Post by Justin on Jan 21, 2021 18:42:09 GMT -5
“FRANK!”
Previously, The Appalachian Nightmare had been perched precariously atop his front porch rocking chair. The tell-tell signs of a raging drunk-on were littered around him. An empty mason jar. A broken spitoon. The permeating smell of corn whiskey. It was all there. To his credit, in the dead of a sleep-coma Frank had kept his balance pretty goddamned well.
That is, until that shrill voice pierced the void of his addled brain.
“FRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANK!”
Imagine the most cartoonishly absurd sequence of a giant hillbilly waking up out of an alcohol-induced coma only to find himself ass-over-teakettle and flapping his arms, doing his best Wile E. Coyote as he tried to find purchase in mid-air before falling and landing in a heap of broken rocker and bruised ass, back, and ribs.
Now, stop imagining, that’s what happened.
The resulting mushroom cloud of dirt, dust, dead fauna and ancient pottery only added to the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.
“Frank?”
The voice from inside, still every bit as shrill as before, took on a pensive tone after the commotion of the fall. Don’t expect that to last.
“What?!” Frank half-asked half-exclaimed. Impatiently he shouted again, “I SAID WHAT IN THE SAM HELL DO YOU WANT, WOMAN?!”
“GODDAMMIT, FRANK…”
Wait for it...
“THERE’S A GYAAT-DANG RAY-COON IN THE FRIDGEDATOR!”
There it is!
Frank does his best to pull himself up out of the pile that he’d fallen into, and as he’s re-strapping his overalls he contemplates the situation at hand.
“There’s a what?” he asked. “Why’n the hell you done gone and put a ray-coon in that there ice-box?”
The Smoky Mountain Mastodon cocks a bushy eyebrow.
“More importantly, can it be ett?”
“FER CRYIN’ OUT LOUD FRANK! I AIN’T PUT IT IN THERE, IT'S ALIVE! AN’ HE’S WAVIN’ HIS LITTLE HAND AT ME LIKE WE’S GONNA BE FRIENDS!”
The Southern States Champion’s eyes go wide.
“WHY IN THE DAMN HELL IS THERE A LIVE ‘COON IN THE DAMN FRIDGERFRATOR?”
Frank trudges his bare feet across the porch and pulls open a rusty screen door. The door screeches and Frank squints to see inside. Staring back at him in all of her slack-jawed West Virginia beauty is the uniquely obese Mrs. Frank Dylan James.
That’s Luanne Delphine James for you slow types.
She bellows an answer at Frank.
“HOW SHOULD I KNOW! WHAT AM I S’POSED TO BE, ONE OF THEM SCIENTOGRAPHERS?”
Frank’s head explodes.
Not really, but the steam blowing out of his ears is for real. That and the bulging vein in the side of his head only add to the absurdity of the situation as he starts looking for a way out of the situation he’s found himself thrust into.
“Aw, c’mon woman, you know I ain’t got time fer this!”
“AIN’T GOT NO TIME?” Luanne screeches. “Wadn’t you jes’ out there sleepin’ on that ol’ chair yer Grandpappy made?”
“Yeah, so?”
“SO HOW’N THE HELL AIN’T YOU GOT NO TIME TO CATCH THIS RAY-COON?!”
Thinking as quickly as he is capable, Frank blurts out the first thing that springs out of his mind and into his mouth.
“It’s called TRAININ’ woman! I gots me a big ol’ Title defence comin’ up in ‘laska! Can’t afford to be messin’ up my trainin’ schedule by messin’ up my sleepin’ schedule just ‘cuz you up’n found you a raycoon in the fridge!”
Hands go on wide hips, Frank’s ol’ lady Luanne is very obviously not havin’ any of this bullshit. It’s almost like she’s heard it before. Momentarily the raccoon is forgotten.
“You tellin’ me,” she started. “That you got a big match. In Alaska. Defendin’ that shiny new title that you only just won last week in N’awlins?”
The mange of hair atop Frank’s head, opposite the beard covering most of his face, waves frantically in the air as he leans heavily into this new line of explanation.
“Gottdang right!”
“Against who?”
“Jason Justice.”
Luanne’s foot goes to tapping, she is clearly not impressed.
“You mean that skinny little goofy lookin’ fella that you rassled last week?”
“Ayup,” Frank nods.
“And just now, you was trainin’?”
Frank nods again, this time with more gusto!
“By sleepin’?” Luanne’s hands go from resting on hips to crossed defiantly across her massive… you get the idea. Suddenly there’s a giant wooden spoon jutting out of one hand and she’s got the look of a woman who’s about to give somebody a swattin’! “You wanna try an’ ‘splain that’n to me one more time?”
“Sheeeeeeeeeyit, that’s easy! That dumb sum’bitch is probably gonna start yappin’ his gap any ol’ time now an’ that shit’s either gonna piss me right off or it’s gonna put my ass ta sleep! Way I got it figgered, if I done had me a bunch’a sleep it’ll just piss me off an’ then I’ll set to whompin’ on his ass again!”
Luanne blinks.
Her tapping foot stops.
Thick, lipstick-painted lips curl into the look of abject disbelief.
“FRANCIS DYLAN ROBERT ELVIS LEE JAMES DEVIL ANSE HATFIELD JAMES THE THIRD JUNIOR!”
Her bellow whips up the wind of a Category 5 hurricane. All of the hair on Frank’s head and his mighty beard blows back as she calls on ol’ Frank’s good Christian Name. All of the fight goes out of the Hillbilly Jesus, his shoulders slump and his beard goes limp.
“GIT YER BIG ASS IN HERE AN’ CATCH THAT GYATDAMN RAYCOON THIS INSTANT!”
Frank sighs, his argument squashed before it ever got good.
“IFF’N YA DON’T I’MMA WHAP YOU UPSIDER YER DAGGUM NOGGIN WITH THIS HERE SPOON!” Luanne brandishes said wooden accoutrement at Frank.
“Yes ma’am,” Frank gives in. “Jus’ lemme go get my shotgun.”
Previously, The Appalachian Nightmare had been perched precariously atop his front porch rocking chair. The tell-tell signs of a raging drunk-on were littered around him. An empty mason jar. A broken spitoon. The permeating smell of corn whiskey. It was all there. To his credit, in the dead of a sleep-coma Frank had kept his balance pretty goddamned well.
That is, until that shrill voice pierced the void of his addled brain.
“FRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANK!”
Imagine the most cartoonishly absurd sequence of a giant hillbilly waking up out of an alcohol-induced coma only to find himself ass-over-teakettle and flapping his arms, doing his best Wile E. Coyote as he tried to find purchase in mid-air before falling and landing in a heap of broken rocker and bruised ass, back, and ribs.
Now, stop imagining, that’s what happened.
The resulting mushroom cloud of dirt, dust, dead fauna and ancient pottery only added to the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.
“Frank?”
The voice from inside, still every bit as shrill as before, took on a pensive tone after the commotion of the fall. Don’t expect that to last.
“What?!” Frank half-asked half-exclaimed. Impatiently he shouted again, “I SAID WHAT IN THE SAM HELL DO YOU WANT, WOMAN?!”
“GODDAMMIT, FRANK…”
Wait for it...
“THERE’S A GYAAT-DANG RAY-COON IN THE FRIDGEDATOR!”
There it is!
Frank does his best to pull himself up out of the pile that he’d fallen into, and as he’s re-strapping his overalls he contemplates the situation at hand.
“There’s a what?” he asked. “Why’n the hell you done gone and put a ray-coon in that there ice-box?”
The Smoky Mountain Mastodon cocks a bushy eyebrow.
“More importantly, can it be ett?”
“FER CRYIN’ OUT LOUD FRANK! I AIN’T PUT IT IN THERE, IT'S ALIVE! AN’ HE’S WAVIN’ HIS LITTLE HAND AT ME LIKE WE’S GONNA BE FRIENDS!”
The Southern States Champion’s eyes go wide.
“WHY IN THE DAMN HELL IS THERE A LIVE ‘COON IN THE DAMN FRIDGERFRATOR?”
Frank trudges his bare feet across the porch and pulls open a rusty screen door. The door screeches and Frank squints to see inside. Staring back at him in all of her slack-jawed West Virginia beauty is the uniquely obese Mrs. Frank Dylan James.
That’s Luanne Delphine James for you slow types.
She bellows an answer at Frank.
“HOW SHOULD I KNOW! WHAT AM I S’POSED TO BE, ONE OF THEM SCIENTOGRAPHERS?”
Frank’s head explodes.
Not really, but the steam blowing out of his ears is for real. That and the bulging vein in the side of his head only add to the absurdity of the situation as he starts looking for a way out of the situation he’s found himself thrust into.
“Aw, c’mon woman, you know I ain’t got time fer this!”
“AIN’T GOT NO TIME?” Luanne screeches. “Wadn’t you jes’ out there sleepin’ on that ol’ chair yer Grandpappy made?”
“Yeah, so?”
“SO HOW’N THE HELL AIN’T YOU GOT NO TIME TO CATCH THIS RAY-COON?!”
Thinking as quickly as he is capable, Frank blurts out the first thing that springs out of his mind and into his mouth.
“It’s called TRAININ’ woman! I gots me a big ol’ Title defence comin’ up in ‘laska! Can’t afford to be messin’ up my trainin’ schedule by messin’ up my sleepin’ schedule just ‘cuz you up’n found you a raycoon in the fridge!”
Hands go on wide hips, Frank’s ol’ lady Luanne is very obviously not havin’ any of this bullshit. It’s almost like she’s heard it before. Momentarily the raccoon is forgotten.
“You tellin’ me,” she started. “That you got a big match. In Alaska. Defendin’ that shiny new title that you only just won last week in N’awlins?”
The mange of hair atop Frank’s head, opposite the beard covering most of his face, waves frantically in the air as he leans heavily into this new line of explanation.
“Gottdang right!”
“Against who?”
“Jason Justice.”
Luanne’s foot goes to tapping, she is clearly not impressed.
“You mean that skinny little goofy lookin’ fella that you rassled last week?”
“Ayup,” Frank nods.
“And just now, you was trainin’?”
Frank nods again, this time with more gusto!
“By sleepin’?” Luanne’s hands go from resting on hips to crossed defiantly across her massive… you get the idea. Suddenly there’s a giant wooden spoon jutting out of one hand and she’s got the look of a woman who’s about to give somebody a swattin’! “You wanna try an’ ‘splain that’n to me one more time?”
“Sheeeeeeeeeyit, that’s easy! That dumb sum’bitch is probably gonna start yappin’ his gap any ol’ time now an’ that shit’s either gonna piss me right off or it’s gonna put my ass ta sleep! Way I got it figgered, if I done had me a bunch’a sleep it’ll just piss me off an’ then I’ll set to whompin’ on his ass again!”
Luanne blinks.
Her tapping foot stops.
Thick, lipstick-painted lips curl into the look of abject disbelief.
“FRANCIS DYLAN ROBERT ELVIS LEE JAMES DEVIL ANSE HATFIELD JAMES THE THIRD JUNIOR!”
Her bellow whips up the wind of a Category 5 hurricane. All of the hair on Frank’s head and his mighty beard blows back as she calls on ol’ Frank’s good Christian Name. All of the fight goes out of the Hillbilly Jesus, his shoulders slump and his beard goes limp.
“GIT YER BIG ASS IN HERE AN’ CATCH THAT GYATDAMN RAYCOON THIS INSTANT!”
Frank sighs, his argument squashed before it ever got good.
“IFF’N YA DON’T I’MMA WHAP YOU UPSIDER YER DAGGUM NOGGIN WITH THIS HERE SPOON!” Luanne brandishes said wooden accoutrement at Frank.
“Yes ma’am,” Frank gives in. “Jus’ lemme go get my shotgun.”
. . .
TO BE CONTINUED~!
*Same Frank time! Same Frank channel!*
TO BE CONTINUED~!
*Same Frank time! Same Frank channel!*
