Post by Old Line Jeff on Feb 20, 2023 6:13:48 GMT -5
By English standards - hell, by Seattle standards too - it doesn’t really get cold in Mississippi. But by Mississippi standards, 70 (or 21 for you Celsius heretics) is pretty cold. So when you see Chapps Gluck squatting in a still-green front yard, stirring one of dozens of muddy puddles with a stick, the fact that he’s wearing a jacket is one of the less odd things about the scene.
Chapps is an odd boy, you see. Even by backwater Mississippi standards, even compared to his brother.
Squatting in front of the muddy puddle, Chapps gives no indication that he notices someone approaching. It isn’t until we’re right on top of him that he says or does anything.
And when he finally speaks, it’s without looking up, in a mutter completely unlike the gravelly bellow he more often uses.
“Ah been listening t’ people say thangs about me, y’know. Hell sometimes it seems like that’s all Ah do. And Ah been told not t’ let it git to me, that even if the words they’re sayin’ aren’t good words, and Ah tell you what they never are, but at least they’re sayin’ somethin.”
He reaches out with the stick in his hands and stirs the water. The water takes on a slightly paler shade of brown.
“Well, now, Ah’m not hearin’ the words Ah want t’ hear.”
“Lemme take y’all back. Back afore the Oh-blivion Death Squad and that accursed redhead of theirs stole a win off us. Afore we, how Carlton said, upgraded our cityslicker.”
“The Brothers Gluck were almost unstoppable.”
“Y’all c’n look at th’ rankings if yew don’t believe me. None of the other daggone teams in this division c’n string two wins t’gether, and we mowed through ‘em all. Nee-yawn Boo-shee-doh? Done worn them boys out. The fuckin… y’know what Ah don’t remember what th’ new boss called his team with Marty Donovan, but we done beat them too, sent Marty fuckin’ packin. There’s a REASON Wesley Crane wanted the Glucks on his side. Now Ah’m startin’ t’ think that it had more t’ do with keepin’ me an Carlton away from Rage And Cage…”
Chapps hasn’t looked up yet. He slaps the top of the puddle with his stick.
“Fact is… excludin’ the Oblivion Butt Squad, there’s only one team been able to stand up t’ us. And that’s the Bastards. And y’know what? Speakin’ frankly, Ah think maybe the Bastards..."
Here, he briefly and inexplicably shifts into a Russian accent.
“How you say, ‘heel turn’...”
Back to normal.
“Goes back t’the Glucks. Our third match, y’all. Third match in our entire damn career. Er’ryone else got they ass beat by th’ Bastards. Me n’ Carlton didn’t just take ‘em to the limit, they had to hit us in the dicks like a dozen times or somethin.”
“We’re supposed t’ be the bad guys.”
“Ah never really felt like a bad guy. Even if guys like Wesley Rage think we’re the bad guys just for bein’ white and southern, an there’s a lot of people like that out there.”
“But one thing me n’ Carlton didn’t plan for was two dozen fuckkin’ dick punches.”
“Had to be worse than us to get past us, the Bastards did.”
Chapps flicks his wrist, sending the stick flying.
“And that’s where what Ah’m not hearing is bothersome.”
“This should be about th’ Bastards bein afraid. We’re the number one ranked challengers. We seen their shit this time. An we got backup this time too. Bastards/Glucks rematch, that’s what erryone should be talkin’ about - ALL that erryone should be talkin’ about.
“N’instead…”
Chapps stands up and turns his back.
“Look who’s gettin’ all the hype. Ragencage. Gaines and Harding. The Fairataxes? BEAR-O-BUTTFUCKING-DACTYL?
“FUCK… EVERY LAST GAWDDAMN ONE OF Y’ALL.”
When Chapps spins back around, he’s back to ‘normal’, with his eyes shining crazily behind his caveman hair, his nose flared as he breathes through it, and his teeth bared.
“Ah’m not doin’ a laundry list. Ah just ain’t. Th’fuck do Ah have t’ say about this bunch of ass-kissery? The uh… Twins? The Sanctuary? How ‘bout THE TEAMS WHO AIN’T WINNIN’ THE DAMN MATCH?! Nope, Ah’m not doin it. Ah’m leavin’ the laundry for Adrienne, Salt, and Pepper. Hey y’all Ah jes did a fuckin’ sexism, someone cancel me! Jes a buncha XHF ass-kissery goin’ on here, Ah’m bein’ asked to take fat midget clowns an’ homosexual english luchadors seriously.”
He snorts.
“There’s a lotta thangs Ah don’t like. Northerners… libruls… uppity fuckin’ cityfolk… basically Ah jes said th’ same thang three times there… everybody in this god-forsaken gauntlet match aside from Carlton and myself. Takin’ orders… even if the money makes it worthwhile. Jes barely, but worthwhile. Except here’s what’s not worthwhile.”
“Ah turned on th’ Foundation for the High Rollers cos Wesley Crane was willin’ to pay better. But yew gotta look at th’ context. An’ right now, th’ context is startin to look like me an Carlton was brought on as heavies t’ protect the A-team - that’s Ragencage. Mr. Crane, Mr. Blood, whoever the fuck’s gotta pay attention to this… Ah dunno, fuckin’ Dominicus? Who decided that lettin’ all this detritus into W:UK was a good idea?”
“Prob’ly the same dumbass who decided to disrespect th’ Glucks by actin’ like we were anything below second billin’.”
His eyes wide, his teeth bared, Chapps snarls at the camera.
“Ah don’t like it. Carlton don’t either. We WILL go Stars and Bars on this gawddamn gauntlet, d’yew understand what Ah’m sayin? What Ah mean? WE WILL GO STARS AND BARS ON THIS ENTIRE MOTHERFUCKER. If we don’t take th’ gold from th’ Bastards for ourselves n’ the High Rollers Club, IN THAT ORDER, we will STILL make sure to make er’ryone who thought they were better’n us…”
Seethe.
“REAL fuckin’ sorry.”
Chapps is an odd boy, you see. Even by backwater Mississippi standards, even compared to his brother.
Squatting in front of the muddy puddle, Chapps gives no indication that he notices someone approaching. It isn’t until we’re right on top of him that he says or does anything.
And when he finally speaks, it’s without looking up, in a mutter completely unlike the gravelly bellow he more often uses.
“Ah been listening t’ people say thangs about me, y’know. Hell sometimes it seems like that’s all Ah do. And Ah been told not t’ let it git to me, that even if the words they’re sayin’ aren’t good words, and Ah tell you what they never are, but at least they’re sayin’ somethin.”
He reaches out with the stick in his hands and stirs the water. The water takes on a slightly paler shade of brown.
“Well, now, Ah’m not hearin’ the words Ah want t’ hear.”
“Lemme take y’all back. Back afore the Oh-blivion Death Squad and that accursed redhead of theirs stole a win off us. Afore we, how Carlton said, upgraded our cityslicker.”
“The Brothers Gluck were almost unstoppable.”
“Y’all c’n look at th’ rankings if yew don’t believe me. None of the other daggone teams in this division c’n string two wins t’gether, and we mowed through ‘em all. Nee-yawn Boo-shee-doh? Done worn them boys out. The fuckin… y’know what Ah don’t remember what th’ new boss called his team with Marty Donovan, but we done beat them too, sent Marty fuckin’ packin. There’s a REASON Wesley Crane wanted the Glucks on his side. Now Ah’m startin’ t’ think that it had more t’ do with keepin’ me an Carlton away from Rage And Cage…”
Chapps hasn’t looked up yet. He slaps the top of the puddle with his stick.
“Fact is… excludin’ the Oblivion Butt Squad, there’s only one team been able to stand up t’ us. And that’s the Bastards. And y’know what? Speakin’ frankly, Ah think maybe the Bastards..."
Here, he briefly and inexplicably shifts into a Russian accent.
“How you say, ‘heel turn’...”
Back to normal.
“Goes back t’the Glucks. Our third match, y’all. Third match in our entire damn career. Er’ryone else got they ass beat by th’ Bastards. Me n’ Carlton didn’t just take ‘em to the limit, they had to hit us in the dicks like a dozen times or somethin.”
“We’re supposed t’ be the bad guys.”
“Ah never really felt like a bad guy. Even if guys like Wesley Rage think we’re the bad guys just for bein’ white and southern, an there’s a lot of people like that out there.”
“But one thing me n’ Carlton didn’t plan for was two dozen fuckkin’ dick punches.”
“Had to be worse than us to get past us, the Bastards did.”
Chapps flicks his wrist, sending the stick flying.
“And that’s where what Ah’m not hearing is bothersome.”
“This should be about th’ Bastards bein afraid. We’re the number one ranked challengers. We seen their shit this time. An we got backup this time too. Bastards/Glucks rematch, that’s what erryone should be talkin’ about - ALL that erryone should be talkin’ about.
“N’instead…”
Chapps stands up and turns his back.
“Look who’s gettin’ all the hype. Ragencage. Gaines and Harding. The Fairataxes? BEAR-O-BUTTFUCKING-DACTYL?
“FUCK… EVERY LAST GAWDDAMN ONE OF Y’ALL.”
When Chapps spins back around, he’s back to ‘normal’, with his eyes shining crazily behind his caveman hair, his nose flared as he breathes through it, and his teeth bared.
“Ah’m not doin’ a laundry list. Ah just ain’t. Th’fuck do Ah have t’ say about this bunch of ass-kissery? The uh… Twins? The Sanctuary? How ‘bout THE TEAMS WHO AIN’T WINNIN’ THE DAMN MATCH?! Nope, Ah’m not doin it. Ah’m leavin’ the laundry for Adrienne, Salt, and Pepper. Hey y’all Ah jes did a fuckin’ sexism, someone cancel me! Jes a buncha XHF ass-kissery goin’ on here, Ah’m bein’ asked to take fat midget clowns an’ homosexual english luchadors seriously.”
He snorts.
“There’s a lotta thangs Ah don’t like. Northerners… libruls… uppity fuckin’ cityfolk… basically Ah jes said th’ same thang three times there… everybody in this god-forsaken gauntlet match aside from Carlton and myself. Takin’ orders… even if the money makes it worthwhile. Jes barely, but worthwhile. Except here’s what’s not worthwhile.”
“Ah turned on th’ Foundation for the High Rollers cos Wesley Crane was willin’ to pay better. But yew gotta look at th’ context. An’ right now, th’ context is startin to look like me an Carlton was brought on as heavies t’ protect the A-team - that’s Ragencage. Mr. Crane, Mr. Blood, whoever the fuck’s gotta pay attention to this… Ah dunno, fuckin’ Dominicus? Who decided that lettin’ all this detritus into W:UK was a good idea?”
“Prob’ly the same dumbass who decided to disrespect th’ Glucks by actin’ like we were anything below second billin’.”
His eyes wide, his teeth bared, Chapps snarls at the camera.
“Ah don’t like it. Carlton don’t either. We WILL go Stars and Bars on this gawddamn gauntlet, d’yew understand what Ah’m sayin? What Ah mean? WE WILL GO STARS AND BARS ON THIS ENTIRE MOTHERFUCKER. If we don’t take th’ gold from th’ Bastards for ourselves n’ the High Rollers Club, IN THAT ORDER, we will STILL make sure to make er’ryone who thought they were better’n us…”
Seethe.
“REAL fuckin’ sorry.”