Post by FDJ on Feb 2, 2019 20:36:32 GMT -5
“Y’all ain’t ready.”
That voice, it’s all moonshine and Indian tobacco. That is to say, fresh molasses and salted meat. You think there is a hint of madness in his eyes, everyone always does, but you’re wrong. That passive glimmer is little more than malice.
Malice at the sheer audacity.
Nay, the absolute temerity.
The outright balls.
“None of y’all sons-of-bitches is ready. Not in Japan. Not in Canada. Not in the States. Ya think yer ready, but ya ain’t. If ya was I’d like ta believe there’d be a little bit more, I dunno…”
It occurs to you how low-key creepy it is listening to Frank Dylan James speak softly and with purpose instead of loudly and without a second thought to decorum. Anymore, as he’s come to understand after several nights drinking and whoring across the world with the Pale General himself, Frank has taken to only raising his voice should the need to repeat himself arise.
Predictably, the issue rarely comes up.
“Outright panic.”
The Hillbilly Jesus didn’t let his newfound inside voice stop him from looking any less like an extra in a Rob Zombie movie with his scarred forehead, a wild and wiry shock of hair on his head and a knotted up scraggly mess of a full-length beard on his chin. Gone, however, were the unwashed over-alls and bare feet, replaced by a plain white denim vest and jeans and a custom pair of Stetson cowboy boots strapped on his feet.
The boots, a gift from Go Gensai on the occasion of their winning the MAX-J World Tag Team titles several weeks ago. Frank shifts his weight, you notice the the vest isn’t exactly pristine as it appears to have a bit of dried paint smeared into its fabric. Eventually, your eyes meet his and you don’t understand. The paint-crusted white skull hastily scrawled on Frank’s face wasn’t there before, you’re sure of it.
Or was it?
He looks like the reanimated corpse of Frank Dylan James.
“See, this here ordeal that we’re about to perpetuate from the TOUKON ROAD to the National Wrestling Federation to the Strong Style Summit ain’t about winnin’ title belts ‘er accumulatin’ points for some kinda inside-out tournament. We done won us a tournament and we done got us some belts, this next go-round is all about the Ghost Army putting the whole gyatdamn planet on high gyatdamn alert! Me an’ Go, we’s the most dangerous two sum’bitches rasslin’ on three damn continents an’ we is lookin’ ta make an example out of anybody dumb enough to say otherwise.”
Frank glares at you from behind age-wisened eyes and dollar store facepaint.
“First on the list is that fat tub of shit that they got me in some kinda Sumo contest with. Now gyatdammit I don’t know who in tarnation put this shit together but they can better believe that I ain’t goin’ down there ta play slap fight with no fat-tittied young boy. I’m gonna take that ring in Korea and do what I do every other night, an’ that’s ta beat the shit outta assholes an’ idiots who ain’t know no better.”
The mountain of a mountain man pounds a meaty fist into a catcher’s mitt-sized hand that only goes to emphasize how close he had come to lulling you into his sway through a simple adjustment in communication style.
Nah, this isn’t scary as fuck, not one bit.
“Then there’s that Hammerstein an’ his Thunder Buddy in Hong Kong. Now I don’t know what kinda debts you boys owed that got y’all in the piss-poor condition of standin’ across the ring from us, but when me an’ that ol’ Ghost are done with yer sorry asses you gon’ know everything it is that I can figger ta teach ya about bein’ paid in full. Do ya get it, fellars? Y'all is in danger.”
Frank snorts, it ruffles his mustache.
“There’s more. Hammerstein again in Canada, this time with somebody else. What’s the deal, boy? You can’t be trusted I don’t reckon. As a matter of fact, maybe I’m startin’ ta think that yer some kind’a sneak-thief, lookin’ to take what’s mine away from me.”
His half of the MAX-J World Tag Team titles glints from somewhere off in the middle distance.
“Listen to yer ol’ Uncle Frank for just this once and understand that neither myself nor the Ghost is the types that you wanna be triflin’ with about these gyatdamn belts. We got some, y’all got some, nobody gives a shit. Go Gensai and Frank Dylan James is the World Tag Team Champions an’ I ain’t seen nobody yet big enough or bad enough around none of these parts that’s gon’ be able to do a gyatdamn thing about it.”
A tense moment passes, eventually Frank continues.
“Maybe you boys think yer better’n us. Maybe you think ya can make yer names off’a just survivin’ us. Who'n the fuck knows, am I right? But if this is the path that yer God has set you on then I don’t reckon I can be mad at ya about it. However, out of pure force of habit I’m still gonna pound yer face in ‘til somebody stops the match and the only thing keepin’ ya asses outta the coroner's wagon is the stretchers that’s loadin’ ya asses inta the ambulance.”
An ugly smile rests neatly beneath his unkempt beard.
“An’ then there’s what, HOSS? The GYATdamn Strong Style Summit? You stupid bastards can’t even comprehend of the kind of ruckus is comin’ yer way! An’ best you believe that I don’t give no kinda fucks about no kinda points in no kinda tournament bullshits! I’m comin’ fer that big Mushy gushy piece’a garbage an’ I’mma beat me a goddamn rematch outta that big fuck or I’mma beat his big ass for him all’a way out the bid’ness! An’ as fer ever’body else…”
Frank’s ugly smile twists its way into a knowing grin.
“Nobody. Is. Safe.”
A nod.
“Ain’t. NOBODY. Safe.”
That voice, it’s all moonshine and Indian tobacco. That is to say, fresh molasses and salted meat. You think there is a hint of madness in his eyes, everyone always does, but you’re wrong. That passive glimmer is little more than malice.
Malice at the sheer audacity.
Nay, the absolute temerity.
The outright balls.
“None of y’all sons-of-bitches is ready. Not in Japan. Not in Canada. Not in the States. Ya think yer ready, but ya ain’t. If ya was I’d like ta believe there’d be a little bit more, I dunno…”
It occurs to you how low-key creepy it is listening to Frank Dylan James speak softly and with purpose instead of loudly and without a second thought to decorum. Anymore, as he’s come to understand after several nights drinking and whoring across the world with the Pale General himself, Frank has taken to only raising his voice should the need to repeat himself arise.
Predictably, the issue rarely comes up.
“Outright panic.”
The Hillbilly Jesus didn’t let his newfound inside voice stop him from looking any less like an extra in a Rob Zombie movie with his scarred forehead, a wild and wiry shock of hair on his head and a knotted up scraggly mess of a full-length beard on his chin. Gone, however, were the unwashed over-alls and bare feet, replaced by a plain white denim vest and jeans and a custom pair of Stetson cowboy boots strapped on his feet.
The boots, a gift from Go Gensai on the occasion of their winning the MAX-J World Tag Team titles several weeks ago. Frank shifts his weight, you notice the the vest isn’t exactly pristine as it appears to have a bit of dried paint smeared into its fabric. Eventually, your eyes meet his and you don’t understand. The paint-crusted white skull hastily scrawled on Frank’s face wasn’t there before, you’re sure of it.
Or was it?
He looks like the reanimated corpse of Frank Dylan James.
“See, this here ordeal that we’re about to perpetuate from the TOUKON ROAD to the National Wrestling Federation to the Strong Style Summit ain’t about winnin’ title belts ‘er accumulatin’ points for some kinda inside-out tournament. We done won us a tournament and we done got us some belts, this next go-round is all about the Ghost Army putting the whole gyatdamn planet on high gyatdamn alert! Me an’ Go, we’s the most dangerous two sum’bitches rasslin’ on three damn continents an’ we is lookin’ ta make an example out of anybody dumb enough to say otherwise.”
Frank glares at you from behind age-wisened eyes and dollar store facepaint.
“First on the list is that fat tub of shit that they got me in some kinda Sumo contest with. Now gyatdammit I don’t know who in tarnation put this shit together but they can better believe that I ain’t goin’ down there ta play slap fight with no fat-tittied young boy. I’m gonna take that ring in Korea and do what I do every other night, an’ that’s ta beat the shit outta assholes an’ idiots who ain’t know no better.”
The mountain of a mountain man pounds a meaty fist into a catcher’s mitt-sized hand that only goes to emphasize how close he had come to lulling you into his sway through a simple adjustment in communication style.
Nah, this isn’t scary as fuck, not one bit.
“Then there’s that Hammerstein an’ his Thunder Buddy in Hong Kong. Now I don’t know what kinda debts you boys owed that got y’all in the piss-poor condition of standin’ across the ring from us, but when me an’ that ol’ Ghost are done with yer sorry asses you gon’ know everything it is that I can figger ta teach ya about bein’ paid in full. Do ya get it, fellars? Y'all is in danger.”
Frank snorts, it ruffles his mustache.
“There’s more. Hammerstein again in Canada, this time with somebody else. What’s the deal, boy? You can’t be trusted I don’t reckon. As a matter of fact, maybe I’m startin’ ta think that yer some kind’a sneak-thief, lookin’ to take what’s mine away from me.”
His half of the MAX-J World Tag Team titles glints from somewhere off in the middle distance.
“Listen to yer ol’ Uncle Frank for just this once and understand that neither myself nor the Ghost is the types that you wanna be triflin’ with about these gyatdamn belts. We got some, y’all got some, nobody gives a shit. Go Gensai and Frank Dylan James is the World Tag Team Champions an’ I ain’t seen nobody yet big enough or bad enough around none of these parts that’s gon’ be able to do a gyatdamn thing about it.”
A tense moment passes, eventually Frank continues.
“Maybe you boys think yer better’n us. Maybe you think ya can make yer names off’a just survivin’ us. Who'n the fuck knows, am I right? But if this is the path that yer God has set you on then I don’t reckon I can be mad at ya about it. However, out of pure force of habit I’m still gonna pound yer face in ‘til somebody stops the match and the only thing keepin’ ya asses outta the coroner's wagon is the stretchers that’s loadin’ ya asses inta the ambulance.”
An ugly smile rests neatly beneath his unkempt beard.
“An’ then there’s what, HOSS? The GYATdamn Strong Style Summit? You stupid bastards can’t even comprehend of the kind of ruckus is comin’ yer way! An’ best you believe that I don’t give no kinda fucks about no kinda points in no kinda tournament bullshits! I’m comin’ fer that big Mushy gushy piece’a garbage an’ I’mma beat me a goddamn rematch outta that big fuck or I’mma beat his big ass for him all’a way out the bid’ness! An’ as fer ever’body else…”
Frank’s ugly smile twists its way into a knowing grin.
“Nobody. Is. Safe.”
A nod.
“Ain’t. NOBODY. Safe.”