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**Vincent Lane** · (03-04-2018)

I poured another shot of whiskey from the bottle of Jack Daniel's and threw it down my gullet. Then, without even setting the glass down on the counter, I started pouring again. Whiskey has been a sort of constant in my professional life. It was my painkiller of choice in my twenties when I was still working my way up, before people starting passing around somas and oxys like they were handing out Halloween candy. I liked it a lot back then. Maybe a little too much. Things got out of hand every now and then, but I was young and it was to be expected. I even named my finisher, the Black Label Driver, after a bottle of the good stuff. It got to the point that people associated me with throwing back shots and if they needed to talk to me the first place they'd go is the local watering hole of whatever Florida town we were in that day.

It was at a bar in Tampa, the Yucatan Liquor Stand, when I met Nikki. She was a dancer at Thee Doll House and was a well-known ring rat, but I was never one to judge anybody for anything like that. I was just taken by her take-no-shit attitude and her jet black hair. Her arms and legs covered in pinup tattoos and her incredibly athletic body didn't hurt matters either. She was one of the few strippers in the Bay area who didn't have big bolt-on fake tits, and she didn't need them. Her chest being undersized became meaningless once you looked into her amber eyes or smelled the sweet lavender from her skin. I remember the first words she ever spoke to me, because it was so unusual for a woman to approach a man first – especially a dancer, who was used to not having to lift a finger to get a man's attention.

"What are you buying me?"

She'd said, with a sort of light rasp, most likely brought on by the cigarette between he fingers.

"Say what?"

"What are you buying me to drink? You want to buy me a drink, don't you?"

She smiled as she said it, and it was less of a demand for a drink and more of a request for my attention. I was pretty dense sometimes, but even I knew this was a chance that I shouldn't pass up.

"What do you drink?"

"Whatever you buy."

"Whiskey then?"

"Ooo, good choice, loverboy. Make mine a double, though."

"Loverboy? What's that supposed to mean?"

So yeah. She christened me, in a way. She gave me the moniker I'd get famous under. But that night, I was just Vinnie Lane. An underneath wrestler with no real fame or fortune. I was lucky enough to have enough in my checking account to cover the sizable tab she and I built up that night as we threw back multiple shots of whiskey in between make out and grope sessions. She was wild. She wanted me to take her into the bathroom and get it on, but the door was locked – that's what prompted us to pay the tab and head out.

There is something special about driving over the Howard Frankland bridge at midnight with a stripper who could have come right off the Suicide Girls webpage sucking you for all she's worth while you try to see through the fog of your own drunken stupor. She lived in St. Pete, in a little bungalow right by the Trop. By the time we got to her place I was ready to pop from the way her expert tongue had spent the drive over teasing and pleasing me. She knew what she was doing. The rest of the night was a blur of sweat and sex and eventually falling asleep without ever catching our breath.

It was a good night.

I poured another shot. Played with it a little. Felt tears behind my eyes and realized I hadn't poisoned my brain quite enough yet. I tossed the shot down my throat just as Roxy entered the kitchen with a concerned look on her face. She'd been giving me time and space ever since I'd gotten home from the scene out in West Hollywood and finished dealing with the police. It was late. Four AM at least. But I knew sleep wouldn't be coming to me any time soon. Roxy was doing her best to comfort me, but we both knew it wasn't going to be that easy. I didn't want to take anything out on her so I had told her I just wanted to be alone.

"Baby?"

Sheepishly, half in and half out of the kitchen entryway, she quietly nudges for my attention with a soothing voice.

"Are you okay?"

"No."

I didn't have to snap at her the way I did. None of it was her fault, of course. I just couldn't help being mad at everyone and everything. Myself. Roxy. And, of course, D'Ville. Part of me blamed myself for not seeing Doc's barter for exactly what it was. I've known the guy long enough to know better, after all. Another part of me blamed Roxy for being the reason I made a deal with him to begin with. That's crazy, of course, she carries no blame for that. If I hadn't made that deal when I did she would be dead.

But Bobbi might be alive.

"Just leave me alone, Rox. It isn't the right time."

I saw my words hit her like slaps across the face. Every one of them could have drawn blood had they carried physical weight. But she understood me. She understood the fight I was having internally. Hell, we had gone through the murder of her sister while we were together. If anyone could empathize even a little bit with what I'd had to see and hear earlier tonight, it was her. But I sent her away anyway; chased her from the room like I was shooing a cat off the dinner table.

"Just go."

Her mouth flattened. I think it would have been better if I hadn't removed the anger from my voice for those last two words. It somehow seemed to do more damage without emotion in them. Maybe because anger made sense, but cold and uncaring distance didn't.

"I'm sorry."

Anyone who knows Roxy Cotton knows that an apology isn't easy to come by from her. But here she was, completely prostrating herself and acting servile just for my benefit. I didn't even look at her as she scurried away and went back to our bedroom where she'd end up sleeping alone. No, I was still too busy being full of hate and whiskey. But not enough whiskey. I poured another. Drank it. Poured another. The bottle was getting a little light, but I needed to get the ghosts out of my head. They were still too loud. The memories from barely two hours ago were winning the fight and I needed to double down.

"Yes. Yeah, officer. That's her. That's Bobbi."

I had gotten through the identification without breaking down, but I was never going to forget saying those words. And when they pulled the sheet over her face right there in West Hollywood Park, I thought I could just walk back to my car, which I'd parked off of El Tovar near the Sur. Across a few spaces. I don't remember the drive, but I know it took way less time than it legally should have. I only got a few steps onto the asphalt when my knees went out and I fell down and started bawling in the middle of North San Vicente.

They told me she was beaten. That she was strangled. They saw the question I couldn't force out and told me there hadn't been signs of any kind of a sexual assault, but that they wouldn't know for sure until later. They also told me her fingers were bruised and bloody, because she fought back. Good. She deserved better. She always had deserved better. Better than a fatherless home and a junkie ex stripper for a mother. Better than being an interloper in some self-absorbed wannabe celebrity wrestler's life. And definitely better than being killed in the middle of a park just for being who she was. I cried in the street until I didn't have any more breath in my lungs, and then I cried some more. The lassitude of Los Angles was never more apparent to me than it had been tonight. People drifted by me as I fell apart and they didn't even notice. TMZ wasn't there. The paps were busy chasing a Hilton or a Kardashian. The denizens of WeHo just wandered like NPCs through the lowest point in my life. It was all-consuming for me, and absolutely nothing to them.

Through my tears I remember seeing Cedars-Sinai. Less than a mile down the road. My daughter, my only child, was killed within walking distance of the best medicine money could buy. Life was nothing if it wasn't bitterly and violently ironic as often as it could possibly be.

Now the bottle was nearly empty. My mouth was feeling fat and numb. My vision was swirling and liquid, like I was looking up at the sky from underneath ocean. The ghosts were slowly dying, but I knew this was only the first night of thousands, and that every one of them would be this way, forever.

"Hello again, my friend."

My breath caught in my throat. I sat stone still until my lungs burned and I had no choice but to suck in oxygen, which came with a freezing feeling like winter wind pushing through the gaping hole in my chest.

"Why..."

It wasn't a question. More of a prompt. But I knew why, and he knew I knew. Expecting Doctor D'Ville to show his cards, though, was almost as foolish as betting against him to begin with.

"Why? Why what? Why do we die? Why do we live?"

"Why are you in my house?"

"To check on my investment. You had... a bad night. I need to be sure you haven't decided to cash out your chips and end the game."

"Game?"

So much for the whiskey. It melted in my blood like steel dropped into a smelting pit. I turned on my stool and watched as the three Doc D'Ville's standing behind me came together and merged into one.

"You think this is a game? This is fun for you?"

"Oh Mister Loverboy... don't be so dramatic. Everything is a game. Whether it be a game of chance or a game of skill, that is to be debated at another place and another time... but never doubt that all of us are nothing more than pieces on a larger board, jumping and kinging for something's galactic pleasure."

Well this was new. I had never known the Doctor to be as forthcoming as he seemed to be with that revelation. He didn't ring as philosophical to me then, he sounded like someone reading a recipe from the back of a box. He was simply telling me the truth, not promulgating some cause.

"Why me though Doc? Why? Ever since I stepped foot into XWF, you've been right there like my own shadow. I saw you in my periphery in every match. I felt your presence through every moment. Why won't you leave me alone? Pick someone else? Why?"

"Mister Loverboy... please do understand. These things... they have rules."

"But WHY ME!? You could have gone for Gator, you could have gone for Harrison, you could have gone for anyone on the roster..."

There was a gleam in his eye then. Did he smile?

"Do you believe we have only been together since 2014, Mister Loverboy? Do you think we were simply random strangers? Two ships passing in the night at the right moment, in the XWF? Are you indeed that naïve?"

He stepped forward then and sat beside me. Without asking, he took the bottle from my hand and produced a glass of his own, filling it to the brim as well as mine. The level in the bottle never changed.

"Think. Remember. Go back to your childhood. Remember why you were able to overcome the bullies in your school – the ones who were on that plane. Remember why you were able to escape unharmed from the auto accident that took your grandfather. Ask yourself from where did you find the fire in your belly to move across the country and pursue your dreams in Florida? Why were you so LUCKY for your entire life, Mister Loverboy, when so many around you were decidedly NOT? Drink."

The black liquid slithered down Doc's dry mouth, moving almost of its own volition and wetting a tongue that could have been a Utah Salt Flat. The glass in his hand was impossibly dry and clear.

"I think I've had enough."

I told him and I started to rise from the stool. Then a hand like an anvil fell on top of mine.

"Nonsense. I'll tell you when you have had enough. I always have. Now... DRINK."

And then, almost against my will, I raised the shot glass one more time to my mouth. When the thick ichor pushed its way between my lips it had a weight to it. A heat. I didn't so much swallow it as much as I felt it fight its way down my throat and attach itself to my stomach. The effect was immediate. Everything was gone. All the hurt. All the emotion. All the thought. All the blame. My mind was filled with nothing but a loud buzzing sound, as if I were inside of a beehive. Shadows darted across my vision. I felt stronger than before. Younger. Doctor D'Ville, it seemed, had given me the drug I had been jonesing for all this time. Just in time for Turning Point. The only thing missing was a heartbeat.

"Good boy. Now sleep."

And sleep I did, after watching as the countertop flew towards me in slow motion.

Once again, Vinnie Lane sits alone in his darkened room. We see finally that the room is dark for a reason, as the camera catches glimpses of film negatives hanging from wires strewn across overhead. A red light shines in a far corner, giving the only illumination to the small room.

"James..."

Clapping. Vinnie's hands slapped together like a weightlifter applying powder before going for a new personal best.

"Bravo, James. I think you turned a corner, I really do. Oh, and before I forget... congratulation on the championship! Eight times, is it? Impressive, truly. I mean, you're no Peter Gilmour, but who is, really? He's the X-Treme Icon and another one who calls himself the greatest of all time. Just ask him. I guess that's the problem with giving ourselves nicknames, isn't it? "The Crusher," or "The Warrior," or, your favorite, "The GOAT." We can just pick and choose what our names are in this business, and everyone just accepts it as gospel. No one asks for proof. You have throngs of little Raven wannabes clinging to your short hairs because they believe you to be the greatest EVER... and they believe it because you say so. It's an amazing feeling, isn't it? The way your veins start to bulge and fill with their adoration like they boiled it and pushed it through a syringe... and they might as well have. It's a drug, after all. An addiction. I know you know the feeling, don't you? The NEED to get more and more and MORE from the madding crowd. Until it stops your heart. Until it builds an aneurysm in your brain. Until is discards you like the meaningless sheath that you are and finds a new host to feed off of. Rinse. Repeat. Fame is a succubus, James, and it will fuck you until you're empty. Fame is a fire so hot is leaves nothing of you but sand. And the world turns around again, with a new hero."

Vinnie pauses, his eyes wet in the darkroom. He pulls a strip of negative from above him and holds it close to the camera. The four images it shows are clear, if reversed. Vinnie Lane slapping James Raven on the back. Vinnie in the ring and reaching for Theo Pryce on his back before him. Vinnie rolled into a pin. Vinnie sitting in the ring, defeated, while Theo's arm is raised in the background.

"But I promised you congratulations, not a rambling philosophical diatribe that you can get from any washed up rock star's comeback lyrics. I'm not telling you anything new there. But I AM going to spill the beans on my little secret, finally. You see, James... you played a pivotal role in me proving something to the world that was a long time coming. Do you know how many times I would go into message boards, YouTube comments sections, Reddit threads, and the like just to see what the fan of the XWF were saying? Do you know how many times I was met with "this was good but back when James Raven was there it was GREAT..." Or "Back in 2008 XWF really peaked and they've been going downhill ever since?" Do you know that even on the upload of my first Universal Championship win, one of the highest rated shows in company history, there were trolls lingering in the shadows just to mention your name? Do you know how that felt, James? Do you know what it's like to have the greatest moment of your entire life tossed aside by some keyboard warrior who isn't ready to take down his James Raven poster just yet? Of course you don't. Why would you? You're the GOAT, right?"

Vinnie laughs then, tossing the negative to the floor and looking at the developing fluid on his hands, rubbing them together.

"I needed to vindicate myself, James. I needed to quiet that little noise that buzzed around in my ear every time I tried to enjoy my life and accept my place among the greats. I worked TOO GOD DAMNED HARD to get what I got to just sit there and listen to some little FUCK tell me you were still better. So I made a decision. I made the decision to get you here and expose the man behind the curtain for the entire world to see... but I knew I couldn't be so crude as to just call you out. Why would the GREAT James Raven deign to meet someone he's never heard of in the squared circle? He's retired! He's the best! He has NOTHING to gain. I needed a carrot for you to chase after, Raven, and I knew there was one thing and one thing only that would do the job. The XWF itself. The albatross you carried on your shoulders. I could give you the chance to SAVE the XWF, just like you had been saying all this time needed to happen! I could give you the ability to come in and be the hero you knew you were. I have never seen a fish more willing to swallow a hook than you, James Raven."

Vinnie smiles wide then, his eyes lighting up with self-aggrandized joy.

"James, at High Stakes you walked up to the table and you went all-in, just like I told you that you needed to do. You bet it all. But you forgot the most important rule of them all, James... you forgot that the house never loses. James, you've been thinking for months that I screwed up. That I got full of myself and tagged myself into that six man match against the Kings because I had a big head and wanted to steal a pin over an arch nemesis. You have been thinking that I robbed you of the chance to win. But James... you never HAD a chance to win. My deck was loaded, James. I knew from the opening bell what was going to happen at the end of that match. Theo Pryce knew it. John Samuels knew it. John Madison knew it. The XWF was never in any danger, you idiot. Do you really think I would just put ownership of the entire company on the line in a wrestling match? That I would pull two corpses out of retirement and trust them to keep my job intact? Do you think I'm THAT stupid, James? We... and by 'we' I mean The Kings and I... went into High Stakes with one mission and one mission only: to silence those naysayers who still held the James Ravens and the Jonathyn Browns up over the modern product like father holding candy too high over his son's head and telling him to jump. And what we got was exactly that. A massive buyrate that ended with you and Brown sitting on the outside looking in and a ring full of celebrating 'new schoolers' as you like to call them. It was official. James Raven LOST to the new blood. And it was ALL. MY. IDEA."

Vinnie's words fade away in the room as he continues to stare straight ahead, breathing heavily from the excitement.

"So thank you, James. Thank you for playing along, whether you did it willingly or not. Thank you for doing EXACTLY what you were told every step of the way. Thank you for climbing up on that god damned cross and letting me drive the nails in. It couldn't happen to a nicer guy. I'll see you in Cairo, GOAT, and I'll drive that crown of thorns right through your fucking skull, and then I'll put you to bed once and for all. Thank you for your service to the legacy of the XWF... and say hi to Blizzard when you get home. Let him know there's always room for another martyr."

Vinnie winks then and waves to the camera as the scene fades to black.

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode "Loverboy" - Old Number 7
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