“No new messages.”

 
The tinny, allegedly female, robot voice of “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane’s cell phone echoes through the iPhone’s speaker.  Loverboy, frustrated, swipes at the screen and kills the call.
 
A long drag from a half-empty bottle of Black Label Jack later, and the Megastar is up, pacing around his hotel room.  He looks at his massive, gold, CCWF/IWGP Championship title belt as it rests amidst ashed-out cigarette butts, a stained mirror covered in leftover grains of pure Colombian snow, and the twin brother of the bottle Loverboy just slammed back down onto the wooden desktop with a sold thud.
 
Outside the wide open hotel room window is the famous Las Vegas strip.  A pyramid, a Sphinx, brilliant, flashing lights everywhere you look.
 
The rocker stretches his lithe, shirtless torso, his fingers interlocked and high above his head as he tilts his muscular body in one direction until his spine cracks and pops, then the other.  Dropping his arms back to the hips of his leather pants, Loverboy walks to the large window and braces himself over the sill, looking down on the city he’s mostly called home for the last few months.
 
Even though the sun has barely begun to drift towards the Western horizon, the dazzling light show that is Vegas has already begun.  Christmas in Vegas.
 
“What fucking shithole.”
 
Loverboy smirks and leans forward until his forehead presses against the huge pane of glass separating him from a twenty story drop into an opulent fountain in the courtyard below.  His visage reflected back to him in the glass like a translucent mirror.
 
Suddenly, and perhaps a bit drunkenly, recklessly, Loverboy rears his head back and smacks it against the glass, shaking it in its frame.  The cracking sound from one of the sealed edges is enough to back the rightful Universal Champion up a step or two, but he shakes his head and laughs it off with a crooked grin like a madman, watching his emotionless eyes stare back at him superimposed across the dimming evening sky.
 
Then, the cell phone next to the title belt screams to life with the opening chords to Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again,” and Loverboy dashes from the window and grabs it as the vibrations move it toward the edge of the desk, sending a tiny snowfall of cocaine into the carpeting at his bare feet.
 
“Roxy?”
 
He swings the phone up to his ear instantly as his former lover’s custom ringtone cuts off, a look of shocked disbelief on his face as he swings his body and turns back toward the window view.
 
“What I can’t hear you… let me put it on speaker, hold on.”
 
Angrily, Loverboy scowls down at the phone screen and presses the button to put the call on speakerphone.
 
“Okay, say it again.”
 
“I SAID… this isn’t that cunty-wunty slut, Vinnie.  I changed my music in your phone when you passed out under that pile of whores at my estate.  It’s Shane you waggle bagga.”
 
Loverboy squints and slaps his free hand into the top of his face, rubbing it down hard to his chin in a sobering effort while he sighs through pressed lips.
 
“What the fuck, dude?  Why?”
 
“Why not?  You had your nose stuck in Sitre’s ass crack and I didn’t want to wake you because you looked so peaceful.  I was bored.  And fuck you, that’s why.”
 
“What do you want, ?”
 
“It’s time, Vinnie.  The XWF is back, and I want to finish what we started.”
 
“You’re joking.  The XWF is long dead, dude.  The fucking thing’s cold in the ground.  Are you smoking meth again?”
 
“Maybe.  It’s for real though.  Get to Seattle by Wednesday.”
 
“Whoa, whoa, just chill, dude, I’ve got things going on.  I didn’t just drop off the fucking grid like you did for three months, man.  I’ve been keeping my brand alive and making fat stacks of cash while you were off fucking potatoes or whatever sick shit you like to do.”
 
“Yeah, well, that’s all well and good, but I own your contract, and if you breach it I’ll sue you until you’re back in some Tampa trailer park.  We still have work to do, and I’m not getting humiliated by having my fucking champion no-show me.  You’re going to get your ass to Seattle, get in the ring against Maverick, and…”
 
“Whoa, hold on.  Did you say Maverick?  Like, the Maverick who has to wrestle in adult diapers to keep himself from shitting all over the place?  THAT Maverick?”
 
“Well yeah, he’s an XWF Champion.”
 
“He's the kiddie champion! He’s a fucking joke, dude!  You got me booked in the lower mid-card?  I’m the fucking CCWF Champion!  The IWGP Champion!  The rightful XWF Champion!  You’ve got me wrestling fucking dark matches with a chump like Maverick?”
 
“Vinnie, Vinnie, chill… relax.  You’re the top draw.  Your match is the main event, the feature match.  You’re even higher on the card than Trax.”
 
“I BETTER be higher on the card than that no-fucking-good thief!  I’M the god damn champion, he’s a fraud!  I’m the Hashtag Main Event!  Hashtag Megastar!  Hashtag Moneymaker!”
 
“When did you start saying ‘hashtag’ out loud?  You sound like a .”
 
“Fuck you, Shane, I told you, it’s all about the Loverboy brand.  I’m a fucking celebrity, and you are the guy who gets to reap the benefits of my popularity.  I’ve got all sorts of marketing deals going through, dude.  Shoes, hair products, guitars… hell, they want to make a mold of my dick to sell Loverboy dildos in sex shops.”
 
“Gay sex shops.”
 
“Shut the fuck up, , is anyone willing to spend fifty bucks on a rubber copy of YOUR cock?  No?  Didn’t think so, dude.  I’m the biggest wrestling star this company has ever seen, and you should be DAMN sure I’m the featured star every single week!  If I’m not on the card, I should be interviewed.  Or at least there should be a new DVD and maybe exclusive web content.  I’m a pot of fucking gold for you, dude.”
 
“Yeah Vinnie, you shit money, I get it.  Look, the match is a three stages of hell match.  I negotiated that you get to name one of the stages, but Maverick gets to go first.  You know he’s going to pick something that’s a strong suit for him.  Probably tables, since you haven’t done well in those sorts of matches…”
 
“ExCUSE me?”
 
“Come on, you know what I’m talking about…”
 
“No, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, dude.  I don’t do well in what kind of matches?  Am I not the fucking champion?  Did I not win this title from the most feared performer in the last decade?  Have I not stolen the show in steel cages, battle royals, tag, trios, triple threat…”
 
“Gilly beat you in the tables match.  It comes up all the time.  You know this.”
 
“FUCK Peter Gilmour and FUCK Maverick if he thinks he’s half the wrestler Gilmour is!  Literally, Gilly’s got to be like 450 pounds by now, right?”
 
“He’s up there.”
 
“Right, so even if Maverick’s shitty asshole dried up and he constipated himself for a week, he wouldn’t ever be HALF the man that Gilly is… what makes him think that just because I have ONE fluke loss to a dude like Gilly, a huge star in his own right, that it means I suck at tables matches and he has an advantage?  I don’t give a shit, let him pick that.  Let him pick whatever he wants.  He can fight be underwater or we can go to Medieval Times and joust, I’ll kick his ass no matter what he thinks up.  We can have a fucking cook off for all I care.  Maverick is mediocre and he always has been.  He’s been my bitch since he walked in the door.  Fuck, man, the first thing he ever managed to accomplish was accidentally winning the X-Treme Championship, and he only had it long enough to take a cum-filled shit on it before I won it from him.  He’s probably the shortest-reigning X-Champ of all time.  Meanwhile, I was a Trios Champ for months, a Hart Champion for months, and have been the Universal Champion for months as well.  Has Maverick ever pulled off a successful title defense?  Ever?  I’ll tell you one thing, man, he’s just lucky I didn’t feel like taking that rookie belt off of his ass this time around or he’d go home from Back in Black without his one redeeming quality around his waist.”
 
Loverboy plops the cell onto the desktop as he grabs a Poison tee shirt and pulls it over his head, tugging it down so that the cutoff midriff hem is just above his belly button.  Looking into the mirror he teases his blond hair until it’s puffed out in a huge bouffant, then grabs a can of Aqua Net nearby and sprays it around him while he listens to Shane on the speaker.
 
“Regardless, Vinnie, you need to look good in this match.  We need to make a statement that the CCWF is the real powerhouse here.  It looks great that you’re closing the show, but you can’t go out there and put on a crapfest.  Pick a stipulation that you know you can excel in.”
 
Waving away the mist from the hair spray, Loverboy purses his lips together and looks at himself in the mirror, flexing his arms and shoulders.
 
“Dude, are you fucking listening to me?  It doesn’t fucking MATTER what the stip is.  I’ll own his stip and then I’ll own mine right after.  You get it, dude?  I’m gonna run a sweep on him.  Two falls in a row, no third even happens, we have time at the end of the show to pop some bottles in the ring over Mav’s broken body and close Warfare in style.  You want a big pop from the crowd?  I’ll give them the ending they deserve, all right.  I’ve got a stip they can’t say they see every day.”
 
Moving to the bed, Loverboy sits on top of the crumpled sheets and finds some socks in his baggage, pulling them onto his feet.  He then leans down and reaches under the bed and pulls out a pair of black motorcycle boots, and starts tugging them onto his feet as well.
 
“Well what the fuck is it, Vinnie?  I’ve got shit to do.”
 
“What have you got to do that’s more important than listening to your champ, ?  Huh?  You got to check in with the sex offender registry and make sure your address is up to date?”
 
“… No.  I did that already.”
 
“Okay then.  Chill out and don’t rush me, dude.  I’ve got a plan.  Round one – Maverick gets his dry shit-covered ass put through his own table, or whatever the fuck he chooses as a stipulation.  Round two?  We blow the roof off the joint.  We go full-on pay-per-view quality, epic match.  We have the crowd climbing the rafters.  You get me, dude?”
 
“What do you want?  Inferno match?  Death match?  Iron Maiden?”
 
“No, man.  All that shit’s been done recently.  I’m talking about something nobody’s had the balls to do in over a year.  Me and Maverick, fifty foot high scaffold.  No net.  I win when I toss Maverick’s unconscious body over the side and back into the ring.  Even if there WERE a third stage, no way he gets up for it.”
 
Loverboy, having gotten his boots on, walks back the desk area and takes another long pull from his bottle of Jack as the cell phone lies silent nearby.  The only sound over the speaker is some muffled confusion and papers moving around as Loverboy puts his fingerless leather gloves on his hands and wraps his hot pink bandanna around his forehead.  
 
Just as Loverboy puts his aviator shades on and grabs his championship belt, Shane’s voice comes over the speaker, a bit more subdued than before.
 
“That’s… look, there’s a lot of insurance shit to go through with that sort of thing… last time we almost got sued by Darren Dangerous’ camp for negligence… I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t guarantee it.”
 
“Oh bull shit.  Shane, Peter Gilmour died choking on your shit in the middle of the ring.  You hired snipers to take out chumps you didn’t want in the fed anymore.  You’re telling me you can’t guarantee a fucking scaffold match?  You get me my match and you make it happen the way I said it needs to happen or I’ll have my agents and my lawyers look over that contract of yours and I guaran-fucking-tee they’ll find a way for me to get out of it.  You want your cash cow, you get me my match.  Got it?”
 
Silence again as Loverboy picks the phone up and stares at the screen, watching the seconds tick by on the call timer.  Finally, a loud, resigned sigh comes across the speaker and Shane relents.
 
“Fine.  I’ll get it done.  But I swear to god, Vinnie, if you end up killing that it’ll be you who goes down for it, not me and not the CCWF.  I’ve got enough shit to deal with, with all these new administrators in the XWF and - ”
 
Loverboy presses the disconnect button and cuts Shane off mid-sentence.  He slides the phone into his leather pocket and throws the title belt over his shoulder, then turns toward the door.
 
“Shut the fuck up, .   I’m all you’ve got.”
 
Loverboy turns back and grabs the bottle of Jack, taking another long sip.  He heads for the door, then goes back and grabs the second bottle as well.
 
“Fucking Seattle.  Of course.  No fucking sun and I didn’t have my tanning bed shipped.  Fuck.”
 
Then, Loverboy swings the hotel door open, steps out, and slams it shut hard enough to send another puff of coke dust off of the desk.
 
Desert Winter.