Post by Justin on Jan 24, 2021 20:40:56 GMT -5
Deep in the heart of Appalachia.
Somewhere on the side of a mountain. Blue Ridge? Great Smoky? Doesn’t matter much, so long as you don’t find yourself out there without a guide or a reason. That is to say, mind your business and steer clear of any random banjo music.
Frank Dylan James stalks, bare-footed and fully loaded, in the kind of comically slow fashion that betrays his child-like perception of the world around him. It’s not his fault, the big lug’s been drinking corn whiskey since he was in utero. On Frank’s hip, as close to connected at the waist as is humanly possible, Frank’s ol’ lady Luanne Delphine brandishes a massive rolling pin.
It’s one-hundred percent likely that ol’ Luanne’s more apt to swing that rolling pin at Frank for some unseen slight than at any kind of enemies, domesticated or otherwise. Frank halts, and in all seriousness turns to Luanne with a raised bushy eyebrow and a thin, bony finger held up to his lips.
Frank:
Be real gyat-dang quiet. We’s a’huntin’ us up a RAYCOON!
As soon as a line of sight on the fridge presented itself, Frank pulled his shotgun up to bare. The Hillbilly Jesus held back a chortling laugh of satisfaction as he used every ounce of precision and control that his lifetime of drinkin ‘shine could imbue him with.
Click.
Clack.
BLAM~!
Frank blows a hubcap-sized hole in the front of the ice-box.
Luanne:
WHAT IN TARNATION?
Wait for it...
Luanne:
You done shot the wrong fridgerfrater, Frank! That’s the outside fridge!
The realization begins to set in.
Frank:
Wait a gol’darn minute…
Luanne:
YOU IJIT! That dadgum raycoon’s in the INSIDE fridge! You done shot up-
Slackjawed, Frank took his time connecting the dots. Eventually after putting two and two together in his head enough times to come up with sideways eight he finally figured out what that yellowish foaming liquid was that was now leaking out through the gaping hole in the door and through all the seals that used to keep it airtight.
Luanne:
-the gyatdang BEER FRIGERFRATER!
Behind red cheeks and bushy brows a single tear forms in the corner of the Appalachian Nightmare’s eye. You could liken this to one of them ‘Merican Injuns getting all teary-eyed when the white man litters or what have you.
Frank:
MY BEER!
It’s all Frank can do not to trip over himself to save the beer. Before long he’s got mason jars and straw hats laid out trying to catch and/or soak up as much of Natty Light as he can before it sinks into the dirt, lost forever.
Luanne smashes Frank upside the head with her rolling pin.
Luanne:
I TOLD YOU THAT RAYCOON WAS IN THE INSIDE ICE-BOX! WHAT’N THE DAMN HELL IS WRONG WIT’ YOU FRANK?
Finally, having had enough, Frank turns on Luanne.
Frank:
WOMAN! I DONE TOLD YOU! FRANK DYLAN JAMES AIN’T NO HUNTER, AIN’T NO RAYCOON TRAPPER, AN’ AIN’T NO PUSSYWHIPPED HOUSE HUSBAND SET TO WAIT ON NO DADBLASTED WOMAN HAND AND DADGUM FOOT!
Luanne raises a brow, the look on her face could melt concrete.
Luanne:
Is that so?
Frank:
You GYATdamn ri-
THWAP!
Before he could get it out of his mouth, she’d walloped him across his head, crossing his eyes and putting his big ass to sleep the hard way. Luanne stands over him and harumphs, calling him every kind of sorry piece of trash that she can come up with. Most of her effications are unfit for television, even of the wrestling sort.
Location is unimportant.
What matters is intent.
Frank Dylan James, all six-foot-nine and three-hundred and four pounds of him, looms large and in charge in front of an XHF Supremacy backdrop. His profoundly thick and wiry hair is held back slightly by several wraps of medical tape around his head in the form of an off-center headband. Both of his eyes are blacked and sunken in behind swollen cheeks.
He’s got the NLW Southern States Championship belt stuffed into his overalls by one strap, with the plate and remaining strap dangling down his front in the way that nobody without a mental deficiency would ever wear such a belt.
Frank:
A’ight, then.
The Hillbilly Jesus lives up to his name by turning and spitting a stringy gob of some kind of thick brown liquid onto the ground beside his bare feet.
Frank:
Mebbe you can tell, but ol’ Frank ain’t havin’ a good week. That’s bad for you, Jason Justice. Means that come belltime at Supremacy when they lock us up in a cage and they put this here belt-
He pats the centerplate with one giant hand.
Frank:
-on the line fer EVER’BODY in the XHF to see, it’s gonna be your sorry stinkin’ ass that’s hung out to dry! See I ain’t yet figgered out all the hullabaloo aroun’ how I beat yer narrow ass in the middle of the ring just a couple’a weeks ago!
I kicked ya in yer face twice.
I jabbed this here thumb in yer neck, WES’ VIRGINNY SPIKE style!
And I pinned ya for a one, two, three.
Yeah, you might’a kicked out at three-point-one, but far as I can tell even with my limited experience with number-wranglin’, rasslin’ matches is winned an’ lost at the count’a three! Not no three point one, and not no GYATdang four. DO YA UNNERSTAN’?
Frank is as wild-eyed as ever, intense is not strong enough a word to describe him.
Frank:
Don’t matter now though, boy, cuz ol’ B.B. Gunn done decided to up the ante an’ lock us up in a cage together with the title on the line again! That’s more bad news for ya, boy, cuz I’mma whip your skinny little ass up one side and down the other an’ when I’m finished wit’cha it ain’t gon’ be no more doubt who the baddest sum’bitch in the South is anymore!
He smiles that knowing, broken-toothed smile of his.
Frank:
Jason Justice, ol’ Frank’s comin’ ta GIT’CHA!
Somewhere on the side of a mountain. Blue Ridge? Great Smoky? Doesn’t matter much, so long as you don’t find yourself out there without a guide or a reason. That is to say, mind your business and steer clear of any random banjo music.
Frank Dylan James stalks, bare-footed and fully loaded, in the kind of comically slow fashion that betrays his child-like perception of the world around him. It’s not his fault, the big lug’s been drinking corn whiskey since he was in utero. On Frank’s hip, as close to connected at the waist as is humanly possible, Frank’s ol’ lady Luanne Delphine brandishes a massive rolling pin.
It’s one-hundred percent likely that ol’ Luanne’s more apt to swing that rolling pin at Frank for some unseen slight than at any kind of enemies, domesticated or otherwise. Frank halts, and in all seriousness turns to Luanne with a raised bushy eyebrow and a thin, bony finger held up to his lips.
Frank:
Be real gyat-dang quiet. We’s a’huntin’ us up a RAYCOON!
As soon as a line of sight on the fridge presented itself, Frank pulled his shotgun up to bare. The Hillbilly Jesus held back a chortling laugh of satisfaction as he used every ounce of precision and control that his lifetime of drinkin ‘shine could imbue him with.
Click.
Clack.
BLAM~!
Frank blows a hubcap-sized hole in the front of the ice-box.
Luanne:
WHAT IN TARNATION?
Wait for it...
Luanne:
You done shot the wrong fridgerfrater, Frank! That’s the outside fridge!
The realization begins to set in.
Frank:
Wait a gol’darn minute…
Luanne:
YOU IJIT! That dadgum raycoon’s in the INSIDE fridge! You done shot up-
Slackjawed, Frank took his time connecting the dots. Eventually after putting two and two together in his head enough times to come up with sideways eight he finally figured out what that yellowish foaming liquid was that was now leaking out through the gaping hole in the door and through all the seals that used to keep it airtight.
Luanne:
-the gyatdang BEER FRIGERFRATER!
Behind red cheeks and bushy brows a single tear forms in the corner of the Appalachian Nightmare’s eye. You could liken this to one of them ‘Merican Injuns getting all teary-eyed when the white man litters or what have you.
Frank:
MY BEER!
It’s all Frank can do not to trip over himself to save the beer. Before long he’s got mason jars and straw hats laid out trying to catch and/or soak up as much of Natty Light as he can before it sinks into the dirt, lost forever.
Luanne smashes Frank upside the head with her rolling pin.
Luanne:
I TOLD YOU THAT RAYCOON WAS IN THE INSIDE ICE-BOX! WHAT’N THE DAMN HELL IS WRONG WIT’ YOU FRANK?
Finally, having had enough, Frank turns on Luanne.
Frank:
WOMAN! I DONE TOLD YOU! FRANK DYLAN JAMES AIN’T NO HUNTER, AIN’T NO RAYCOON TRAPPER, AN’ AIN’T NO PUSSYWHIPPED HOUSE HUSBAND SET TO WAIT ON NO DADBLASTED WOMAN HAND AND DADGUM FOOT!
Luanne raises a brow, the look on her face could melt concrete.
Luanne:
Is that so?
Frank:
You GYATdamn ri-
THWAP!
Before he could get it out of his mouth, she’d walloped him across his head, crossing his eyes and putting his big ass to sleep the hard way. Luanne stands over him and harumphs, calling him every kind of sorry piece of trash that she can come up with. Most of her effications are unfit for television, even of the wrestling sort.
~
~*Several days later.*~
~
~*Several days later.*~
~
Location is unimportant.
What matters is intent.
Frank Dylan James, all six-foot-nine and three-hundred and four pounds of him, looms large and in charge in front of an XHF Supremacy backdrop. His profoundly thick and wiry hair is held back slightly by several wraps of medical tape around his head in the form of an off-center headband. Both of his eyes are blacked and sunken in behind swollen cheeks.
He’s got the NLW Southern States Championship belt stuffed into his overalls by one strap, with the plate and remaining strap dangling down his front in the way that nobody without a mental deficiency would ever wear such a belt.
Frank:
A’ight, then.
The Hillbilly Jesus lives up to his name by turning and spitting a stringy gob of some kind of thick brown liquid onto the ground beside his bare feet.
Frank:
Mebbe you can tell, but ol’ Frank ain’t havin’ a good week. That’s bad for you, Jason Justice. Means that come belltime at Supremacy when they lock us up in a cage and they put this here belt-
He pats the centerplate with one giant hand.
Frank:
-on the line fer EVER’BODY in the XHF to see, it’s gonna be your sorry stinkin’ ass that’s hung out to dry! See I ain’t yet figgered out all the hullabaloo aroun’ how I beat yer narrow ass in the middle of the ring just a couple’a weeks ago!
I kicked ya in yer face twice.
I jabbed this here thumb in yer neck, WES’ VIRGINNY SPIKE style!
And I pinned ya for a one, two, three.
Yeah, you might’a kicked out at three-point-one, but far as I can tell even with my limited experience with number-wranglin’, rasslin’ matches is winned an’ lost at the count’a three! Not no three point one, and not no GYATdang four. DO YA UNNERSTAN’?
Frank is as wild-eyed as ever, intense is not strong enough a word to describe him.
Frank:
Don’t matter now though, boy, cuz ol’ B.B. Gunn done decided to up the ante an’ lock us up in a cage together with the title on the line again! That’s more bad news for ya, boy, cuz I’mma whip your skinny little ass up one side and down the other an’ when I’m finished wit’cha it ain’t gon’ be no more doubt who the baddest sum’bitch in the South is anymore!
He smiles that knowing, broken-toothed smile of his.
Frank:
Jason Justice, ol’ Frank’s comin’ ta GIT’CHA!
