Post by FDJ on Oct 11, 2018 20:09:42 GMT -5
Kyoto, Japan.
It’s hot. Humid, even.
In the deep of Summer it can be downright subtropical.
Frank Dylan James prefers it hot. He’d rather sweat than bundle up like some kind of swaddled child. Presently he sits, giant feet pressed together and knees splayed. Catcher’s mitt sized hands are folded in his lap, and closed eyes hide behind bushy brows.
His posture is picture perfect.
Frank is very much at peace.
For the moment.
Weary eyelids snap open, a wild awareness exists there, keeping his secrets and hiding his truths. Seconds pass before his peace is fully broken and he smiles an agitated, beard-choked smile. Something seems a bit… Off. Frank is oblivious.
“Welp…” he grunts.
“Reckon I got mah ass whipped by that little sum’bitch Pulver.”
He reflects on this momentarily.
“I guess two-hunnerd was enough after all, am I right?”
Wild eyes grow wider.
“Now, I ain’t takin’ nothin’ away from Matt Pulver, he took a notch outta ol’ Frank fair an’ square right thar’ in the middle of that ring. Ah got nothin’ but respec’ fer his ass, but that don’t mean that one’a these days ol’ Frank ain’t gonna come back lookin’ fer his pound’a flesh.”
The Hillbilly Jesus takes one massive hand into the other and begins cracking knuckles.
“Ah don’t reckon that’s neither here nor thar’ at th’ moment though. This business ain’t so much about what’s behind ya as it is what’s starin’ ya in the face and what yer plannin’ on doin’ about it. Me? I got two sum’bitches starin’ at me by the name’s of Justin Seville an’ Rafa Wah-Wah…”
The name is like mush in his mouth.
“Rafa… What?”
The big Southern Bastard chews it over, mildly disgusted.
“Rafa Whatley. I guess that sum’bitch used to be some muckity-muck football star. 'Till he fucked it all up for his self by gettin’ caught bettin’ on the game.”
Frank shrugs.
“Bet on this, boy. Don’t none’a that bullshit amount to a hill’a beans once you get in th’ ring with me. I’mma gonna jump on your ass and start whompin’ on yer head till yer brains start leakin’ outta yer ears. Are you ready for that? Did yer little pee-wee football coach learn ya how ta take a beatin’ from a big mean ass bastard like Frank Dylan James?”
He waits. No answer comes.
“Ah didn’t think so. An’ as fer yer partner…”
Frank chuckles.
“Ah heard ya like ta fancy yerself gettin’ rid of all the characters in the rasslin’ business. Well sweetheart that really does bring a little bit’a sunshine ta mah soul. Ya see, yer pal Frank is a real big character, ya unnarstannit? Ah want ya to come an’ get rid’a me…”
The chuckle settles into a yellow-toothed grin.
“Please. I’m goddamn beggin’ ya. An’ when ya do, an’ I’m done showin’ you what yer stinkin’ insides look like fer havin’ the balls ta talk that shit with nuthin’ ta back it up, then maybe I’ll take ya ass out in Roppongi, buy ya a beer.
Yanno, maybe. If ya can take a punch.
If ya can get back up.
Ol’ Frank doubts it. Ah doubt it a whole fuckin’ lot.”
With a frightening quickness for a man of his stature Frank gets up. He reaches his full height before you ever knew he was going to stand. Frank is an imposing figure. The goofy smile sitting behind the wiry and wild beard that he wears on his face does not put your mind at ease.
“An as fer mah partner…”
All manner of jest drains from his face immediately.
“I reached out, tried to find him, get together, make us a plan.”
Frank sneers.
“He didn’t answer.”
And shrugs.
“So ta hell with him.”
The smile returns, followed by a mountainous cackle.
“Long as he don’t get in mah way, I won’t have to break his arms for him. If’n he does happen ta get in mah way… well… reckon them arms is just gonna have ta break.”
Frank smiles and sucks at his teeth. His eyes close, and once again he reaches out, seeking peace. After a time he finds it and his mind drifts back into meditation. May the Gods have mercy on any man or men who stand against a calm, centered Frank Dylan James.
It’s hot. Humid, even.
In the deep of Summer it can be downright subtropical.
Frank Dylan James prefers it hot. He’d rather sweat than bundle up like some kind of swaddled child. Presently he sits, giant feet pressed together and knees splayed. Catcher’s mitt sized hands are folded in his lap, and closed eyes hide behind bushy brows.
His posture is picture perfect.
Frank is very much at peace.
For the moment.
Weary eyelids snap open, a wild awareness exists there, keeping his secrets and hiding his truths. Seconds pass before his peace is fully broken and he smiles an agitated, beard-choked smile. Something seems a bit… Off. Frank is oblivious.
“Welp…” he grunts.
“Reckon I got mah ass whipped by that little sum’bitch Pulver.”
He reflects on this momentarily.
“I guess two-hunnerd was enough after all, am I right?”
Wild eyes grow wider.
“Now, I ain’t takin’ nothin’ away from Matt Pulver, he took a notch outta ol’ Frank fair an’ square right thar’ in the middle of that ring. Ah got nothin’ but respec’ fer his ass, but that don’t mean that one’a these days ol’ Frank ain’t gonna come back lookin’ fer his pound’a flesh.”
The Hillbilly Jesus takes one massive hand into the other and begins cracking knuckles.
“Ah don’t reckon that’s neither here nor thar’ at th’ moment though. This business ain’t so much about what’s behind ya as it is what’s starin’ ya in the face and what yer plannin’ on doin’ about it. Me? I got two sum’bitches starin’ at me by the name’s of Justin Seville an’ Rafa Wah-Wah…”
The name is like mush in his mouth.
“Rafa… What?”
The big Southern Bastard chews it over, mildly disgusted.
“Rafa Whatley. I guess that sum’bitch used to be some muckity-muck football star. 'Till he fucked it all up for his self by gettin’ caught bettin’ on the game.”
Frank shrugs.
“Bet on this, boy. Don’t none’a that bullshit amount to a hill’a beans once you get in th’ ring with me. I’mma gonna jump on your ass and start whompin’ on yer head till yer brains start leakin’ outta yer ears. Are you ready for that? Did yer little pee-wee football coach learn ya how ta take a beatin’ from a big mean ass bastard like Frank Dylan James?”
He waits. No answer comes.
“Ah didn’t think so. An’ as fer yer partner…”
Frank chuckles.
“Ah heard ya like ta fancy yerself gettin’ rid of all the characters in the rasslin’ business. Well sweetheart that really does bring a little bit’a sunshine ta mah soul. Ya see, yer pal Frank is a real big character, ya unnarstannit? Ah want ya to come an’ get rid’a me…”
The chuckle settles into a yellow-toothed grin.
“Please. I’m goddamn beggin’ ya. An’ when ya do, an’ I’m done showin’ you what yer stinkin’ insides look like fer havin’ the balls ta talk that shit with nuthin’ ta back it up, then maybe I’ll take ya ass out in Roppongi, buy ya a beer.
Yanno, maybe. If ya can take a punch.
If ya can get back up.
Ol’ Frank doubts it. Ah doubt it a whole fuckin’ lot.”
With a frightening quickness for a man of his stature Frank gets up. He reaches his full height before you ever knew he was going to stand. Frank is an imposing figure. The goofy smile sitting behind the wiry and wild beard that he wears on his face does not put your mind at ease.
“An as fer mah partner…”
All manner of jest drains from his face immediately.
“I reached out, tried to find him, get together, make us a plan.”
Frank sneers.
“He didn’t answer.”
And shrugs.
“So ta hell with him.”
The smile returns, followed by a mountainous cackle.
“Long as he don’t get in mah way, I won’t have to break his arms for him. If’n he does happen ta get in mah way… well… reckon them arms is just gonna have ta break.”
Frank smiles and sucks at his teeth. His eyes close, and once again he reaches out, seeking peace. After a time he finds it and his mind drifts back into meditation. May the Gods have mercy on any man or men who stand against a calm, centered Frank Dylan James.