Post by Old Line Jeff on Aug 17, 2022 22:31:43 GMT -5
It was a mild, but somewhat damp and gloomy, afternoon as a strange fivesome piled out of a pair of rental cars and stepped onto the streets of downtown Sidney. Curious glances abounded, and a not-insignificant amount of people crossed the street.
Daeriq Damien, shades on his head and a fuchsia suit with a black dress shirt on his body, smiled in satisfaction.
“So, Kirsty, are you glad to be back in Sidney?”
He reached out to the small woman next to him, took the top of her head in his hand, and nodded for her. If Kirsty McKinney noticed, she didn’t react.
Ronnie Long suppressed a shudder of disgust, and looked next to him. He wished he hadn’t.
Chapps Gluck, the same look of jovial bestiality, or bestial joviality, was looking around, panting, as though he were considering the thing that would make the most spectacular explosion where it to be broken, and what best to break it with. From the short amount of time he’d spent around the Brothers Gluck, he was pretty sure that was exactly what was on Chapps’ mind.
Carlton Gluck heaved himself out of the drivers’ seat of the other rental, and the car rocked as he stood up. He leaned back and stretched, his back audibly popping and his Ole Miss hoodie pulling up to show more hairy belly than Ronnie particularly enjoyed seeing.
‘Union Jack would be quite happy though’ he thought to himself, and then got angry at his own brain.
Carlton threw an already empty box of Cheezels on the ground, and belched loudly. Chapps guffawed.
“And what do you boys think?”
Carlton looked at Chapps, who shrugged.
“Gay.”
And with that, Chapps climbed up on the roof of the rental and parkoured off it onto the top of a mailbox, and from there to a bench, and then looked at Daeriq expectantly.
Daeriq heaved a long, suffering sigh. It was far from the first time that had been his reaction to something that came out of Chapps Gluck’s mouth.
“And how about you, Ronnie?”
“It’s a city. What do you want me to say about it?”
“I don’t know, Ron! Something deep, something pithy. Something relevant to your upcoming wrestling match maybe?”
“I had this whole thing planned out.” Ronnie slumped down on the recently parkour’d bench. “It was going to tie into Eron Hunter being named Hunter. I was going to go out into Sherwood Forest and bring the pithy deepness with meaningful meaningless jabber about the nature of the hunt and the truly hunted and the nobility of prey and a bunch of other crap that I’ll have to put on hold because they decided to book a card in Australia.” He sighed. “I wish I was back in Georgia.”
“Oh come on. At least it’s not a billion degrees in the shade here.”
“First of all, they use Celsius here, how am I supposed to know whether it’s hot or cold? And second, if I minded the heat I’d move back to Colorado.”
“Ah thank ah know waws bovv’rin ‘im.”
Ronnie didn’t think much of Chapps, but Carlton - if you could get through the accent that was thicker than delta mud - was relatively intelligent. And, being that he also lived in the South, he could understand about three words of four, and figure the rest out by context.
“You do? What’s that?”
“Ay-ron Hunner, he ain’t uh bad feller. Kine’uf-”
“Gay!”
Carlton whirled on his younger brother. “GAWDAMMITCHAPPSSHUTTH’FUKUP! Cain’t say dat shit fucks wrong witchu boy?”
Chapps ducked a backhand and bolted off down the street, cackling. Carlton lumbered after him, grumbling under his breath.
Damien stood there, combining a thousand yard stare with being insufferably smug.
Ronnie stood up. “Daeriq? Have I ever mentioned that I truly hate you?”
Daeriq said something to answer. But Ronnie had already turned his back and started trudging down the street.
Carlton Gluck wasn’t far off the mark. When Ronnie had decided - or been badgered - to return to wrestling and join up with W:UK, he had relented partly because when he looked at the roster, he saw a scant few sympathetic types. It was one and the same to him if Damien directed him towards someone insufferable like Rob Riot, or twisted like Zolothatch, or even just dull like that… whatsisface guy from that other place…
But Eron Hunter hadn’t done anything.
Well, except pull the ‘grouchy veteran’ card on him.
But, sulking along the sidewalk in a trench coat with his hands in his pockets and his hair in his face while brooding about things he disliked, insolent youngsters high on the list, he kind of had to admit that he was, in fact, a grouchy veteran.
“I don’t think you can get to be a veteran without being grouchy.”
Some random pedestrian bolted across the street to get away from the trenchcoated giant (by normie standards) who was talking to himself. Ronnie looked, not sure whether to be amused or offended.
Two matches in. Two wins. Two very cheap, not earned whatsoever, wins. A ‘championship opportunity’ earned, by technicality. But not a shot at a World Title, but another undercard title, one that almost literally took the place of the NPW Openweight that he’d won and immediately flopped while holding.
Hunter had won the big one in NPW.
“This kid’s going to be a test…” he muttered to himself. “And I can’t even think of any good hunting references because there’s no hunting here in Australia. Except kangaroos, and that’s more like pest hunting than game hunting.”
Long continued to slowly walk down the street, indifferent to where he ended up.
“Fucking kangeroos…”
Daeriq Damien, shades on his head and a fuchsia suit with a black dress shirt on his body, smiled in satisfaction.
“So, Kirsty, are you glad to be back in Sidney?”
He reached out to the small woman next to him, took the top of her head in his hand, and nodded for her. If Kirsty McKinney noticed, she didn’t react.
Ronnie Long suppressed a shudder of disgust, and looked next to him. He wished he hadn’t.
Chapps Gluck, the same look of jovial bestiality, or bestial joviality, was looking around, panting, as though he were considering the thing that would make the most spectacular explosion where it to be broken, and what best to break it with. From the short amount of time he’d spent around the Brothers Gluck, he was pretty sure that was exactly what was on Chapps’ mind.
Carlton Gluck heaved himself out of the drivers’ seat of the other rental, and the car rocked as he stood up. He leaned back and stretched, his back audibly popping and his Ole Miss hoodie pulling up to show more hairy belly than Ronnie particularly enjoyed seeing.
‘Union Jack would be quite happy though’ he thought to himself, and then got angry at his own brain.
Carlton threw an already empty box of Cheezels on the ground, and belched loudly. Chapps guffawed.
“And what do you boys think?”
Carlton looked at Chapps, who shrugged.
“Gay.”
And with that, Chapps climbed up on the roof of the rental and parkoured off it onto the top of a mailbox, and from there to a bench, and then looked at Daeriq expectantly.
Daeriq heaved a long, suffering sigh. It was far from the first time that had been his reaction to something that came out of Chapps Gluck’s mouth.
“And how about you, Ronnie?”
“It’s a city. What do you want me to say about it?”
“I don’t know, Ron! Something deep, something pithy. Something relevant to your upcoming wrestling match maybe?”
“I had this whole thing planned out.” Ronnie slumped down on the recently parkour’d bench. “It was going to tie into Eron Hunter being named Hunter. I was going to go out into Sherwood Forest and bring the pithy deepness with meaningful meaningless jabber about the nature of the hunt and the truly hunted and the nobility of prey and a bunch of other crap that I’ll have to put on hold because they decided to book a card in Australia.” He sighed. “I wish I was back in Georgia.”
“Oh come on. At least it’s not a billion degrees in the shade here.”
“First of all, they use Celsius here, how am I supposed to know whether it’s hot or cold? And second, if I minded the heat I’d move back to Colorado.”
“Ah thank ah know waws bovv’rin ‘im.”
Ronnie didn’t think much of Chapps, but Carlton - if you could get through the accent that was thicker than delta mud - was relatively intelligent. And, being that he also lived in the South, he could understand about three words of four, and figure the rest out by context.
“You do? What’s that?”
“Ay-ron Hunner, he ain’t uh bad feller. Kine’uf-”
“Gay!”
Carlton whirled on his younger brother. “GAWDAMMITCHAPPSSHUTTH’FUKUP! Cain’t say dat shit fucks wrong witchu boy?”
Chapps ducked a backhand and bolted off down the street, cackling. Carlton lumbered after him, grumbling under his breath.
Damien stood there, combining a thousand yard stare with being insufferably smug.
Ronnie stood up. “Daeriq? Have I ever mentioned that I truly hate you?”
Daeriq said something to answer. But Ronnie had already turned his back and started trudging down the street.
Carlton Gluck wasn’t far off the mark. When Ronnie had decided - or been badgered - to return to wrestling and join up with W:UK, he had relented partly because when he looked at the roster, he saw a scant few sympathetic types. It was one and the same to him if Damien directed him towards someone insufferable like Rob Riot, or twisted like Zolothatch, or even just dull like that… whatsisface guy from that other place…
But Eron Hunter hadn’t done anything.
Well, except pull the ‘grouchy veteran’ card on him.
But, sulking along the sidewalk in a trench coat with his hands in his pockets and his hair in his face while brooding about things he disliked, insolent youngsters high on the list, he kind of had to admit that he was, in fact, a grouchy veteran.
“I don’t think you can get to be a veteran without being grouchy.”
Some random pedestrian bolted across the street to get away from the trenchcoated giant (by normie standards) who was talking to himself. Ronnie looked, not sure whether to be amused or offended.
Two matches in. Two wins. Two very cheap, not earned whatsoever, wins. A ‘championship opportunity’ earned, by technicality. But not a shot at a World Title, but another undercard title, one that almost literally took the place of the NPW Openweight that he’d won and immediately flopped while holding.
Hunter had won the big one in NPW.
“This kid’s going to be a test…” he muttered to himself. “And I can’t even think of any good hunting references because there’s no hunting here in Australia. Except kangaroos, and that’s more like pest hunting than game hunting.”
Long continued to slowly walk down the street, indifferent to where he ended up.
“Fucking kangeroos…”