Post by Old Line Jeff on Nov 7, 2022 1:26:46 GMT -5
“Disney’s Marty Donovan? Enjoy it while you can son. Next thing you know they’ll be cancelling you, and it’ll be Disney’s Laquisha Martisha Abdonovan-Jabar. Either that or Simóna Márti Donována. EIther way, she’ll tell me to stay in my lane and wait for all the fuckin’ wine moms and dangerhairs to clap.”
You know what, as your humble narrator, I’m just not in the mood to try and accurately transcribe Mississippian. I’m just going to transcribe it in English for your reading pleasure.
Seriously, if you need to, just mentally add a ‘Roars in a Mississippian Dialect’ or two.
“Look at this girth, son. I don’t stay in my lane. I don’t even fit in one lane. Lanes have nothing on me.”
“Apparently the Bastards do, and I’ll admit it - I’m discouraged. Damn discouraged. Disappointed, despondent.”
Oh yeah, fade up.
Down in Mississippi, the leaves on the trees are only starting to turn to their autumn colors, and the grass is still green, where it grows, which isn’t everywhere.
Carlton Gluck sits in front of the Gluck Shack in his customary chair.
“But ol’ Daeriq, he told me, ‘try to look on the bright side of things, Carlton. It was your third real match off the indy circuit, it was against two guys who’ve been around forever and done everything, and you still took them to the absolute limit. And honestly, if Ronnie’d been around to carry his part of the stable, you’d probably have gotten them.’”
“That’s what he said, but me, I don’t like looking on the bright side of things.”
“We live in a world as dark as the Mississippi mud beneath my feet.”
Carlton lifts one misshapen hoof, coated in the red-brown-gray muck.
“Now see, I may be an ig’nant hick - seriously, shut the fuck up with inbred, it’s beyond old - but I’ve seen a little bit more of the world than you might think. Like, ah… ol’ Wesley Crane and ol’ seven-rings-flaccid-balls number twelve.”
“You really think the Falcons lost that superbowl fair and square when the NFL spent that whole year trying to cast Brady as Steve Austin and Goodell as Vince McMahon? Yes, you probably do, because cityfolk are stupid. Hell, you probably also think Drew Brees retired because he wanted to retire, as opposed to because the NFL told him to step down and let 12 have the record.”
Carlton’s countenance is mostly lost in that giant beard that sprawls all over his chin and chest, but it’s easy to pick up the surliness in his bass rumble of a voice.
“You’re gonna suck up to 12, you’re gonna disrespect my friend Miss Maws, although I honestly did think the young lady had better sense, and now you’re gonna look past the Glucks.”
“You fuckin’ fart huffing smoothbrain.”
“Here’s what you don’t get, Crane.”
Carlton leans forward. The chair, a simple metal folding chair, groans.
“Everything that you have, I can take.”
“Separate you from your dollars, separate you from your glitzy lifestyle, and your gold digging arm candy, and what have you got?”
“Pretty clothes? Nice cars? Got laid a buncha times? I can take all that. I don’t really want it, but I could take it if I did.”
His voice fades down to a threatening whisper.
“I could take it and make you watch me burn it.”
And a big smile splits his beard.
“You can’t slaughter a hog or crack a coconut open with your bare hands. You can’t drive a stick shift, can’t repair a lawn mower. Probably couldn’t even pick cotton. If it ever all comes down, and I pray that it will, it’s all gonna come down to men like me and Chapps, who ain’t afraid to get dirty, and your best bet for survival’s gonna be to get down on your knees and pray.”
“You don’t want to be on your knees in front of a hillbilly, boy. We will teach you all about what it means to get dirty.”
“You… you can’t just get mad and quit.”
Daeriq Damien was beside himself.
Chapps Gluck was sprawled out on a bed with a bottle of Yukon Jack in his hand.
Yukon Jack’s a fortified sweetened whiskey. It’s 100 proof, 50% abv, and… not something that someone who’s got a build like Chapps does usually drinks. Plus between the alcohol lowering the inhibitions and the sugar raising the hyperactivity, Daeriq Damien can sense an incoming disaster.
No, there’s not really much out here in rural Mississippi for Chapps to break, it’s all already broken. It was mostly broken before he got there. He’s just spent his life breaking the pieces into smaller pieces.
“I’m pretty sure, D… I’m pretty sure I can do whatever the fuck I want and you can’t do a goddamn thing to stop me. Whyn’chu go back to Minnesota and let me and Carlton be?”
“Because, because there’s money to be made, and because this business is more complicated than you two realize.” There wasn’t any sense in provoking him, Damien told himself. “You’re new, you can’t expect not to be outsmarted by the guys who’ve had three hundred matches when you’re on your third.”
“Heh. I’m in this for the reason I’m in anything, D - fun.”
“IT’S NOT FUN WHEN ALL I CAN GET OUT OF THESE BORING SACKS OF PIGSHIT IS LMAO INBRED!”
Chapps hurled the mostly empty bottle. The bottle was built sturdy. Chapps had a strong arm. The bottle ended up embedded in the drywall.
“I know Carlton’s gonna do his best because he’s my big brother and he always has.” He shook his head, in that way a drunk person who’s gotten tired of being drunk does. “But you… one of these days, we’re gonna have to talk about some of them promises you’ve been making…”
Daeriq shook his head.
“I think… maybe on our way back to the UK, I’ll take you boys to meet somebody.”
You know what, as your humble narrator, I’m just not in the mood to try and accurately transcribe Mississippian. I’m just going to transcribe it in English for your reading pleasure.
Seriously, if you need to, just mentally add a ‘Roars in a Mississippian Dialect’ or two.
“Look at this girth, son. I don’t stay in my lane. I don’t even fit in one lane. Lanes have nothing on me.”
“Apparently the Bastards do, and I’ll admit it - I’m discouraged. Damn discouraged. Disappointed, despondent.”
Oh yeah, fade up.
Down in Mississippi, the leaves on the trees are only starting to turn to their autumn colors, and the grass is still green, where it grows, which isn’t everywhere.
Carlton Gluck sits in front of the Gluck Shack in his customary chair.
“But ol’ Daeriq, he told me, ‘try to look on the bright side of things, Carlton. It was your third real match off the indy circuit, it was against two guys who’ve been around forever and done everything, and you still took them to the absolute limit. And honestly, if Ronnie’d been around to carry his part of the stable, you’d probably have gotten them.’”
“That’s what he said, but me, I don’t like looking on the bright side of things.”
“We live in a world as dark as the Mississippi mud beneath my feet.”
Carlton lifts one misshapen hoof, coated in the red-brown-gray muck.
“Now see, I may be an ig’nant hick - seriously, shut the fuck up with inbred, it’s beyond old - but I’ve seen a little bit more of the world than you might think. Like, ah… ol’ Wesley Crane and ol’ seven-rings-flaccid-balls number twelve.”
“You really think the Falcons lost that superbowl fair and square when the NFL spent that whole year trying to cast Brady as Steve Austin and Goodell as Vince McMahon? Yes, you probably do, because cityfolk are stupid. Hell, you probably also think Drew Brees retired because he wanted to retire, as opposed to because the NFL told him to step down and let 12 have the record.”
Carlton’s countenance is mostly lost in that giant beard that sprawls all over his chin and chest, but it’s easy to pick up the surliness in his bass rumble of a voice.
“You’re gonna suck up to 12, you’re gonna disrespect my friend Miss Maws, although I honestly did think the young lady had better sense, and now you’re gonna look past the Glucks.”
“You fuckin’ fart huffing smoothbrain.”
“Here’s what you don’t get, Crane.”
Carlton leans forward. The chair, a simple metal folding chair, groans.
“Everything that you have, I can take.”
“Separate you from your dollars, separate you from your glitzy lifestyle, and your gold digging arm candy, and what have you got?”
“Pretty clothes? Nice cars? Got laid a buncha times? I can take all that. I don’t really want it, but I could take it if I did.”
His voice fades down to a threatening whisper.
“I could take it and make you watch me burn it.”
And a big smile splits his beard.
“You can’t slaughter a hog or crack a coconut open with your bare hands. You can’t drive a stick shift, can’t repair a lawn mower. Probably couldn’t even pick cotton. If it ever all comes down, and I pray that it will, it’s all gonna come down to men like me and Chapps, who ain’t afraid to get dirty, and your best bet for survival’s gonna be to get down on your knees and pray.”
“You don’t want to be on your knees in front of a hillbilly, boy. We will teach you all about what it means to get dirty.”
“You… you can’t just get mad and quit.”
Daeriq Damien was beside himself.
Chapps Gluck was sprawled out on a bed with a bottle of Yukon Jack in his hand.
Yukon Jack’s a fortified sweetened whiskey. It’s 100 proof, 50% abv, and… not something that someone who’s got a build like Chapps does usually drinks. Plus between the alcohol lowering the inhibitions and the sugar raising the hyperactivity, Daeriq Damien can sense an incoming disaster.
No, there’s not really much out here in rural Mississippi for Chapps to break, it’s all already broken. It was mostly broken before he got there. He’s just spent his life breaking the pieces into smaller pieces.
“I’m pretty sure, D… I’m pretty sure I can do whatever the fuck I want and you can’t do a goddamn thing to stop me. Whyn’chu go back to Minnesota and let me and Carlton be?”
“Because, because there’s money to be made, and because this business is more complicated than you two realize.” There wasn’t any sense in provoking him, Damien told himself. “You’re new, you can’t expect not to be outsmarted by the guys who’ve had three hundred matches when you’re on your third.”
“Heh. I’m in this for the reason I’m in anything, D - fun.”
“IT’S NOT FUN WHEN ALL I CAN GET OUT OF THESE BORING SACKS OF PIGSHIT IS LMAO INBRED!”
Chapps hurled the mostly empty bottle. The bottle was built sturdy. Chapps had a strong arm. The bottle ended up embedded in the drywall.
“I know Carlton’s gonna do his best because he’s my big brother and he always has.” He shook his head, in that way a drunk person who’s gotten tired of being drunk does. “But you… one of these days, we’re gonna have to talk about some of them promises you’ve been making…”
Daeriq shook his head.
“I think… maybe on our way back to the UK, I’ll take you boys to meet somebody.”