Post by Old Line Jeff on Jul 17, 2023 21:41:12 GMT -5
“Gentlemen, I’m just the messenger. I know you’re not entirely happy with some of the decisions that have been made lately, but-”
Chapps Gluck lifted a heavy hand and Henderson trailed off.
“Henderson, Ah understand that yer jest relatin’ orders. Naow, let me explain somethin’ t’ you. Me an’ Carlton were fightin’ th’ Oblivion Death Squad for y’all. We-”
“As I explained, Mr. Crane wasn’t happy that you managed to lose to them on two consecutive occasions.”
“And as AH explained, Mistuh Henderson, we did nawt appreciate th’ fact that when Wesley Crane, he gits it. When Ragencage need help, they git it. When Preston needs help, he gits it. But when th’ Glucks git jumped, not even b’fore th’ match, but b’fore they git into th’ arena, th’ High Roller’s Club’s nowhere to be found.”
Henderson fidgeted.
The Glucks, despite being educated, were walking Mississippi stereotypes. Grubby clothes, uncombed beards, uncouth accents, and seemingly perpetually on the verge of regressive behavior. He’d expected them to stomp around and bellow and then do what he said.
Instead, Chapps - who he’d always pegged as the stupid(er) one - was talking well, despite the accent, while the glare off Carlton’s bald head hid his eyes in shadow and made him even more intimidating than usual as he silently stared.
“Don’t forget Mr. Gluck that Mr. Crane pulled strings to save you from jail time after you assaulted a police officer.”
“D’yew r’member the Bible passage about th’ poor widow who gave two coins, an Christ himself said she’d given more than all the rich men an’ their extravagant gifts? Because Ah know Crane could’ve done a hell of a lot more fer us than bail me out. Instead of leanin’ on Mistuh Blood, he let me stew at home. But Carlton weren’t suspended. An th’ whole time Ah was gone, the High Rollers club pretended Carlton didn’t exist - unless they needed him t’ take a Western Lariat off Ronnie Long. Don’t expect us t’ be grateful fer table scraps.”
Carlton cracked his knuckles.
Henderson tugged at his collar.
“None the less, he still pays you very well.”
“An’ that is why we helped him instead of goin’ back t’ th’ Foundation. Naow Henderson, Ah know my worth. Ah had my monster moment in that battle royale. Ah saved the World Title for Mistuh Crane. An then when Ah’m deliberately kept off TV to, as they say in the wrasslin’ business, ‘cool me off’, Henderson, Ah don’t like it. He never gave Carlton an opportunity, an’ he wasted mine. We from Mississippi don’t have a lot. We don’t like waste. You understand what Ah mean? We don’t. Like. Waste.”
Trying not to show his nerves, Henderson tried to surreptitiously moisten his lips before speaking.
“You are, of course, valued members of the High Rollers Club. Mr. Crane regrets the fact that you feel undervalued and as though you don’t fit in with the rest of the stable. Also, and we’ll admit that the idea came from your opponents this card buying fancy dresses instead of preparing for you in the ring, I’ve arranged for Vivian - she’s one of Mr. Crane’s personal stylists - to see how you gentlemen fit into Tom Ford’s.”
“Ah fit into a Ford jest fine. Mine’s a 350.”
Henderson does his best not to crinkle his nose in distaste.
“Mmhmm.”
“Carlton, I mostly work with Mr. Crane’s assorted secretaries and assistants. He was just worried that you and your brother would, er, not take well to a male stylist.”
“Of course he was.”
Vivian was yet another woman of the type Wesley Crane liked to employ. Curvaceous in a surgically-assisted way, and dressed to the nines in a pencil miniskirt and four inch heels with open toes.
She and Carlton were sitting in the lobby of a high end spa. Chapps was behind a curtain while two women worked on his hair and beard.
“Don’t them things hurt your feet?”
“They’re murder.” She whispered, and giggled. “But the paycheck is more than worth it.”
“Ah’m glad nobody’s ever offered to pay me seven figures to wear high heels. Ah mean, if they did, Ah’d feel obligated to wear ‘em. Ah’d just snap th’ heels or put ‘em straight through th’ floor.”
Vivian giggled, and looked Carlton up and down out of the side of her eye. The man was titanic. Finding a suit that would fit around that giant chest and even gianter belly of his wasn’t going to happen, he’d have to be custom fit. And those thick arms were going to be a problem as well. As far as the pants went, well, she wondered if she might be able to make suspenders look good on him. Even the shoes were going to be tough. His feet were as gigantic as the rest of him. And you know what they say about shoe size…
Shocked by her train of thought, Vivian felt two hot spots on her cheeks. She couldn’t have those kinds of thoughts about a human sasquatch like Carlton Gluck, could she?
A spa employee walked up. “Miss Vivian? We’re done with Mr. Gluck the Younger, but I’m afraid he’s made it clear he’s not a fan of the look Mr. Crane recommended.”
“Well, let’s see him.”
And then Chapps walked out from behind the curtains
The guffaw that Carlton let loose could’ve broken glass.
“A MAN BUN! OH MAH GAWD BOAH!”
Chapps Gluck. In a pair of admittedly sharp striped trousers, no shirt, and a man bun. He looked like an incredibly buff Joseph Seed, and his face had that expression of someone who is so intensely humiliated that trying to own it is the only respite from it.
“BOAH, IF’N CHERIE EVER SAW YEW LAHK THAT!”
“Mr. Chapps, I really do think it’s not your look.” Vivian tried to jump in.
“Aw no. Aw hell no. Y’all gonna put me all up in this? Ahm’ takin’ this shit on the road and y’all gone see. An’ Carlton, hush yo fussin’. Wasn’t th’ plan to trim his beard short?”
Carlton’s eyes went wide with horror and he grabbed his beard with both hands.
End.
Chapps Gluck lifted a heavy hand and Henderson trailed off.
“Henderson, Ah understand that yer jest relatin’ orders. Naow, let me explain somethin’ t’ you. Me an’ Carlton were fightin’ th’ Oblivion Death Squad for y’all. We-”
“As I explained, Mr. Crane wasn’t happy that you managed to lose to them on two consecutive occasions.”
“And as AH explained, Mistuh Henderson, we did nawt appreciate th’ fact that when Wesley Crane, he gits it. When Ragencage need help, they git it. When Preston needs help, he gits it. But when th’ Glucks git jumped, not even b’fore th’ match, but b’fore they git into th’ arena, th’ High Roller’s Club’s nowhere to be found.”
Henderson fidgeted.
The Glucks, despite being educated, were walking Mississippi stereotypes. Grubby clothes, uncombed beards, uncouth accents, and seemingly perpetually on the verge of regressive behavior. He’d expected them to stomp around and bellow and then do what he said.
Instead, Chapps - who he’d always pegged as the stupid(er) one - was talking well, despite the accent, while the glare off Carlton’s bald head hid his eyes in shadow and made him even more intimidating than usual as he silently stared.
“Don’t forget Mr. Gluck that Mr. Crane pulled strings to save you from jail time after you assaulted a police officer.”
“D’yew r’member the Bible passage about th’ poor widow who gave two coins, an Christ himself said she’d given more than all the rich men an’ their extravagant gifts? Because Ah know Crane could’ve done a hell of a lot more fer us than bail me out. Instead of leanin’ on Mistuh Blood, he let me stew at home. But Carlton weren’t suspended. An th’ whole time Ah was gone, the High Rollers club pretended Carlton didn’t exist - unless they needed him t’ take a Western Lariat off Ronnie Long. Don’t expect us t’ be grateful fer table scraps.”
Carlton cracked his knuckles.
Henderson tugged at his collar.
“None the less, he still pays you very well.”
“An’ that is why we helped him instead of goin’ back t’ th’ Foundation. Naow Henderson, Ah know my worth. Ah had my monster moment in that battle royale. Ah saved the World Title for Mistuh Crane. An then when Ah’m deliberately kept off TV to, as they say in the wrasslin’ business, ‘cool me off’, Henderson, Ah don’t like it. He never gave Carlton an opportunity, an’ he wasted mine. We from Mississippi don’t have a lot. We don’t like waste. You understand what Ah mean? We don’t. Like. Waste.”
Trying not to show his nerves, Henderson tried to surreptitiously moisten his lips before speaking.
“You are, of course, valued members of the High Rollers Club. Mr. Crane regrets the fact that you feel undervalued and as though you don’t fit in with the rest of the stable. Also, and we’ll admit that the idea came from your opponents this card buying fancy dresses instead of preparing for you in the ring, I’ve arranged for Vivian - she’s one of Mr. Crane’s personal stylists - to see how you gentlemen fit into Tom Ford’s.”
“Ah fit into a Ford jest fine. Mine’s a 350.”
Henderson does his best not to crinkle his nose in distaste.
“Mmhmm.”
“Carlton, I mostly work with Mr. Crane’s assorted secretaries and assistants. He was just worried that you and your brother would, er, not take well to a male stylist.”
“Of course he was.”
Vivian was yet another woman of the type Wesley Crane liked to employ. Curvaceous in a surgically-assisted way, and dressed to the nines in a pencil miniskirt and four inch heels with open toes.
She and Carlton were sitting in the lobby of a high end spa. Chapps was behind a curtain while two women worked on his hair and beard.
“Don’t them things hurt your feet?”
“They’re murder.” She whispered, and giggled. “But the paycheck is more than worth it.”
“Ah’m glad nobody’s ever offered to pay me seven figures to wear high heels. Ah mean, if they did, Ah’d feel obligated to wear ‘em. Ah’d just snap th’ heels or put ‘em straight through th’ floor.”
Vivian giggled, and looked Carlton up and down out of the side of her eye. The man was titanic. Finding a suit that would fit around that giant chest and even gianter belly of his wasn’t going to happen, he’d have to be custom fit. And those thick arms were going to be a problem as well. As far as the pants went, well, she wondered if she might be able to make suspenders look good on him. Even the shoes were going to be tough. His feet were as gigantic as the rest of him. And you know what they say about shoe size…
Shocked by her train of thought, Vivian felt two hot spots on her cheeks. She couldn’t have those kinds of thoughts about a human sasquatch like Carlton Gluck, could she?
A spa employee walked up. “Miss Vivian? We’re done with Mr. Gluck the Younger, but I’m afraid he’s made it clear he’s not a fan of the look Mr. Crane recommended.”
“Well, let’s see him.”
And then Chapps walked out from behind the curtains
The guffaw that Carlton let loose could’ve broken glass.
“A MAN BUN! OH MAH GAWD BOAH!”
Chapps Gluck. In a pair of admittedly sharp striped trousers, no shirt, and a man bun. He looked like an incredibly buff Joseph Seed, and his face had that expression of someone who is so intensely humiliated that trying to own it is the only respite from it.
“BOAH, IF’N CHERIE EVER SAW YEW LAHK THAT!”
“Mr. Chapps, I really do think it’s not your look.” Vivian tried to jump in.
“Aw no. Aw hell no. Y’all gonna put me all up in this? Ahm’ takin’ this shit on the road and y’all gone see. An’ Carlton, hush yo fussin’. Wasn’t th’ plan to trim his beard short?”
Carlton’s eyes went wide with horror and he grabbed his beard with both hands.
End.