Post by Mike Musket on Oct 11, 2018 17:57:30 GMT -5
Mike Musket stands at his campsite. His tent is all jacked up and in tatters, cooking supplies scattered about, and some punk stole Crazy Dog’s food bowl. Crazy Dog sits next to where it used to be and damn he’s laying down and all depressed. A disappointing sight altogether.
And Mike is pissed.
Sagara Fusanosuke a/k/a Bootsy Mitchell stands with him, taking pictures with his phone.
“Should we call the police, Mike-san?”
Mike scoffs and shakes his head.
“Ain’t nothing the cops can do, Bootsy. It’s time for me to whip up some country justice on these damn troublemakers.”
And a voice calls out from behind.
“You wanna hand with that, Mike?”
And it’s the “Outlaw” Jun Vegas with his lady friends in tow. They’re as pretty as a little red wagon goin’ up a hill, but Mike’s kind of distracted from that. The two fellas shake hands as they survey the scene.
Mike steps over a broken fishing rod near the firepit.
“That’s what happens, fellas. Everyone goin’ round, gettin’ all ornery about this that or the other. Who is better than who, who is raking in the most greenbacks, and all that. See, I remember when I was comin’ up back as a youngblood back in ole Top Notch Wrestling. Seventeen years old,. Mr. Richard Grady plucked me out of a carnival in Vegas where I’d been grapplin’ strangers just to make ends meet.”
Mike picks up a dented pan.
“It wasn’t so much that back then that folks were more decent. Hell, every fella I knew was cheatin’ on his wife with some floozy or gettin’ drunk as two skunks on Saturday while he’d be hungover sittin’ in the pew on Sunday.”
He starts a-pacing around his defaced home.
“But you don’t go thrashing up a man’s home, threatening his family and valuables, or stealin’ his chickens. Back then being a man meant that you’d earned the right to be treated as such. But these days don’t work that way no more, do they?”
Mike drops the pot into the ruins of his firepit.
“Well, that’s about to change. And I’m bout to tell all y’all why that be.”
Mike plucks his trusty hatchet off the dirt and throws it into a tree trunk. It sticks there real good. He turns around and points over at Jun Vegas.
“Cause my tag-team partner here, Jun Vegas, well goddamn if he ain’t got a full nelson slam that could put a gator on his back crying for mama! That title belt gonna fit like a dream, won’t it, hoss?”
Jun puffs out his chest in agreement. Mike gives a nod to the ladies in tow.
“And don’t think we won’t have the damn purtiest fan section in all of Japan.”
The girls giggle as he walks over to Bootsy and snatches his cell-phone. He rears back and throws it into a damn lake and then puts his arm around his shoulders.
“And Bootsy, you got a heart o’ gold. Let it be known, you’re the brains of the operation, too. And by god you ain’t never steered me wrong.”
Bootsy smiles even though he does miss his phone.
Mike walks on back to the firepit and picks up that dented pan. He picks up a nearby bag and dumps some dog food into it and sets it down in front of Crazy Dog. He scratches him behind the ears.
“And my trusty companion right here. I know you protected our home here as best as you could, buddy. But that ain’t yer fight, I’ll give ‘em hell for ya, pal. And then I’ll bring home the tag team gold and a shiny new food bowl.”
Crazy Dog licks Mike on his beard and Mike pats his side. Mike stands up and looks around at all the folks around him.
“With friends like y’all, I know we gonna bring home the tag team title bacon. So I don’t care if it’s the Demon Brigade, them Lion’s Road fellers, or a battalion of yellow-bellied buck-toothed bandits.”
He gives ‘em all that grin full o’ hillbilly can-do confidence.
“You tell ‘em Big Ole Country is comin’. And hell ain’t nothing compared to a country-style lariat, y’all! AROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Mike runs off into the woods and his friends are right there, charged up, letting out that hillbilly howl, and ready to storm the fort like mad prospectors panning for tag team gold!
And Mike is pissed.
Sagara Fusanosuke a/k/a Bootsy Mitchell stands with him, taking pictures with his phone.
“Should we call the police, Mike-san?”
Mike scoffs and shakes his head.
“Ain’t nothing the cops can do, Bootsy. It’s time for me to whip up some country justice on these damn troublemakers.”
And a voice calls out from behind.
“You wanna hand with that, Mike?”
And it’s the “Outlaw” Jun Vegas with his lady friends in tow. They’re as pretty as a little red wagon goin’ up a hill, but Mike’s kind of distracted from that. The two fellas shake hands as they survey the scene.
Mike steps over a broken fishing rod near the firepit.
“That’s what happens, fellas. Everyone goin’ round, gettin’ all ornery about this that or the other. Who is better than who, who is raking in the most greenbacks, and all that. See, I remember when I was comin’ up back as a youngblood back in ole Top Notch Wrestling. Seventeen years old,. Mr. Richard Grady plucked me out of a carnival in Vegas where I’d been grapplin’ strangers just to make ends meet.”
Mike picks up a dented pan.
“It wasn’t so much that back then that folks were more decent. Hell, every fella I knew was cheatin’ on his wife with some floozy or gettin’ drunk as two skunks on Saturday while he’d be hungover sittin’ in the pew on Sunday.”
He starts a-pacing around his defaced home.
“But you don’t go thrashing up a man’s home, threatening his family and valuables, or stealin’ his chickens. Back then being a man meant that you’d earned the right to be treated as such. But these days don’t work that way no more, do they?”
Mike drops the pot into the ruins of his firepit.
“Well, that’s about to change. And I’m bout to tell all y’all why that be.”
Mike plucks his trusty hatchet off the dirt and throws it into a tree trunk. It sticks there real good. He turns around and points over at Jun Vegas.
“Cause my tag-team partner here, Jun Vegas, well goddamn if he ain’t got a full nelson slam that could put a gator on his back crying for mama! That title belt gonna fit like a dream, won’t it, hoss?”
Jun puffs out his chest in agreement. Mike gives a nod to the ladies in tow.
“And don’t think we won’t have the damn purtiest fan section in all of Japan.”
The girls giggle as he walks over to Bootsy and snatches his cell-phone. He rears back and throws it into a damn lake and then puts his arm around his shoulders.
“And Bootsy, you got a heart o’ gold. Let it be known, you’re the brains of the operation, too. And by god you ain’t never steered me wrong.”
Bootsy smiles even though he does miss his phone.
Mike walks on back to the firepit and picks up that dented pan. He picks up a nearby bag and dumps some dog food into it and sets it down in front of Crazy Dog. He scratches him behind the ears.
“And my trusty companion right here. I know you protected our home here as best as you could, buddy. But that ain’t yer fight, I’ll give ‘em hell for ya, pal. And then I’ll bring home the tag team gold and a shiny new food bowl.”
Crazy Dog licks Mike on his beard and Mike pats his side. Mike stands up and looks around at all the folks around him.
“With friends like y’all, I know we gonna bring home the tag team title bacon. So I don’t care if it’s the Demon Brigade, them Lion’s Road fellers, or a battalion of yellow-bellied buck-toothed bandits.”
He gives ‘em all that grin full o’ hillbilly can-do confidence.
“You tell ‘em Big Ole Country is comin’. And hell ain’t nothing compared to a country-style lariat, y’all! AROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Mike runs off into the woods and his friends are right there, charged up, letting out that hillbilly howl, and ready to storm the fort like mad prospectors panning for tag team gold!