Post by vastrix on Jun 7, 2020 23:50:04 GMT -5
Nathan Parker stands outside his trailer, a huge bonfire going not far away. Looks like he has a couch with a few pallets stacked on top of it. An empty can of gasoline sits on the porch to the trailer if you’re wondering how the fire got started. Nathan drinks from his bottle of scotch, clearly blitzed out of his mind.
Parker: Menace. Is your name really Dennis? As in Dennis the Menace? Were you trouble for the next door old grumpy dude? I bet that hair under the mask is blonde.
Nathan takes another long swig of the scotch, dribbling it down from the corners of his mouth as he does so. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Parker: Menace is going to do what to me? Stretch me, fight me, hurt me? Bullshit. I will fucking believe it when I fucking see it fucking happening. Think I care? I fucking don’t. See how my f-fucking-bombs aren’t bleeped the fuck out? I fucking got pull.
Nathan takes another long pull of the scotch, staggering backwards to lean against the porch as he does so. He remains there with a sloppy smile.
Parker: You think this song is about you. Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you? You fucking bitch! This song isn’t fucking about you!
Nathan blinks, realizing that there’s not even a song playing. He finishes off the bottle of scotch and busts the bottle over his own head. He throws the neck of the bottle into the fire. Blood runs down his face from a gash in his forehead, but he just smiles like a goofy, drunk ass. He takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, setting the pack down upon the railing of the porch.
Parker: I’m not afraid of getting my ass kicked, Menace. I’ve kicked my own ass fucking daily. Hell, I’ll die in that fucking wrestling ring if it means taking you down in the mother fucking process. I’ll break my bottle over your fucking head. I’ll...where’s my fucking scotch?
Nathan smokes his cigarette, looking around the porch to see where he’s set down his bottle of scotch. When his hand goes up to his head to find the blood trickling down his face, he remembers that he drank it all.
Parker: Fuck me.
Nathan gets his cell phone out of his pocket and dials it. He places the phone by his ear and begins to speak into it once it’s been answered with his cigarette flapping around between his lips.
Parker: Hey, Mick. Mick. Fuck you, Mick!
Nathan blinks, remembering that wasn’t what he was calling his friend for.
Parker: Hey, Mick! I got a match against some dude named Menace! Why don’t you bring over a bottle of hooch and we can fucking celebrate my upcoming win against that muscle bound fuck up? You gotta work the bar? Hey. Pub Hub me some shit. Put it on my tab. I’m fucking good for it! Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie some vodka, some rum, and some whiskey. A bottle each. Fuck yeah I’d like some wings!
Nathan hangs up the cell phone, putting it on the porch rail as well. He flicks his cigarette butt into the fire and lights a new one.
Parker: Dennis, you don’t mind if I fucking call you Dennis. Do you? I fucking thought it was fine, but I fucking thought that I would fucking ask. If I have to break your fucking bullneck to make sure that you stay the fuck still when I come off the top rope for my mighty fucking elbow drop, I fucking will. Don’t fucking test me, Dennis. I will break your fucking bones one at a fucking time just for the pleasure of your fucking screams of fucking pain.
A young man walks up to Nathan with a bag in one hand and a basket of wings in the other. Nathan lives like two blocks away from Mick’s bar, Cats. The young man, whose name is Jerry, places the goods on the porch and hurries away. He does have a scar on his right shoulder from where Nathan bit him after forgetting why he was coming.
Parker: Thanks, Jerry! I appreciate all that you do! When I call Mick next, I’ll tell him to put down five fucking stars!
Jerry: Fuck you, Nathan!
Nathan laughs, walking over and grabbing a bottle of rum. He unscrews the lid and takes a long pull from it.
Parker: Fuck you too, Jerry!
Nathan lights himself a third cigarette, having plumb lost what he did with the second one (it’s burning on the ground from where it fell out of his mouth).
Parker: Dennis. I asked you if I can fucking call you Dennis, right? What the fuck ever. I’m going to fucking call you Dennis the Menace. You think that just because you have more fucking muscles than god, that you’ll be fucking me up. Jesus H Fucking Christ, if I had a dollar every time someone said they was going to fuck me up? I’d have...well fuck I don’t know what I would have, but it would be a lot of fucking money. So, Dennis, I’m going to walk into this match, kick your ass up one side and down the other, and then walk out the winner. I’m going to…
Nathan frowns, having lost his train of thought. He smokes his cigarette in silence while taking pulls from the bottle of rum.
Parker: I’m going to nap a little bit and get back to you.
Without so much of a warning, Nathan drops onto his face and is out cold.
Parker: Menace. Is your name really Dennis? As in Dennis the Menace? Were you trouble for the next door old grumpy dude? I bet that hair under the mask is blonde.
Nathan takes another long swig of the scotch, dribbling it down from the corners of his mouth as he does so. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Parker: Menace is going to do what to me? Stretch me, fight me, hurt me? Bullshit. I will fucking believe it when I fucking see it fucking happening. Think I care? I fucking don’t. See how my f-fucking-bombs aren’t bleeped the fuck out? I fucking got pull.
Nathan takes another long pull of the scotch, staggering backwards to lean against the porch as he does so. He remains there with a sloppy smile.
Parker: You think this song is about you. Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you? You fucking bitch! This song isn’t fucking about you!
Nathan blinks, realizing that there’s not even a song playing. He finishes off the bottle of scotch and busts the bottle over his own head. He throws the neck of the bottle into the fire. Blood runs down his face from a gash in his forehead, but he just smiles like a goofy, drunk ass. He takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, setting the pack down upon the railing of the porch.
Parker: I’m not afraid of getting my ass kicked, Menace. I’ve kicked my own ass fucking daily. Hell, I’ll die in that fucking wrestling ring if it means taking you down in the mother fucking process. I’ll break my bottle over your fucking head. I’ll...where’s my fucking scotch?
Nathan smokes his cigarette, looking around the porch to see where he’s set down his bottle of scotch. When his hand goes up to his head to find the blood trickling down his face, he remembers that he drank it all.
Parker: Fuck me.
Nathan gets his cell phone out of his pocket and dials it. He places the phone by his ear and begins to speak into it once it’s been answered with his cigarette flapping around between his lips.
Parker: Hey, Mick. Mick. Fuck you, Mick!
Nathan blinks, remembering that wasn’t what he was calling his friend for.
Parker: Hey, Mick! I got a match against some dude named Menace! Why don’t you bring over a bottle of hooch and we can fucking celebrate my upcoming win against that muscle bound fuck up? You gotta work the bar? Hey. Pub Hub me some shit. Put it on my tab. I’m fucking good for it! Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie some vodka, some rum, and some whiskey. A bottle each. Fuck yeah I’d like some wings!
Nathan hangs up the cell phone, putting it on the porch rail as well. He flicks his cigarette butt into the fire and lights a new one.
Parker: Dennis, you don’t mind if I fucking call you Dennis. Do you? I fucking thought it was fine, but I fucking thought that I would fucking ask. If I have to break your fucking bullneck to make sure that you stay the fuck still when I come off the top rope for my mighty fucking elbow drop, I fucking will. Don’t fucking test me, Dennis. I will break your fucking bones one at a fucking time just for the pleasure of your fucking screams of fucking pain.
A young man walks up to Nathan with a bag in one hand and a basket of wings in the other. Nathan lives like two blocks away from Mick’s bar, Cats. The young man, whose name is Jerry, places the goods on the porch and hurries away. He does have a scar on his right shoulder from where Nathan bit him after forgetting why he was coming.
Parker: Thanks, Jerry! I appreciate all that you do! When I call Mick next, I’ll tell him to put down five fucking stars!
Jerry: Fuck you, Nathan!
Nathan laughs, walking over and grabbing a bottle of rum. He unscrews the lid and takes a long pull from it.
Parker: Fuck you too, Jerry!
Nathan lights himself a third cigarette, having plumb lost what he did with the second one (it’s burning on the ground from where it fell out of his mouth).
Parker: Dennis. I asked you if I can fucking call you Dennis, right? What the fuck ever. I’m going to fucking call you Dennis the Menace. You think that just because you have more fucking muscles than god, that you’ll be fucking me up. Jesus H Fucking Christ, if I had a dollar every time someone said they was going to fuck me up? I’d have...well fuck I don’t know what I would have, but it would be a lot of fucking money. So, Dennis, I’m going to walk into this match, kick your ass up one side and down the other, and then walk out the winner. I’m going to…
Nathan frowns, having lost his train of thought. He smokes his cigarette in silence while taking pulls from the bottle of rum.
Parker: I’m going to nap a little bit and get back to you.
Without so much of a warning, Nathan drops onto his face and is out cold.