Post by vastrix on Feb 16, 2021 23:39:32 GMT -5
Out in the parking lot of the Avron B Fogelman Arena, Nathan Parker sits outside of his camper. It’s cold as fuck and it’s actually snowed. Not that he’s ever really got a lot of snow where he was in Australia.
Not that he isn’t somewhat cold now. There is no heat to speak of inside the camper and so Nathan did the only intelligent thing that he could think of. He went to several stores and collected broken pallets until he had a large pile next to his camper. Then, he set those ablaze and is now sitting by the fire and drinking a concoction of toasted marshmallow and chocolate vodkas, like two whole fifths poured into a pitcher that he’s drinking from.
Between the fire and the liquor, Nathan isn’t feeling that bad.
Parker: Frank Dylan James, you are a serial killer aren’t you? Oh wait, I did that gag already. Maybe you want to tap into the terror that is Dylan Black by naming yourself after him as your fake middle name. Nah, that’s weak, even for me.
Nathan takes another long pull from his pitcher, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a satisfied sort of way.
Parker: I mean, Frank. The fact that you’ve been silent about this match so far is troubling. You are going to defend the title right? You aren’t going to just stroll into the ring and fall over to the Fingerpoke of Doom? I would like to win the Southern States title. That, there is no doubt, but I would like to earn it in a well-fought match. Tell me that you are at least going to put up a fight. I didn’t get my ass kicked the other day at a random bar by some big dude to prepare for facing a big, violent dude for nothing.
Nathan sets his pitcher down onto the ground next to him. He gets up to his feet and puts another couple of pallets onto the fire, allowing the fire to grow until it’s nearly ten feet in height. He smiles, putting out his hands to the fire to “feel” the warmth even as you can tell he’s starting to go a bit red in the face and arms from being so close to the heat. He sits back down and takes another drink from his pitcher.
Parker: I guess it just doesn’t matter in the end if you try or not. I’m going to take that title from you no matter what. If I have to pry it from your cold, dead hands...we can fucking do that too.
Nathan takes another drink from the pitcher next to him when he sees a yellow light flashing from a car that’s pulling up. It has the word “Security” in bold letters on the side of the car. Mike gets out of the car (yeah, Nathan knows each of the security guards by face) and walks up to Nathan, going around the big fire.
Mike: Nathan, I know not many cars park out here, but you can’t be having a bonfire out here.
Nathan motions to all around him where there’s snow on the ground. Well, there is outside of the range of heat of the big fire that Nathan has built.
Parker: Have you seen the bloody weather, Mike? It’s fucking cold out here! I don’t have a fucking furnace in the camper, Mike. Did you want me to fucking freeze to death, Mike?
Mike: Well, no. I don’t want you to freeze to death, Nathan, but you can’t be doing a big ass bonfire out here!
Nathan nods and takes a drink from his pitcher, offering Mike some. Mike just shakes his head to turn it down.
Parker: Then, what should I have done, Mike? It’s fucking cold out here, Mike? A small fire isn’t going to cut it, Mike.
Mike: You could have gone to Michael Dundee’s place? You could have gone to a motel for the few nights that it’s really cold out. Have you tried either of those options?
Nathan blinks and finishes his pitcher off instead of answering. Mike just shakes his head with a sigh.
Mike: Let me guess. You didn’t think of either of those options?
Parker: Well, we can’t put out the fire now. We might as well just let it burn. Pull up a chair, grab a beer. Once the fire is out, I’ll head out to a motel. Okay?
Mike sighs, knowing the truth in the matter. That he might as well supervise the fire and make sure it doesn’t get out of control instead of trying to put it out or calling the fire department to try to come out to fight it. He grabs a fold-out chair from the side of the camper and a cold beer from a case sitting outside. He sets up next to Nathan and pops open the beer, taking a healthy drink from it.
Mike: It is a nice fire.
Parker: I know, right?
Mike: Who you facing in the ring coming up?
Parker: Frank Dylan James and it’s for the Southern States championship.
Mike: Why is there a Southern States championship in a wrestling company that doesn’t leave Louisiana?
Parker: We did that gag.
Mike: I see. Got any weed?
Parker: Yeah, man.
Nathan gets a small box out of his chest pocket as the scene fades to black.
Not that he isn’t somewhat cold now. There is no heat to speak of inside the camper and so Nathan did the only intelligent thing that he could think of. He went to several stores and collected broken pallets until he had a large pile next to his camper. Then, he set those ablaze and is now sitting by the fire and drinking a concoction of toasted marshmallow and chocolate vodkas, like two whole fifths poured into a pitcher that he’s drinking from.
Between the fire and the liquor, Nathan isn’t feeling that bad.
Parker: Frank Dylan James, you are a serial killer aren’t you? Oh wait, I did that gag already. Maybe you want to tap into the terror that is Dylan Black by naming yourself after him as your fake middle name. Nah, that’s weak, even for me.
Nathan takes another long pull from his pitcher, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a satisfied sort of way.
Parker: I mean, Frank. The fact that you’ve been silent about this match so far is troubling. You are going to defend the title right? You aren’t going to just stroll into the ring and fall over to the Fingerpoke of Doom? I would like to win the Southern States title. That, there is no doubt, but I would like to earn it in a well-fought match. Tell me that you are at least going to put up a fight. I didn’t get my ass kicked the other day at a random bar by some big dude to prepare for facing a big, violent dude for nothing.
Nathan sets his pitcher down onto the ground next to him. He gets up to his feet and puts another couple of pallets onto the fire, allowing the fire to grow until it’s nearly ten feet in height. He smiles, putting out his hands to the fire to “feel” the warmth even as you can tell he’s starting to go a bit red in the face and arms from being so close to the heat. He sits back down and takes another drink from his pitcher.
Parker: I guess it just doesn’t matter in the end if you try or not. I’m going to take that title from you no matter what. If I have to pry it from your cold, dead hands...we can fucking do that too.
Nathan takes another drink from the pitcher next to him when he sees a yellow light flashing from a car that’s pulling up. It has the word “Security” in bold letters on the side of the car. Mike gets out of the car (yeah, Nathan knows each of the security guards by face) and walks up to Nathan, going around the big fire.
Mike: Nathan, I know not many cars park out here, but you can’t be having a bonfire out here.
Nathan motions to all around him where there’s snow on the ground. Well, there is outside of the range of heat of the big fire that Nathan has built.
Parker: Have you seen the bloody weather, Mike? It’s fucking cold out here! I don’t have a fucking furnace in the camper, Mike. Did you want me to fucking freeze to death, Mike?
Mike: Well, no. I don’t want you to freeze to death, Nathan, but you can’t be doing a big ass bonfire out here!
Nathan nods and takes a drink from his pitcher, offering Mike some. Mike just shakes his head to turn it down.
Parker: Then, what should I have done, Mike? It’s fucking cold out here, Mike? A small fire isn’t going to cut it, Mike.
Mike: You could have gone to Michael Dundee’s place? You could have gone to a motel for the few nights that it’s really cold out. Have you tried either of those options?
Nathan blinks and finishes his pitcher off instead of answering. Mike just shakes his head with a sigh.
Mike: Let me guess. You didn’t think of either of those options?
Parker: Well, we can’t put out the fire now. We might as well just let it burn. Pull up a chair, grab a beer. Once the fire is out, I’ll head out to a motel. Okay?
Mike sighs, knowing the truth in the matter. That he might as well supervise the fire and make sure it doesn’t get out of control instead of trying to put it out or calling the fire department to try to come out to fight it. He grabs a fold-out chair from the side of the camper and a cold beer from a case sitting outside. He sets up next to Nathan and pops open the beer, taking a healthy drink from it.
Mike: It is a nice fire.
Parker: I know, right?
Mike: Who you facing in the ring coming up?
Parker: Frank Dylan James and it’s for the Southern States championship.
Mike: Why is there a Southern States championship in a wrestling company that doesn’t leave Louisiana?
Parker: We did that gag.
Mike: I see. Got any weed?
Parker: Yeah, man.
Nathan gets a small box out of his chest pocket as the scene fades to black.
