[Glucks] Prawmuses
Jan 10, 2023 12:15:16 GMT -5
robriot and "The High Roller" Wesley Crane like this
Post by Old Line Jeff on Jan 10, 2023 12:15:16 GMT -5
When observing the Brothers Gluck for the first time, it’s easy to get the idea that Carlton Gluck is the brains behind the team and that Chapps Gluck is just the scampering monkey of a sidekick of a lesser star.
Carlton, you see, is the big brother - the responsible one. He negotiates the contracts, does the talky stuff with the important people and the supervisors, and makes sure that promotional footage is released in the appropriate place at the appropriate time. While he’s doing all this, Chapps is free to amuse himself.
And Chapps is easily amused. If it burns, or blows up, or is edible, or is alcoholic, he’s all about it. But behind that lowbrow hedonist personality of his is a mind that’s a little bit more tuned into his surroundings than people might assume.
And that brings us to where we are now…
“Sometimes… people make prawmises… that it turns out they cain’t fulfill. An Ah got mah own view on th’ morality of breakin’ prawmises. Th’ more vague th’ prawmis is… th’ worse it is to not fulfill it.”
In the middle of winter, even Mississippi is gray, gloomy and drippy. Wearing dirty jeans and a Carhardt, Chapps is sitting on the edge of his bed inside the small pine board shanty known as the Gluck Shack. The only thing bringing the scene straight out of a hundred years ago is the cellphone in Chapps’ hand.
“It jes seems ta me lakh we were prawmised somethin’ by Daeriq Damien that he ain’t fulfilled for us. An Ah tell yew what else. That man’s always a-grinnin lakh he’s got some kinda master plan, an it keeps not happenin, an Ah think I figured it out. He don’t really know what he’s doin. An even when he figgers it out fer a second or two, his top priority is Rawnnie. Me an Carlton, in the end, we’re jes here to be big an intimidatin, not to matter.”
Chapps goes silent while the person on the other end of the phone talks. He even takes it away from his ear for a bit. The expression on his face isn’t quite amiable. It’s faux-amiable. Imagine, if you will, an ogre chatting to a peasant where they both know the latter is going to be the former’s dinner as soon as the former feels like.
“Neon Bushido.” Chapps not only doesn’t say it in an ancient Mississippian dialect, he says it with that lilt that people trying to hard to make their Japanese seem properly accented used. “See, we already done beat Martisha Abdonovan-Jabar so bad he don’t wanna ackchally wrestle in WUK no more. Hell we done beat er’ryone cept th’ Bastards, an that’s another thang - we got bad info on them. We was expectin a bunch of that lankyshire style ‘proppa grapplin’’...”
He stamped his best UK accent on. It sounds exactly like an American who’s unfamiliar with all the UK regional dialects trying to make fun of all of them at the same time.
Probably because that’s exactly what it is. Chapps may be spending some time in the UK, but that doesn’t mean he listens to anything anyone who lives there says that isn’t about food. And for that matter, the minute he learned that jellied eels are an actual real thing, he quit listening to them talk about food either.
Anyway…
“Nstead, they jes hit us in th’ family jewels a buncha times. Shoulda been double-illegal fer them t’ do that t’ us. Its simple facts that us southerners are worried bout our heritage, an after the twentieth time Ah got punched in the dick Ah started worryin’ bout mah ability t’ procreate an’ got mah haid out th’ game.”
Another phone break. Underneath the caveman hair you can see the faux-joviality fade off Chapps’ face.
“Yeah, Ah know that. Look, Ah din’t even know who th’ fuck Frank Wormwood was afore that show, but he put he nose in mah business, an then Nawn Boo-shidoo did too. Ah got no special beef with Nawn Boo-shidoo, but look - after runnin’ Martisha out the W:UK rang, th’ fuck’s even the point of whippin’ up on gawddamn Joeru Schimo?”
Taking the phone away from his head, Chapps heaves a sigh/growl as he stares at it. The sounds of talking, far too faint to be comprehensible, warble from the phone. Once they die down, he takes it back.
“Calm yo shit, we ain’t overlookin dick. Me an’ Carlton want them gawddamn tag belts, an if we gotta make an example of Nawn Boo-shidoo. Look, we won’t even make too bad an example of ‘em. We want t’ run the taig division, not fuckin’ obliterate it.”
Another phone break. More electronic babble.
“Yeah Ah’ma let yew talk t’ Carlton bout all that fancy stuff. Yew have yerself a nice day, Mister C.”
This time the voice is cut off as Chapps hits the Fuck You Button on the phone, hanging it up.
“City gawddamn slickers, er’ry fuckin’ time.”
Phone go in pocket, redneck pick up alcohol and go on hammock.
Carlton, you see, is the big brother - the responsible one. He negotiates the contracts, does the talky stuff with the important people and the supervisors, and makes sure that promotional footage is released in the appropriate place at the appropriate time. While he’s doing all this, Chapps is free to amuse himself.
And Chapps is easily amused. If it burns, or blows up, or is edible, or is alcoholic, he’s all about it. But behind that lowbrow hedonist personality of his is a mind that’s a little bit more tuned into his surroundings than people might assume.
And that brings us to where we are now…
“Sometimes… people make prawmises… that it turns out they cain’t fulfill. An Ah got mah own view on th’ morality of breakin’ prawmises. Th’ more vague th’ prawmis is… th’ worse it is to not fulfill it.”
In the middle of winter, even Mississippi is gray, gloomy and drippy. Wearing dirty jeans and a Carhardt, Chapps is sitting on the edge of his bed inside the small pine board shanty known as the Gluck Shack. The only thing bringing the scene straight out of a hundred years ago is the cellphone in Chapps’ hand.
“It jes seems ta me lakh we were prawmised somethin’ by Daeriq Damien that he ain’t fulfilled for us. An Ah tell yew what else. That man’s always a-grinnin lakh he’s got some kinda master plan, an it keeps not happenin, an Ah think I figured it out. He don’t really know what he’s doin. An even when he figgers it out fer a second or two, his top priority is Rawnnie. Me an Carlton, in the end, we’re jes here to be big an intimidatin, not to matter.”
Chapps goes silent while the person on the other end of the phone talks. He even takes it away from his ear for a bit. The expression on his face isn’t quite amiable. It’s faux-amiable. Imagine, if you will, an ogre chatting to a peasant where they both know the latter is going to be the former’s dinner as soon as the former feels like.
“Neon Bushido.” Chapps not only doesn’t say it in an ancient Mississippian dialect, he says it with that lilt that people trying to hard to make their Japanese seem properly accented used. “See, we already done beat Martisha Abdonovan-Jabar so bad he don’t wanna ackchally wrestle in WUK no more. Hell we done beat er’ryone cept th’ Bastards, an that’s another thang - we got bad info on them. We was expectin a bunch of that lankyshire style ‘proppa grapplin’’...”
He stamped his best UK accent on. It sounds exactly like an American who’s unfamiliar with all the UK regional dialects trying to make fun of all of them at the same time.
Probably because that’s exactly what it is. Chapps may be spending some time in the UK, but that doesn’t mean he listens to anything anyone who lives there says that isn’t about food. And for that matter, the minute he learned that jellied eels are an actual real thing, he quit listening to them talk about food either.
Anyway…
“Nstead, they jes hit us in th’ family jewels a buncha times. Shoulda been double-illegal fer them t’ do that t’ us. Its simple facts that us southerners are worried bout our heritage, an after the twentieth time Ah got punched in the dick Ah started worryin’ bout mah ability t’ procreate an’ got mah haid out th’ game.”
Another phone break. Underneath the caveman hair you can see the faux-joviality fade off Chapps’ face.
“Yeah, Ah know that. Look, Ah din’t even know who th’ fuck Frank Wormwood was afore that show, but he put he nose in mah business, an then Nawn Boo-shidoo did too. Ah got no special beef with Nawn Boo-shidoo, but look - after runnin’ Martisha out the W:UK rang, th’ fuck’s even the point of whippin’ up on gawddamn Joeru Schimo?”
Taking the phone away from his head, Chapps heaves a sigh/growl as he stares at it. The sounds of talking, far too faint to be comprehensible, warble from the phone. Once they die down, he takes it back.
“Calm yo shit, we ain’t overlookin dick. Me an’ Carlton want them gawddamn tag belts, an if we gotta make an example of Nawn Boo-shidoo. Look, we won’t even make too bad an example of ‘em. We want t’ run the taig division, not fuckin’ obliterate it.”
Another phone break. More electronic babble.
“Yeah Ah’ma let yew talk t’ Carlton bout all that fancy stuff. Yew have yerself a nice day, Mister C.”
This time the voice is cut off as Chapps hits the Fuck You Button on the phone, hanging it up.
“City gawddamn slickers, er’ry fuckin’ time.”
Phone go in pocket, redneck pick up alcohol and go on hammock.