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**Vincent Lane** · **01-25-2016, 08:23 PM** "Loverboy" - Porn Star Dancing -->

2010 - Tampa

It’s funny, really. I should know better by now and start trusting my gut on things. The first time I walked back into the dressing room at the Clubhouse, everyone was congratulating me and slapping me on the back. I figured they were being smartasses about getting it on with Valentine until I saw the dry erase board in the back of the room. The next few weeks were plotted out, as usual, but the difference was that instead of the main event for the big blow off show being TNT working with a known name from TV like usual, it was me. All through the week there were spots for me to run in on TNT, or drop a promo on him, and it culminated in a main event pitting me against the champ. I was getting pushed, hard.

My initial thought was skepticism. I thought TNT was going to bury me in that match, or duck out of it at the last minute. As the weeks went on, though, the spots went off without a hitch. I went over in every match I worked, beating both of Big Tank’s characters decisively and even getting a win over the previous number one contender, Dave Thunderbird.

When the big night came, everyone was stoked for me. I thought Big Tank was going to cry, he looked like a proud daddy on prom night the way he wouldn’t stop taking my picture. I had been working really close with TNT, figuring out some spots that were going to make each of us look great. He was going over, of course, but I expected that. The point was that I was getting put into the main scene, and in front of the KAQ suits to boot.

Kings and Queens of Wrestling was definitely the goal of every curtain jerker at CFW and everywhere else in the state of Florida. I know it had been mine since I was a new-to-town teenager taking bumps off of my backyard trampoline. We all grew up watching the stars shine on TV, and the fact that they had noticed us enough to send a couple of scouts to a converted community center in Hillsborough County was a dream come true for all of us. We were going to get our shot, and I was in the main event.

It was time. The crowd was red hot from Big Tank doing his spinning slam from the top rope for the first time. Definitely a hard act to follow. The lights came up and “Pour Some Sugar on Me” started playing over the PA system. I took a deep breath and put my game face on, then popped out from behind the curtain in an exaggerated spin with my arms outstretched. It was the best pop I’d ever had, even though I was technically the heel in the match since I was fighting the top babyface. Kids all over the bleachers were wearing my t-shirts and mimicking my body language. I made sure to give as many hi-fives as I could on my way to the ring, and then hopped onto the apron and sprung over the ropes. I hit a few poses and then leaned into my corner just as “TNT” by AC/DC started up.

Even though I work in the same ring and dress in the same locker room as a champion, the fan in me still got a special feeling seeing TNT come out from behind the curtain wearing the big belt. I’ve sat in the next bathroom stall over from TNT, listening to him grunt one out while the belt sat on the dirty tile floor between his feet, but it did nothing to diminish the feeling of awe I got when he and Valentine made their way down the aisle. He was playing it intense, staring me down with a look of focus and determination, just like we’d planned. I was the heel in this scenario, he was the babyface fan favorite. I was the upstart, the petulant youngster. TNT was the champion. TNT was the man.

He went through his usual routine, posed with the belt held high over his head, handing it over to Valentine, pointing at me and making a slit-throat gesture. He looked unstoppable. Valentine walked right in between us on her way out of the ring, and I could smell her perfume as she made a show of leaning over deeply to get between the ropes. The crowd whistled and cat called, as always. Right out of the palms of our hands. This was going to be the match of my life.

When the bell rang, I went to go into our first sequence – a standard collar and elbow tie up, the most basic of setups for any initial move. When I stepped close enough, TNT sent a straight jab right into my nose and broke it in half. I hit the mat, not with the usual reverberating thud of my entire back, but with a choking grunt from a mouth filling up with snot and blood. I could hear the crowd applauding and chanting TNT’s name, but I couldn’t focus. My eyes were watering.

“What the fuck, T?”

I muttered from between my cupped hands. I felt strong fingers gripping in the mess of bleached hair atop my head.

“Get up, punk,”

he said, but not bothering to be loud enough for the crowd to hear the trash talk. He meant it just for me. The whole push was a setup. I stood on wobbly legs and TNT pushed me back toward the ring ropes.

“Clothesline me,”

he whispered when our heads were close enough. I took the Irish whip and bounced off of the far ropes, sticking my arm out and slapping it against his upper chest. Nothing. TNT stood like a golem, completely no-selling the move.

“Come on,”

I started, but he just slapped his chest like a gorilla, inviting me to give him more. I had to keep the crowd in it. I wound up and threw a second clothesline, but just like the first time, TNT stood still. I threw a punch, nothing. A knife edge chop, no response. Then, TNT sent a knee into my midsection that felt like a cannonball. I almost puked in the ring. I fell to my knees, coughing and choking, and the crowd was quieting down in confusion. The only thing I could think of to do was to sell my ass off.

“Powerslam,”

TNT growled in my ear as he pulled me up by my arm. Again I was whipped to the ropes, this time running straight into the massive bear hug of TNT. He made sure I felt how tight he had I cinched before tugging upwards and twisting around. I jumped up with the move and sold it like he was twice my size – which isn’t much of an exaggeration. I bounced off of the canvas like a stone skipped across a creek, and slid out under the bottom rope to catch my breath.

I decided to ad lib a little and made it seem like I was advancing on Valentine in a threatening manner. She put her hands up in mock fright, but her eyes told me she was in the dark as far as TNT’s actions went.

“You guys set me up,”

I growled at her, my hands cocked back as if to slap her.

“No, no, I swear,”

she said, shaking her head furiously.

“I didn’t know.”

“You better tell me the truth, Val,”

I was having trouble keeping the conversation ambiguous enough to keep the crowd out of it, especially since it had died down so much. I could see the KAQ scouts near the back talking to one another, shrugging, shaking their heads. My shot was going down the drain.

The back of my neck erupted in pain. TNT must have come around the ring behind me and clubbed me with his forearm. I stumbled forward and tripped into Valentine, who fell backwards and instinctively grabbed at me. We landed in a tangle right next to the guardrail. That scene got the crowd hollering again, and I caught a few camera flashes as I looked around gathering my bearings.

“Great,”

I said, imagining where those photos might surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,”

she said, and then I felt a fist crack me in the back of the skull. Everything was lights and shadows then, nothing solid. I felt myself getting to my feet, going through the motions of being pummeled outside of the ring, and getting up again – over and over. At one point I remember TNT telling me to backdrop him, but when I bent forward for the move he sent a knee flying into my broken face.

“Get up, Loverboy,”

he spat in my ear, dragging me up again and rolling me into the ring.

“Move,”

he said, springboarding over the top rope into a modified legdrop. I rolled away and he hit the canvas with a loud bang, but, again, he brushed it off and got right back up. The referee, Paulie, threw up the hand signal to end the match. The crowd was beyond dead, half of them had left for the concession stands or the merch tables. I looked towards the KAQ scouts and saw them still watching us intently.

TNT grabbed me by the head in a Muy Thai clinch, bringing his forehead close to mine.

“What’s the spot?”

I asked, out of breath,

“We gotta take this home.”

“Gimme your finish.”

“What? No way,”

he grabbed my ears in his fists and twisted.

“You gimme that fucking kick, boy.”

“Fuck you, TNT, I’m not letting you no-sell my finish.”

What was left of the crowd was starting to boo after watching what looked like two grown men hugging for five minutes, so TNT shoved me back in the ropes and stuck his chin out with a smirk, waiting for the kick. I thought about just swallowing my pride until I remembered what TNT himself had told me on my first day with CFW: “If you no-sell me, I’ll tag you for real.” I came rebounding from the ropes, looked TNT right in the eye, and kicked him as hard as I could in the face.

I felt a crunch beneath my foot and knew I’d broken teeth. TNT and I both collapsed to the canvas, the difference being that he was snoring louder than a leaf blower. I lay on my back looking over at the two empty seats where the scouts had been sitting and listening to TNT sleep through Paulie counting to ten, ending the match as a double count out – the shittiest finish you could have.

We blew it.

2016 – Los Angeles

In the dimly lit common room of the bustling strip club, Love on the Rox, the CCWF/IWGP Universal Champion “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane plays it low-key for once. Like a starlet hiding from paparazzi, Loverboy is dressed down in sunglasses, a black hoodie, and nondescript jeans. In his corner booth, he sits and he swirls the stick in his Long Island, watching intently as the redhead on stage finishes her routine.

The men nearer to the stage applaud for the buxom stripper as she collects the dozens of crumpled singles from the dance floor. Loverboy tilts his sunglasses down his nose with one finger and finds the camera as he sits, sipping from the drink.

With a beckoning gesture, Loverboy draws the camera operator closer, until the screen is filled with a low profile shot of his smiling face. He takes another sip of his drink, shaking the ice cubes within the glass, before finally addressing the XWF viewers.

“Poor Trax.”

The Megastar punctuates his thought with a chuckle, smirking and shaking his head.

“I honestly let myself believe for a few minutes there that “Mister F’n Dumbfuck” had gotten a clue. After he spent the better part of ten minutes putting me over almost as good as I can do it myself, he goes and falls back into step with the company line of bullshit. Hey, dude, I understand. I can’t even completely blame you. I was the guy who got promised the world and all the money I could handle way before you were, man. I completely get the obsession with chasing the dream. You lie to yourself every morning, noon, and night, convincing yourself that just because it didn’t go the way it was supposed to THIS time doesn’t mean it won’t go that way the NEXT time. I guess maybe I was naïve to think you’d finally opened your fucking eyes and realized that there are no winners in this fucking game except the signatures on the bottoms of the checks. I guess maybe I was foolish for thinking that maybe you had been paying attention to the ways this company, this profession, had treated your heroes, like myself. See dude, when I came in here I didn’t know a damn soul, other than my old friend Gator… and he had only been here a week or two when I signed on. I went from being a big fish in a lot of little ponds to just another little fish in a fucking ocean. I rolled up my sleeves and I got to work, dude. I spent a year clawing my way up the ranks, knocking down barrier after barrier, beating legend after legend. It took me a YEAR to get where I am in the XWF. Along the way I watched whichever new golden boy the bigwigs fell in love with get catapulted ahead of me. Unworthy wannabes like Justin Sane, and yeah, Trax… you. You went from… what… nothing at all to an X-Treme Title shot? And you managed to beat a big

who shoulda never had the strap in the first place, then proceeded to just rest on your ass and barely defend the fuckin’ thing just long enough to get awarded that god damn briefcase? Huh. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Sounds a lot like the current XWF Universal Champion version of you, Trax. The guy who didn’t mind taking a shortcut to the top, again, and then hold the title hostage, again. Hey, bonus points for being consistent I guess, dude.”

Loverboy finishes his drink, holding the glass high in order for the scantily clad cocktail waitress to see him and bring another. He slides the perky brunette a twenty when she hands him his refill.

“Hey dude, at least you acknowledge the test you have in front of you. At least you recognize that you’re about to go into a match that’s essentially unwinnable for you. I’m not really a betting man, dude, but I think if we were to check the Vegas odds going into this match, it’d have me favored 3:1. One on one, surrounded by lumberjacks, iron man rules, last man standing – whatever. You think you’re slick trying to throw some shade on me by bringing up my friends in the CCWF. You try to score some sort of verbal points against me bringing up the defense against Ginger Snaps – who yeah, isn’t even half the threat you are - and suggesting that I couldn’t have beaten her without help. Dude. Come on. The outcome of that match was never in question. I just used a couple of aces from my deck to spare the viewing audience an extra few minutes of watching a little girl get beaten on live television. Trax, jesus man, are you blind? Have you not seen what goes on around here? When was the last time you saw an important match that didn’t involve some asshole running in and getting involved? When was the last time a title got defended without Maverick taking a shit on someone or that little pussy Frodo trying to stick his dick into someone? Shit. You brought up when I lost the Hart Championship like I just shat the bed or something… do you not remember not one but TWO different jerkoffs jumping into the ring and laying me out during that match? I was SICK and fucking TIRED of having my hard-earned opportunities flushed down the fucking toilet because of people with a hard-on for sucking up my spotlight, dude! From Maverick costing me a title win over Guppy Parsh to Pest fucking me over in the shittiest match I’ve ever been a part of against Justin Sane. Over and over and OVER again, I was getting fucked over by outside interference and backstage bullshit. And what happened when I made sure those odds were evened? What happened when I made sure there wasn’t any interference or general fuckery from the wannabes in the undercard? I WON. So yeah, you’re GOD DAMN RIGHT I made sure I had people watching my back when I needed it. But for you to suggest I didn’t put in the work? Dude. Watch the match again. That was forty minutes of a maestro at work, leading the orchestra along to a thunderous cresceno. A fucking artist building a masterpiece. I took that ditzy little twat apart, piece by piece, and then I put her out of her misery before she started crying on camera – just like I did a month before that when I took the most dominant champion ever seen in the XWF and sent him to the back of the line. Oh, but you want to try to tear that victory down by saying I only pinned Gator. As if you could ever pin either one of them. Dude, it doesn’t matter which one of them had their shoulders down, the stat that matters is “Doctor Louis D’Ville lost the Universal Championship to “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane.” That’s what’s in the record books. That’s what matters. You? You’re running around with a title you didn’t even actually win and you’re questioning the biggest main event in company history? Oh fuck you, man, just fuck you. If you wanna talk shit about a match of mine, then talk shit about my match with Maverick. I could have overdosed on Dilaudid before that bullshit and still won it clean, but that’s not MY fuckin’ fault.”

Another chuckle, followed by another long sip of the drink. On the stage, the lights take on a purple hue and the unmistakable opening chords of Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” start to skam across the state of the art sound system. The DJ in his booth begins hyping the crowd for the next dancer.

“Boys we have got a treat for you here tonight! Welcome now to the stage, Love on the Rox’s very own main attraction… the sensual, the seductive, the SEXY… ROXY COTTON!”

Loverboy sits in silence for a moment, watching his former fiancée glide onto the stage like her six-inch stiletto heels gave her the power to fly. She wraps her lithe body around the pole and begin to swing around, garnering wolf whistles and howls from the eager men in the crowd. A flurry of cash hits the stage like a California snowstorm.

Finally, Loverboy pulls his eyes away from the beautiful woman on stage.

“Trax, man… you got me all wrong. You think my heart has shrunk and I’ve grown cold and tired on this business? Hell no. See, it’s saying things like that that makes it hard for me to remember that I really do respect you, dude. No, Trax, I’ve eaten, drank, breathed and LIVED for the business of pro wrestling since the first time I saw someone with their hands raised inside the squared circle. You and me aren’t even that different in that regard, man. Two New York kids who ended up going coast to coast to find the gold at the end of the rainbow. I’ll never lose my passion for this. But what I HAVE lost my patience for is the song and dance of the leeches in their three piece suits, telling me how high to jump and who to lie down for. As of right now, Loverboy doesn’t lie down. You’re gonna have to do more than beat me to rip my career away from me, dude… you’re gonna have to damn near kill me. And I’m doing that shit FOR YOU, Trax! I’m doing it for you and for each and every one of the boys in the back. For the Austin Fernando’s and the Mason Princes of the world, the kids who haven’t gotten there yet, haven’t had their swagger clipped like an eagle’s wings to keep them under wraps. I’m changing the fucking WORLD, Trax, and you have the honor of being CHAPTER FUCKING ONE. You should be thanking me.”

Draining the glass once again, Loverboy slams it down onto the corner of the table, lifting an index finger as the pretty cocktail waitress walks by again. Once more she brings him a fresh Long Island, and once more he hands her a crisp twenty dollar bill.

“See Trax what you forget about when flip flopping between agreeing with me about how great I am and turning around to suckle on the sour teat of the XWF machine, dude, is that friends or no friends, favorite or no favorite, plans or no plans, I’m as good as it fucking gets. I’m the measuring stick in the world of professional wrestling and you, just like when we line up at the urinals, are a few inches short, dude. You’ve got a better shot of winning the Powerball and getting a suckjob from President Obama than you do of beating me at Snow Job. What you REALLY should be thinking about, man, is what you’re going to do after Snow Job. What you’re going to do once you finally have that burden of carrying around your FAKE, EMPTY championship around. I’m willing to bet that you’re looking forward to getting your ass kicked by me almost as much as I’m looking forward to doing the honors. Then you can go home, get on top of your best buddy Paul “Sybian Machine” Hunter and bounce up and down on him until your little purple clit shoots off like a lawn sprinkler all over his flabby chest. Then you can wipe him down and get started on your new life as a FORMER champion, a FORMER relevant performer, a FORMER main eventer, and a current and forever Hashtag, Megastar Wannabe.”

On the stage, Roxy Cotton finishes her song. The dance floor covered in green bills, and a dozen more sticking out of the garter on her golden right thigh. She smiles and waves at some of the men, whispering in the ear of a man who hands her a stack of bills, nodding. Gathering her top and all of the money, she slips away from the stage and Loverboy is once again left with his thoughts and his drink.

“Trax, baby… I’m doing you the biggest favor I know how to do for another man. You think you’re famous now? You think you made it? Just WAIT until you get your name mentioned in the same breath as mine, dude. It’s like staring into the fucking sun. Chasing a shooting star. And for you? It’s like spitting into the god damn wind. ‘Cuz dude… everything you are? Everything you’ve ever been? Is something that I’ve already flown past at light speed. You’ve got ONE destiny. ONE possible outcome to the “Trax as XWF Champion” story. And, in all reality, you are about to embark on becoming the ONE thing that I will never, ever be. YOU, my friend, get to be “Loverboy” Vinnie Lane’s newest BITCH.”

Loverboy slams another emptied glass onto the table, shaking the ice cubes inside and turning a few heads from nearby tables towards him. He waves them off, and starts to wave down the waitress once again when a silken voice behind him cuts him off.

“Vinnie? What are you doing here?”

And there she is. The angelic Roxy Cotton standing mere inches away from him for the first time in months.

For the first time in maybe his entire life, the Megastar is at a loss for words.

“Hey babe… I… I guess I missed you.”

The scene fades to black.

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