Post by Old Line Jeff on May 7, 2024 0:11:35 GMT -5
As soon as he got out of the rental car, Daeriq Damien’s iridescent black dress shirt was stuck to his skin. Even though the Mississippi Furnace wasn’t running full blast like it would be in a couple months, the humidity was brutal.
But Daeriq wasn’t about to take his suit off, for two reasons. One was commitment to the look. During his wrestling days he’d been pretty clean cut, the mid-80s coke dealer thing hadn’t started until he decided to worm his way into Ronnie Long’s career.
The other was the mosquitos.
Carlton and Chapps were both sitting, shirtless and sweaty, in the front yard of the Gluck Shack.
The body hair was horrific. Well, actually, Daeriq had to admit, Chapps was built pretty well. He could’ve pulled off the hirsute look. But Carlton, on the other hand, looked like a bear had swallowed a barrel. A “bearel” if you will. The only non-hairy spot was the top of his head, and that was distractingly shiny.
An alarming number of beer cans littered the front yard, and the biggest bug zapper Daeriq had ever seen was swinging from the live oak tree in the front yard.
As he watched, the bug zapper sparked ferociously, and the Brothers Gluck responded with equally ferocious Mississippi Noises. Their chairs were set in the muddiest spot in the yard, and both of them had red clay caked to their feet and ankles.
“So, on a scale of one to ten, how drunk are you boys?”
Carlton didn’t respond.
Chapps looked up slowly, his eyes bleary. “Numbers is for*bleep*, dawg.”
As usual, Daeriq suppressed a grimace at the backwoods drunken belligerence. “You know, as long as the network autobleeps that crap you’ll be alright, but it is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”
Carlton still hadn’t acknowledged Daeriq, but he helped himself to two more beers at once, chugging them both at the same time. Chapps tilted his head sideways before speaking.
“Ah cain’t count, Derek. That’s how Ah knows Ah’m smarter’n you.”
“It’s Daeriq, and… you know what, fuck this. LAST ONE IN THE CAR IS A YANKEE.”
The slapstick ‘hilarity’ of the drunken Gluck Brothers rolling around in the mud, fighting not to be the yankee, will have to be left to the imagination of the viewer. Meanwhile, Daeriq thanked himself for thinking to get a portable upholstery cleaner, because red clay stains were hard to get out.
As he’d learned the hard way the last time he tried to take the Glucks somewhere in a vehicle.
The plan was to take the Glucks to LaFayette, Georgia, for a strategy session at Ronnie’s barn.
It was actually a very nice setup for a wrestling school, they just hadn’t actually bothered to name it, what with it not being open to the general public and all. Hell, Daeriq didn’t know half of what was going on there. But Cherie was there being taught to wrestle by Heidi Christenson, and she was one of a pack that Heidi had scraped up from the far corners of the earth, and was teaching for some reason that had something to do with spaceships. And speaking of spaceships Ronnie was hardly ever there anyway, also for purportedly spaceship-related reasons.
The only person Daeriq figured really had the big picture was Jeff Andrews, and he was also busy with spaceship ordeals.
(I’m going to have to provide cliff notes on why all that above matters, aren’t I?)
“So Chapps, are you sober enough to have a conversation?”
“Ah guess so, but shouldn’t we wait for Carlton?”
Carlton was in the back, his face squished against the window. He drooled, nearly choked on it, somehow not waking up.
“He’ll figure it out. So… the idea we had of letting Cherie do the talking to counter Sinclair isn’t going to work. Donzig did the talking.”
“Yeah she ain’t gonna be happy about that, but Ah get it. So does that mean you wanna do the talking? Or are you thinkin’ of askin Ronnie to do a cameo or somethin?”
“No, save it for a while, we’ll get you guys on camera later.”
“Daeriq, have you ever noticed how many times you try to split me an’ Carlton up to do our promo work separate and Carlton gets to go first and then Ah don’t end up goin at all?”
Daeriq doesn’t directly answer, but he glares pointedly at the fourth wall.
(Man fuck you I was busy.)
“You really think that there’s somethin’ that any of them people can teach the Brothers Gluck that’s gonna be a game changer for this match?”
“I was thinking more of strategic insights than new moves and training drills. You boys actually do fine in the gym, although I wish I could get Carlton to work on his stamina.”
“Yeah, my big brother’s always been a big boy. BIGBOAH. Ah’m serious Derek, as long as Ah’ve been settin’ foot on wrestling mats, Ah’v heard coaches tellin’ Carlton to lose weight. But he aint’ gon’ do it, boy loves his carbs too much. Ah tell you what, you figure out a way to turn the Oblivion Death Squad’s flesh into cornbread, next thing you know he’s gonna turn ‘em into Oblivion Death Tamales.”
Before Daeriq could correct Chapps on the pronunciation of his name, Carlton sat up with a bolt.
“Who said what about tamales?”
The plan Daeriq had come up with was for the Glucks to spend a day at the Barn, then get a plane from the Chattanooga airport. And the Barn couldn’t get there soon enough. His head was ringing from the gravelly voices and braying Mississippi accents of the Glucks. As the car crunched down the driveway he sighed in relief.
As soon as the car doors opened, he could hear that distinctive sound of bodies hitting a wrestling ring.
But Daeriq wasn’t about to take his suit off, for two reasons. One was commitment to the look. During his wrestling days he’d been pretty clean cut, the mid-80s coke dealer thing hadn’t started until he decided to worm his way into Ronnie Long’s career.
The other was the mosquitos.
Carlton and Chapps were both sitting, shirtless and sweaty, in the front yard of the Gluck Shack.
The body hair was horrific. Well, actually, Daeriq had to admit, Chapps was built pretty well. He could’ve pulled off the hirsute look. But Carlton, on the other hand, looked like a bear had swallowed a barrel. A “bearel” if you will. The only non-hairy spot was the top of his head, and that was distractingly shiny.
An alarming number of beer cans littered the front yard, and the biggest bug zapper Daeriq had ever seen was swinging from the live oak tree in the front yard.
As he watched, the bug zapper sparked ferociously, and the Brothers Gluck responded with equally ferocious Mississippi Noises. Their chairs were set in the muddiest spot in the yard, and both of them had red clay caked to their feet and ankles.
“So, on a scale of one to ten, how drunk are you boys?”
Carlton didn’t respond.
Chapps looked up slowly, his eyes bleary. “Numbers is for
As usual, Daeriq suppressed a grimace at the backwoods drunken belligerence. “You know, as long as the network autobleeps that crap you’ll be alright, but it is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”
Carlton still hadn’t acknowledged Daeriq, but he helped himself to two more beers at once, chugging them both at the same time. Chapps tilted his head sideways before speaking.
“Ah cain’t count, Derek. That’s how Ah knows Ah’m smarter’n you.”
“It’s Daeriq, and… you know what, fuck this. LAST ONE IN THE CAR IS A YANKEE.”
The slapstick ‘hilarity’ of the drunken Gluck Brothers rolling around in the mud, fighting not to be the yankee, will have to be left to the imagination of the viewer. Meanwhile, Daeriq thanked himself for thinking to get a portable upholstery cleaner, because red clay stains were hard to get out.
As he’d learned the hard way the last time he tried to take the Glucks somewhere in a vehicle.
The plan was to take the Glucks to LaFayette, Georgia, for a strategy session at Ronnie’s barn.
It was actually a very nice setup for a wrestling school, they just hadn’t actually bothered to name it, what with it not being open to the general public and all. Hell, Daeriq didn’t know half of what was going on there. But Cherie was there being taught to wrestle by Heidi Christenson, and she was one of a pack that Heidi had scraped up from the far corners of the earth, and was teaching for some reason that had something to do with spaceships. And speaking of spaceships Ronnie was hardly ever there anyway, also for purportedly spaceship-related reasons.
The only person Daeriq figured really had the big picture was Jeff Andrews, and he was also busy with spaceship ordeals.
(I’m going to have to provide cliff notes on why all that above matters, aren’t I?)
“So Chapps, are you sober enough to have a conversation?”
“Ah guess so, but shouldn’t we wait for Carlton?”
Carlton was in the back, his face squished against the window. He drooled, nearly choked on it, somehow not waking up.
“He’ll figure it out. So… the idea we had of letting Cherie do the talking to counter Sinclair isn’t going to work. Donzig did the talking.”
“Yeah she ain’t gonna be happy about that, but Ah get it. So does that mean you wanna do the talking? Or are you thinkin’ of askin Ronnie to do a cameo or somethin?”
“No, save it for a while, we’ll get you guys on camera later.”
“Daeriq, have you ever noticed how many times you try to split me an’ Carlton up to do our promo work separate and Carlton gets to go first and then Ah don’t end up goin at all?”
Daeriq doesn’t directly answer, but he glares pointedly at the fourth wall.
(Man fuck you I was busy.)
“You really think that there’s somethin’ that any of them people can teach the Brothers Gluck that’s gonna be a game changer for this match?”
“I was thinking more of strategic insights than new moves and training drills. You boys actually do fine in the gym, although I wish I could get Carlton to work on his stamina.”
“Yeah, my big brother’s always been a big boy. BIGBOAH. Ah’m serious Derek, as long as Ah’ve been settin’ foot on wrestling mats, Ah’v heard coaches tellin’ Carlton to lose weight. But he aint’ gon’ do it, boy loves his carbs too much. Ah tell you what, you figure out a way to turn the Oblivion Death Squad’s flesh into cornbread, next thing you know he’s gonna turn ‘em into Oblivion Death Tamales.”
Before Daeriq could correct Chapps on the pronunciation of his name, Carlton sat up with a bolt.
“Who said what about tamales?”
The plan Daeriq had come up with was for the Glucks to spend a day at the Barn, then get a plane from the Chattanooga airport. And the Barn couldn’t get there soon enough. His head was ringing from the gravelly voices and braying Mississippi accents of the Glucks. As the car crunched down the driveway he sighed in relief.
As soon as the car doors opened, he could hear that distinctive sound of bodies hitting a wrestling ring.