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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » "WAR GAMES 2015" RP Board
"Loverboy" - Learning To Fly (Pt. 3)
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Vincent Lane Offline
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09-10-2015, 08:45 PM Heart  "Loverboy" - Learning To Fly (Pt. 3) -->





Up in the clouds, we gain a new perspective of the world far below us.

The common analogy for someone looking down on the hustle and bustle of a big city from the top of a tall building is that men look like ants. Somehow sped up and ore erratic looking zoomed out that far. Everyone moving in their channels, moving with purpose, almost like they are all one.

Up above it all, one gets a different view.

The cities, hubs of activity, macrocosms. Organs. Bodies. The streets and alleyways pumping the blood through them – you and I.

Just like an immune system, the people of a vast city group together and clot against intruders. Infections. We move in pulses, carrying our cargos from point A to point B. We nourish the city, bring it to life.

But when something intoxicating is introduced, some narcotic, it poisons the entire cityscape. Whatever plague it might be – crime, unemployment, etc. It kills the place from the inside out. Wet rot. An agonizing, slow demise.

Up in the clouds, it’s easy to see fellow human beings as germs.

As the Boeing 757 begins its descent, “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane watches from his window seat as the earth comes up to meet him. He watches the knotted conduits of highways and byways snarling around the airport like ribbons around a gift, and he smiles watching the vision of big city traffic from high above.

No traffic in the clouds. Only one flying machine full of a fresh injection of humanity. And a fresh infection.

“Thank you for flying with us!”

The pert stewardess smiles and winks at Loverboy as he drags himself up the aisle and through the door. He shoots a pair of finger guns at her and wiggles the bananas dangling from his hand as if they were a set of keys to a brand new car.

“And thank YOU for wearing such a tight skirt, babycakes. Not a panty line in sight. Five stars.”

She blushes a deep shade of crimson as Loverboy deplanes, heading through the serpentine exit ramp and making his way through the busy airport. Some flashes blink to the side as he moves past a waiting area. Recognized everywhere he goes, the shutters of various cameras are nothing foreign to the rock n’ roll megastar.

As expected, a young fan breaks away from his parents and runs over to Loverboy, waving a Sharpie and a piece of paper.

“Loverboy! Loverboy! Can I have your autograph?”

Loverboy stops dead in his tracks and rolls his eyes, then spins around to see the diminutive fan.

“Sure kid! Because I’m on the clock 24 FUCKING 7 right? Heaven forbid I manage to come off of a six hour flight and go take a SHIT without stopping to smile for the camera or tell some loser kid to stay in school, right? Tell you what, twerp, why don’t you go ahead and rip some of my hair out to take home with you? Or stab a syringe into my arm and take some of my fucking blood? Jesus Christ you punks are like bottomless pits for attention and glory. No wonder this country is going to hell. Who do I make it out to?”

The kid is sniffing back tears and shaking as he stands there staring wide-eyed at Loverboy. After a few failed attempts, he finally chokes out:

“B… Billy…”

“Cool. ‘Dear Billy… learn some god damn manners and leave people alone when you see them in public places. Just because I’m rich, famous, handsome, and successful doesn’t give you the right to piss me off. Drop out and get started on your life of poverty sooner than later. Signed, Maverick. P.S. Your mother is wet watching me write this.’”

Loverboy sticks the sharpie into his own pocket and crumples up the paper, throwing it in the kid’s face while the little boy begins to bawl.

“Hey!”

The little kid’s mother shouts at Loverboy as he starts to turn away and move back in the direction of the restrooms. Loverboy stops again and gives a knowing look to the woman, up and down from her face to her crotch.

The woman’s anger drains away as her face fills with red and her hands cover the wet spot on her white jeans. Loverboy saunters away and finally reaches the bathroom to expel the bowel movement he’d been holding onto for three time zones.



[Image: nNP3Xx2.gif]



“So… I got some of my pent up vitriol for Ghost Tank out of my system just like I’m getting this toxic shit out of my body as we speak.

Now that I’ve taken care of breaking the seal on poor old Tank, who should I turn my attention to? I mean, Maverick was classy enough to make sure he went into this match with an advantage, 6-5, so obviously I have a lot of choices.

I could talk about Lux Lyden and explain why alliteration is almost as annoying as having to sit through ten minutes of his failed BBC series pilot “Lyden Loves Laughably Long Lists of Legends.” Sure, watching Lux straight up READ A BOOK might be ridiculous and boring as fuck, but it’s also literally the only god damn thing I have to work with at the moment since the rest of the so-called PERFECT TEAM are MIA.

I could maybe even go ahead and talk about Maverick himself… I mean, it’s not like there’s any lack of ammunition there. The guy has been the Avatar of Failure for as long as he’s been a part of the XWF roster. Suddenly he wins a couple of matches and I’m supposed to respect him? Are you kidding? Because, what, you beat Pest? Wallace? Are either of those things impressive? If so, you guys are REALLY going to be impressed with the size of this dump I’m taking.

Oh, shit! I bet you thought I was going to talk about Maverick without making the super easy connection to Maverick and feces. Nope. In fact, me sitting here on this airport toilet is exactly what made me think of ol’ Iceman in the first place. After all, not very many people have had such a connection to shit in the world of professional wrestling. You know, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if Mav turned out to be Crimson Dong’s long lost son, or maybe an actual living turd of Dong’s. How to Dongs reproduce, anyway? Do they just squeeze out their offspring asexually? Are they segmented like worms?

Dude, there is LITERALLY a personified piece of human excrement running around the XWF having conversations with a disembodied cock and being more interesting than anything Maverick is doing. You feel bad about your career, Maverick? You should, when you’re holding two title belts and still everyone would rather talk about your talking shit.

Like I said… I can talk about all of those guys. I could probably think of some shit to say about PG-13, too, even though I’ve never even met him or seen him do a god damn thing. I could talk about Rebecca Lewis’ flat chest or Iris Oppenheimer’s outie clit, but I just don’t feel it right now.

No…

The only thing I wanna talk about?

Kicking Ghost Tank’s ass.

God DAMN I cannot WAIT to get in that ring and leave grease stains all over the mat by bouncing that fat piece of garbage all over the ring. I’m going to grab him by his D cups and swing him around until he passes out, then test the limits of my spinal column by lifting the big lug in the air and snapping his neck on the canvas so he can finally live out his dream of blowing into a straw to communicate.

Dude, Ghost Tank being in the same ring as me is gonna be like taking candy from a baby… especially considering how much time he spends whining and fucking crying.

Does anyone remember what Ghost Tank was like when he debuted? Do you remember how he was a monster and a beast and DARK and SCARY and was always asking everybody is they HEARD THE SCREAMS!?!? The Ghost Tank I see nowadays is only hearing his own screams echo down the hallway of his favorite OB/GYN’s office while he tries to get his fallopian tubes untangled.

You should have quite while you were ahead, Tank. When you were still seen as a man… a man with a faggoty green mohawk maybe, but still a man. Ever since then you’ve been sticking up for transgendered rights and LGBT causes, dyeing your hair into pretty rainbows and forgetting to shower for weeks at a time while trying to figure out the PERFECT amount of hemp to wear to Burning Man. The second you picked up a juggling torch and tried to be intimidating I should have known you were a fraud… and I did.

Well guess what, Tank? Monsters don’t give a flying fettuccini alfredo FUCK about the struggle of cis-bitches and the genderfluid movement. They don’t spend more time combing Manic Panic into their sensitive goatees than they do winning matches. Monsters don’t do that. LOSERS do that. POSERS do that. The same kind of posers who’d think some neo-goth meat hook match would be a ratings draw.

Seriously, Ghost Tank, you’re about two weeks away from having dreadlocks that smell like nag champa and moving to fucking Oregon to open a microbrewery. You’re a bisexual hipster stuffed into a body built for an athlete, and that’s why it’s falling apart around you faster than the levees fell apart during Katrina. Maybe once you get it through your thick skull that you’re just a follower dressed up like a counter-culture connoisseur, you’ll come to the realization that so many others have already had to accept – while you’re running around trying to be ironic by wearing officially licensed super hero tee shirts, the REAL heroes out there in the world are wearing LOVERBOY VINNIE LANE shirts. What does that tell you, asshole? I’m your heroes’ hero. I fucking win.

You had a chance, Tank. You had a moment in the sun, and the moment is over. Now you get to have your curtain call, bow for the crowd, and get the fuck off of my stage for the last time.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to give a courtesy flush for the rest of the folks in this bathroom. Which is pretty much as good a metaphor for putting you out to pasture in the XWF as there can be.

AND THERE’S NO FUCKING TOILET PAPER!!!”



[Image: QZGkl8g.gif]



After leaving the airport, “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane had no choice but to head further and further out from the inner sanctum of the big city, moving more towards the rural areas that are typically home to the less-cultured.

A taxi cab took him to the state line. A bus took him out of town. His thumb took him further into the bible belt of the east coast than he’d ever wanted to go. But every which way he looked, every person he ran across, and every inquiry to 411 on the still-active payphones out here in the boonies led to essentially the same answer – nothing at all.

“You know where I can find Feder?”

Loverboy would ask the locals. Each one of them looking like they may have had something to say, but simply opting instead for a reserved “no sir.”

Eventually, Loverboy found his way into a dimly lit bar surrounded on both sides by “gentlemen’s clubs.” While asking around the room that reeked of beer-soaked wood, he found an older man who, between chest-rattling COPD coughs, admitted to knowing who Poppa Feder was.

For a price.

“Fine dude, I’ll pick up your tab.”

“Gonna take a little more than that for this old timer to stick his neck out for you, son.”

“I’m telling you… Feder is EXPECTING me. He INVITED me. Why do you think I’m walking around [GOD FUCKING DAMN IT LOVERBOY, I QUIT] with a bunch of bananas? You think this is normal human behavior?”

“It is around these parts.”

“Look… fifty bucks.”

“A hundred.”

“You son of a fucking… FINE. Here.”

Loverboy peels off five twenty dollar bills and slaps them down in front of the old man, who slowly slides them off of the wooden table and into his pocket with a trembling hand full of twisted, yellowed fingers.

“I’m gonna draw you a map. And I’m gonna tell my friends that I gave you the information. If I end up dead, sonny boy, they’re gonna come looking for you to make it right.”

The old man pulls a chewed up pencil out of his breast pocket and scribbles a barely legible set of directions onto a cocktail napkin. Illustrations and labels such as ‘broken fence’ and ‘abandoned hospital’ stand out to Loverboy, but he doesn’t ask any questions.

After a few arrows and dotted lines are jotted into the makeshift map, Loverboy snatches the napkin and storms for the exit, pausing only long enough to toss another three twenties at the bartender on his way out.

An hour and a half later, covered in muck, scratches, and sweat, Loverboy will emerge from a dilapidated shed that stands for no other reason than to disguise the exit to a very secret tunnel holding his precious bananas and completely out of breath.

And everything will change.



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