Post by Mike Musket on Oct 5, 2018 21:02:56 GMT -5
Mike shows up outside of the locker room. Yeah he’s got his coonskin cap and all his belongings tied upon in a sack hanging from a stick. And yeah he’s wearing them dusty britches, you know the one with the mud stains, and his flannel shirt. But by god he’s a man and we all know it.
The reporters hound him.
“Mike-san, are you going home?”
He puffs out his chest.
“Yep, gotta head on back to Fuji Mountain ya know. Can’t trap no squirrels here in this damn city.”
He laughs.
“But I do love me some o’ that shrimp temper!”
The reporter is confused.
“Do you mean, shrimp tempura?”
Mike nods with triumph.
“Yeah that’s the one! Boy I get me some temper eats and I can make a cat go moo, a cow go meow, and a Hammerswine say, ‘nah I ain’t hungry’! haha, yes indeed, I could eat my way to St. Louie, Nevada off some of the fish fries y’all do up here.”
“How do you feel you’ve fared this tour?”
Mike gets a serious a bit.
“Well, look, let me say this. Mister Danielson, I know you ain’t nice. You might do your playacting and such, but I don’t like you comin’ out to my matches. I see you at one of my matches, hell, this sweet lariat o’ mine is gonna put you in the dentist chair for four score and seven years of pain. Best you believe.”
He points a finger into the camera.
“But look, lemme tell ya something. Jun Vegas and me? Oh we got it rollin’ like a stone with wheels. He sets ‘em up, I lariat ‘em down. I set him up, and he obliges with all them big-time suplexes and shit he got! See, when I ain’t lariatin’ I’m a-hooking just as much as I can hook, sink ‘em in good like a damn submarine that fell asleep and just keeps goin’ til the goin’ gotta stop.”
And then he gives ‘em that Big Ole Country grin.
“But a mountain man can’t live in the past, no sir. The mountain gotta keep on truckin down the line!”
And on that note, Mike dashes off through the reporters and around the corner leaving a cloud of dust. Yeah them city reporters cough. But Mike don’t care. He’s done run off.
The reporters hound him.
“Mike-san, are you going home?”
He puffs out his chest.
“Yep, gotta head on back to Fuji Mountain ya know. Can’t trap no squirrels here in this damn city.”
He laughs.
“But I do love me some o’ that shrimp temper!”
The reporter is confused.
“Do you mean, shrimp tempura?”
Mike nods with triumph.
“Yeah that’s the one! Boy I get me some temper eats and I can make a cat go moo, a cow go meow, and a Hammerswine say, ‘nah I ain’t hungry’! haha, yes indeed, I could eat my way to St. Louie, Nevada off some of the fish fries y’all do up here.”
“How do you feel you’ve fared this tour?”
Mike gets a serious a bit.
“Well, look, let me say this. Mister Danielson, I know you ain’t nice. You might do your playacting and such, but I don’t like you comin’ out to my matches. I see you at one of my matches, hell, this sweet lariat o’ mine is gonna put you in the dentist chair for four score and seven years of pain. Best you believe.”
He points a finger into the camera.
“But look, lemme tell ya something. Jun Vegas and me? Oh we got it rollin’ like a stone with wheels. He sets ‘em up, I lariat ‘em down. I set him up, and he obliges with all them big-time suplexes and shit he got! See, when I ain’t lariatin’ I’m a-hooking just as much as I can hook, sink ‘em in good like a damn submarine that fell asleep and just keeps goin’ til the goin’ gotta stop.”
And then he gives ‘em that Big Ole Country grin.
“But a mountain man can’t live in the past, no sir. The mountain gotta keep on truckin down the line!”
And on that note, Mike dashes off through the reporters and around the corner leaving a cloud of dust. Yeah them city reporters cough. But Mike don’t care. He’s done run off.