is enough to soothe me into a reluctant smile.

Loverboy: Roxy… what are you talking about, dude? What time is it? Where the hell are we?

She seems a little amused by my confusion, but I also see undeniable relief. She wasn’t fucking around, she was legitimately worried about me not waking up. Why?

Roxy: Silly boy… we’re in Detroit. It’s, like, six in the afternoon I think? And… it’s Friday.

Loverboy: WHAT?!?

Roxy: Please don’t be mad!

Loverboy: Friday? FRIDAY? Are you pulling my dick right now, Roxy? How the hell is it Friday? We went to the airport in Tampa on TUESDAY night, and it’s not that long of a flight, dude.

Roxy: Please don’t yell, baby…

It was actually a really good idea. The sound of my own voice rattled between my eardrums like a piston in a V-6, and the ringing was drowning out everything else.

Roxy: After we got here and started to party, you were getting a little sick, so I worked you a shot…

Loverboy: Yeah, and?

Roxy: Well, you said you had a headache, and you asked for something.

Loverboy: What did you give me, Roxy?

Roxy: Xanax. Just, like, four or something.

I felt the blood pressure in my head swelling and had to rub my fingers into my eyes to stop the sensation that they were going to pop right out of my head. It took dizziness coupled with a sudden, urgent tightening in my chest to realize I was holding my breath, so I let it out in a sudden gust of a sigh.

Loverboy: Roxy… I meant, like, an aspirin. You mean you gave me Xanax, FOUR Xanax, on top of the oxycodone we were hitting? Are you crazy or just fucking stupid? You could have killed me!

I hurt her. She didn’t say it, she has a way of swallowing down emotion that probably helps her do the things she does for money, but I know her well enough to see the flicker of a flinch in her eyes, like she was stung by an invisible open hand. I’m angry enough, though, that I’m not ready to apologize for making her feel that way.

Roxy: I’m sorry, Vinnie… really.

She didn’t cry. She never cries. She just let her shoulders sink for less than a second, and then she was back. Perky, buoyant, Roxy Cotton, the sexpot the whole world wanted to fuck. Her Cheshire smile spread across her lips and god damn it, mine mirrored hers in spite of myself. We both knew I hurt her, and we both knew I wanted to hurt her more, but we smiled at each other knowing that the same scars went across our skin as if we had the same body. Under the hurts were eventual apologies and, forever, love.

So she slides off of me like butter off of a hot biscuit, and she steps to the window, looking out over the afternoon streets of Detroit, Michigan. Her silhouette, naked, in the silk of those curtains with the light spilling around her like an ethereal wedding gown, and she looks at me, and for maybe the first time, hopefully not the last time, I think I really see her.

Loverboy: Roxy… I think I lo –
Roxy: I think I should go, Vinnie.

Loverboy: What? Go where?

Roxy: I just… I think we need to be apart for a little while?

There isn’t a lot more to say. So I don’t. She gets her things together as the sun goes down, and it definitely feels like more than just a sunset. After an hour disguised as a minute, she’s walking out the hotel room door. I know this is it, this is maybe the only chance I’m getting to tell her I need her here, that I don’t want her to go, that she is more than another girl, she’s a part of me.

Instead, though, I watch her linger and wait for me to say what we both need to hear me say. She lingers, pretending her shoe is on crooked or her eyelash is in her eye, anything to keep her standing in the doorway one more second, but my million dollar mouth forgets every single word it’s ever learned and there I am, sitting naked in a hotel room bed, watching her walk away.

Roxy: Vinnie…

Answer her, you dumb mother fucker, stop staring at her and hoping she’ll change her mind on her own. She won’t. You know she won’t.

Roxy: I love you, too.

And then the door is closed, and I’m alone.

So here’s the big scoop, right?

This is what’s supposed to be the next chapter in “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane’s life and career in the XWF. Name in lights, nothing new, semi-main event, also not new, and a championship match – big surprise, right? The most dynamic, sensational, number one with a fucking bullet son of a bitch in the business today is actually getting recognized for being the megastar that he is. You’d think that having done what I did at Relentless a couple of months ago and the barnburners I’ve had since that I’d already have the XWF bigwigs eating out my hand and stuffing blank checks in my pockets, right? But no, dude, I had to not only earn my spot with what I do in the ring but also by being a man and speaking up for myself.

So what happens? Guppy accepts my challenge, of course, because he’s not a bad dude and he’s the kind of guy to live up to what a champion is supposed to be, just like I do. And let’s get something straight about Guppy real quick before I lose track and forget – when I got here to the XWF, the first time I saw Guppy Parsh I thought we had a Make-A-Wish kid there to meet Mark Flynn or Gator. The cat is about five foot nothing and can’t weigh more than the last Taco Bell dump I took, right? And then they tell me he’s got a strap? That he’s got a near flawless record? Man, I gotta say I was skeptical, dude. If Guppy’d shown up to my house on Halloween wearing that cheap plastic Batman costume I’d have given him extra Snickers because I’d assume he was hungrier than the other eleven-year-olds, you know? But then I see his match at Relentless, and it’s really impressive. Yeah, sure, weak opponent maybe, but that little chick probably had ten pounds on him, right? But he beat her, he defended his title and he lived up to his championship status. Then to see that insane match he had with Pete Gilmour a couple of weeks back was a damn sight to behold, man. That was probably the toughest match I’ve seen in the XWF, period, outside of Duke and Azrael. And that’s considering that I’m pretty sure Morbid Angel is actually dead for real right now from getting stuffed into an iron maiden on live TV. Guppy Parsh is twice his size once the bell rings, and that’s the damn truth. It made me happy, even though Peter and me are cool, to see Gup get a little bit of revenge on him since it was his racist remarks that made the little guy turn in his doctorate and start wearing a kids’ costume everywhere he goes. Plus, his own friend tried to cut off his dick! What kind of shit is that, man?

So yeah, I have been totally stoked ever since Guppy agreed to defend his title against me. I respect the dude, I like the dude, and I admire the things he’s done – but when that bell sounds, man, we aren’t friends. All I’ll see is one more guy in between me and what I want, you know? I’ll see him, his belt… and that piece of garbage, Pest, unfortunately.

Pest dude, I have no idea how or why you ended up reffing this match, but I think it’s safe to say that Theo Price is hittin’ it on the nose when he says you’re just another Swimfan, man. It’s like you can’t get enough of me. You wanted me in the house show, you got dumped on your head. You wanted me one on one, you lost and got dumped on your head. And yeah, man, you kicked out – great job. It sure makes it easier to take a piledriver when you’re wearing a hard hat, doesn’t it? So yeah, you got your time with me that you wanted so bad ever since you decided to stick your ugly pig nose into my business with the Trios, and even though at every single turn you get your ass beat and sent away with nothing, you keep begging for more. You see me cut a promo in a confessional, so you do the same thing. You get jealous of all the sweet ass I get on the road, so you go kidnap some kid from her junior high bus stop. I bet you’ve got photos of me hanging on your mom’s basement’s walls, just so you can rub more AndroGel into your little clit before bedtime. But here’s the deal – you’re the ref, and you’d better call this son of a bitch clean, Pest, or I swear to Nikki Sixx that I’ll end you. I saw your little bulllshit promo and your ridiculous rules – more hot air spraying out of that puckered asshole you call a mouth – but you know what? As stupid as most of that shit was… I mean come on, man, I’m barred from the ring area during my own match? As stupid as it was, you made one good point. I don’t need Diesel out there for this match. I don’t WANT the big guy there, because I don’t need anyone second guessing me once I take that belt and wrap it around my tight, sexy waist with the rest of them. It’s gonna be fair and square, me against Guppy, and the better man, me, is gonna win.

The thing is though, dude, as much as I respect Guppy and as confident that I am that I’m gonna beat him within an inch of his life on Wednesday, the big problem is that I can’t trust that ingrown pube Pest any further than he can make his little ballsack stretch. So I’m gonna be asking around and trying to get me a manager for the night, someone for hire for a one shot deal, to make sure Shitfed doesn’t try to screw me over. You can’t legally keep a manager from being ringside with his client, Pest, that has to come from above you, so don’t even try it. I’m telling you one more time – NO ONE is getting between me and that title. Not Pest, not Diesel, not Shane’s constantly wet nuts.

And unfortunately for you, little guy – not Guppy Parsh.

Rock on, dudes.

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