Post by FDJ on Sept 14, 2018 6:37:09 GMT -5
Frank Dylan James hadn’t been to Japan in a good, long time. Hell, he’d been puttering around his mountain semi-retired for the better part of the last two years. Before that it seemed like an eternity since he’d worked for Japanese legend Kazuma Fujita’s Pro-Wrestling FURY. It had only been a single tour but he had absolutely made an impression.
An impression that wouldn’t soon be forgotten.
Although he did get to work the one tour for Mr. 300%, and he did get to make a name for himself by mauling his way through everyone put in front of him for that magical six weeks of wrestling, he never did get the chance to prove himself over the long term.
That is to say that he’d made an impact, but wasn’t able to find the right place and the right time to follow up on his success and make a real name for himself in the Land of the Rising Sun. He had been asked back to Japan for a Death Match tournament that he’d nearly won, but with FURY’s impending closure and the lull in Japanese wrestling in the late aught’s and early teens had forced the West Virginia Whack Job to make his bones somewhere else.
He never did forget about Japan, though.
It’d been in the back of his head for a decade that one day he needed to get back to that side of the world and stake his claim in the land of puroresu. He’d made a pretty good name for himself in the States brawling alongside the likes of Dusty Griffith and Eric Dane throughout the boom period of DEFIANCE Wrestling and he’d listened and learned from those two more than anybody might give him credit for if they’d only ever been exposed to his portrayal on American television.
Frank wasn’t the big dumb brute that many of his employers would have had you believe, but damn if he didn’t play the part. He liked it. Hell, there was some truth to it, he was a wildman from the mountains, he did like to throw back a few beers, and he had a reputation for wanting to fight anybody and everybody, anywhere and everywhere.
Face it, Frank was big, and he was a brute, but he wasn’t dumb.
So, ”retired” as he may have been, comfortable living out his days out to pasture on the side of a mountain, when he got the call from Masaaki Sano he nearly tripped over his own fabled bare feet to get his ass off of his mountain, onto a plane, and back to Japan.
Frank didn’t have a good answer for you about why he’d never gone back, but he knew an opportunity when one was handed to him on a silver platter and he wasn’t about to squander it by wasting any time. He booked the next flight out of Morgantown. It took him to Pittsburgh, then to Chicago, and then finally, twenty-two agonizing Economy Class hours later to Narita International Airport in Tokyo.
The lumbering grappler unfolded from the three seats that he’d bought for himself and came out of the gangway, emerging into the terminal like Godzilla among a million scattering natives. He stood nearly two foot taller than everyone around him and he stuck out like a sore thumb. He wasn’t usually bothered by the gawking, he’d gotten used to it working the circuits back in the States, but after entirely too long folded up in the back of that airplane he was starting to get just a little sick and a lot tired of the way people were looking at him.
He stalked through the terminal, mentally kicking himself over the idea of flying out on his own instead of waiting a week for the MAX-J office to get his travel accommodations situated. At the end of the day, Frank didn’t like to wait.
Frank liked to make an impact, and he liked to do it on his own time.
He was the untamed typhoon that would bludgeon and crush anyone who stood against him. He was the Violent Jesus, resurrected to bring his message of blood and violence to the denizens of the Royal Road.
Frank Dylan James was on his way to MAXIMUM Japan.
Masaaki Sano had clearly not yet realized what hell he was about to unleash.
Frank, on the other hand, was fully aware.
He smiled, giddy with Fukuoka on his mind.
An impression that wouldn’t soon be forgotten.
Although he did get to work the one tour for Mr. 300%, and he did get to make a name for himself by mauling his way through everyone put in front of him for that magical six weeks of wrestling, he never did get the chance to prove himself over the long term.
That is to say that he’d made an impact, but wasn’t able to find the right place and the right time to follow up on his success and make a real name for himself in the Land of the Rising Sun. He had been asked back to Japan for a Death Match tournament that he’d nearly won, but with FURY’s impending closure and the lull in Japanese wrestling in the late aught’s and early teens had forced the West Virginia Whack Job to make his bones somewhere else.
He never did forget about Japan, though.
It’d been in the back of his head for a decade that one day he needed to get back to that side of the world and stake his claim in the land of puroresu. He’d made a pretty good name for himself in the States brawling alongside the likes of Dusty Griffith and Eric Dane throughout the boom period of DEFIANCE Wrestling and he’d listened and learned from those two more than anybody might give him credit for if they’d only ever been exposed to his portrayal on American television.
Frank wasn’t the big dumb brute that many of his employers would have had you believe, but damn if he didn’t play the part. He liked it. Hell, there was some truth to it, he was a wildman from the mountains, he did like to throw back a few beers, and he had a reputation for wanting to fight anybody and everybody, anywhere and everywhere.
Face it, Frank was big, and he was a brute, but he wasn’t dumb.
So, ”retired” as he may have been, comfortable living out his days out to pasture on the side of a mountain, when he got the call from Masaaki Sano he nearly tripped over his own fabled bare feet to get his ass off of his mountain, onto a plane, and back to Japan.
Frank didn’t have a good answer for you about why he’d never gone back, but he knew an opportunity when one was handed to him on a silver platter and he wasn’t about to squander it by wasting any time. He booked the next flight out of Morgantown. It took him to Pittsburgh, then to Chicago, and then finally, twenty-two agonizing Economy Class hours later to Narita International Airport in Tokyo.
The lumbering grappler unfolded from the three seats that he’d bought for himself and came out of the gangway, emerging into the terminal like Godzilla among a million scattering natives. He stood nearly two foot taller than everyone around him and he stuck out like a sore thumb. He wasn’t usually bothered by the gawking, he’d gotten used to it working the circuits back in the States, but after entirely too long folded up in the back of that airplane he was starting to get just a little sick and a lot tired of the way people were looking at him.
He stalked through the terminal, mentally kicking himself over the idea of flying out on his own instead of waiting a week for the MAX-J office to get his travel accommodations situated. At the end of the day, Frank didn’t like to wait.
Frank liked to make an impact, and he liked to do it on his own time.
He was the untamed typhoon that would bludgeon and crush anyone who stood against him. He was the Violent Jesus, resurrected to bring his message of blood and violence to the denizens of the Royal Road.
Frank Dylan James was on his way to MAXIMUM Japan.
Masaaki Sano had clearly not yet realized what hell he was about to unleash.
Frank, on the other hand, was fully aware.
He smiled, giddy with Fukuoka on his mind.