Post by FDJ on Mar 8, 2019 21:45:54 GMT -5
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
The rumble of Frank Dylan James’ voice sits heavily on stale air.
“I keep tellin’ ‘em: Ain’t nobody safe.”
Somewhere deep in the bowels of the warehouse-turned-dojo that Go Gensai lets him sleep in while the Ghost Army is in Japan, the Mountain-top Mastodon stalks back and forth on the verge of wearing a rut into the floor. He mumbles, as if to himself.
“Over’n over, I keep tellin’ ‘em…”
It’s still a bit unsettling seeing Frank dressed in all white with the black and white paint smeared across his face haphazardly, like a child’s rendition a Dia de Los Muertos skull.
“An’ they throw me in random teams, put me in random matches against people that don’t fuckin’ matter, an’ they wonder why’n the fuck I done took up with the likes of Go Gensai.”
Momentarily he stops pacing.
A snort and a sneer do a pretty good job of explaining his mood.
“A fuckin’ punchin’ contest?” His eyes go wide. “WHERE AH DON’ EVEN GIT TA PUNCH NOBODY? Is you fawkin’ serious with that shit?”
Frank cocks his head, raises a bushy eyebrow and rambles on.
“All’a that ends now!”
Curling one hand into a lunchbox-sized fist, he pounds it down into the other.
“Now I don’t know exac’ly who’n the fuck Alexander Irvine or David Troy is, I reckon they used to be hot shit somewhere or another, but what I can tell ya is they ain’t done nothin’ ta deserve no GYAT-damn World Tag Title shot!”
Another pause as a grin starts to grow underneath Frank’s mange of whiskers.
“As a matter-of-fact, the only thing they have done gone an’ earned they-selfs is a good ol’ fashioned Wes’ bah-Gawd Virginny ASS-WHIPPIN’! Up one side an’ down th’ other, iff’n ya smell what I’m steppin’ in! You boys is done good an’ well FUCKED when we get our asses ta Germany!”
The grin comes with a wink. It’s creepy.
“Tell you what, though, that Troy fella looks like the type’a sum-bitch that worries more about what color kick-pads he’s wearin’ than whether’re not he’s gon’ make it through the next match alive. Naw’mean?”
Grin begets smirk. Smirk begets chuckle.
“But that ain’t what the big deal is, is it?”
The Hillbilly Jesus shakes his head ‘no.’
“Th’ big muh-fawkin’ deal is that fat shit Moo-Shee-Gee-Harrah.”
He stops again, dead in his tracks. Beady eyes betray malicious intent. Big bushy brows furrow and that oversized red honker of his scrunches up, the mere thought of Mushigihara almost turning his cast-iron stomach.
“Swear ta gaw-damn Christ, I’m tired’a losin’ ta yer big ass.” The color drains from his generally haggard face. “In Japan. On the Tookin’ Road. At home in HOSS…”
Gone is the wild emotion and near incoherent rambling that Frank has become known for and recognized by, replaced by a deadpan, almost apathetic inflection.
“Ain’t got no time for no pussy excuses, you done beat my ass fair’n square ever’ gyat-damn time we rassled here lately.” Frank snorts. “That shit’s embarrassin’, son. You even went an’ took mah Strong Style Grand Prix title belt from me an’ ya can’t even fit it around your fat shit waist.”
Eyes narrow.
“So here’s what we gon’ do.”
Nostrils flare.
“We gon’ carry our asses ta merry fawkin’ London-town, an’ we gon’ meet up in the Main fuggin’ Event. We gon’ throw some hands, some foots, an’ hell prob’ly even some chairs ‘for it’s over’n done with. We gon’ find out right then an’ there who th’ gyat-damn strongest is. We gon’ find out who punches harder, who’s got a harder fuckin’ noggin, an’ who’s flat out TOUGHER than the other.”
Cracked, yellowed teeth are bared.
“An’ after I get done grindin’ yer stupid fat stankin’ ass inta paste in Ber-fuckin-lin, Germany, mayhap…“ His smirk widens. “Just mayhap the pit in my stomach won’t feel so much like a batch’a hot coals burnin their way out through my fawkin’ soul.
Frank rolls his neck and arranges his next thought carefully.
“An’ iff’n I can’t beat’cha this time…”
Pragmatism does not look good on the Appalachian Nightmare.
“Mayhap I just ain’t good enough for this shit no more.”
Without a sound or gesture, Frank’s eyes go wild and his demeanor goes hectic.
“I reckon we jus’ gonna have ta see.”
Darkness.
Too quiet.
The rumble of Frank Dylan James’ voice sits heavily on stale air.
“I keep tellin’ ‘em: Ain’t nobody safe.”
Somewhere deep in the bowels of the warehouse-turned-dojo that Go Gensai lets him sleep in while the Ghost Army is in Japan, the Mountain-top Mastodon stalks back and forth on the verge of wearing a rut into the floor. He mumbles, as if to himself.
“Over’n over, I keep tellin’ ‘em…”
It’s still a bit unsettling seeing Frank dressed in all white with the black and white paint smeared across his face haphazardly, like a child’s rendition a Dia de Los Muertos skull.
“An’ they throw me in random teams, put me in random matches against people that don’t fuckin’ matter, an’ they wonder why’n the fuck I done took up with the likes of Go Gensai.”
Momentarily he stops pacing.
A snort and a sneer do a pretty good job of explaining his mood.
“A fuckin’ punchin’ contest?” His eyes go wide. “WHERE AH DON’ EVEN GIT TA PUNCH NOBODY? Is you fawkin’ serious with that shit?”
Frank cocks his head, raises a bushy eyebrow and rambles on.
“All’a that ends now!”
Curling one hand into a lunchbox-sized fist, he pounds it down into the other.
“Now I don’t know exac’ly who’n the fuck Alexander Irvine or David Troy is, I reckon they used to be hot shit somewhere or another, but what I can tell ya is they ain’t done nothin’ ta deserve no GYAT-damn World Tag Title shot!”
Another pause as a grin starts to grow underneath Frank’s mange of whiskers.
“As a matter-of-fact, the only thing they have done gone an’ earned they-selfs is a good ol’ fashioned Wes’ bah-Gawd Virginny ASS-WHIPPIN’! Up one side an’ down th’ other, iff’n ya smell what I’m steppin’ in! You boys is done good an’ well FUCKED when we get our asses ta Germany!”
The grin comes with a wink. It’s creepy.
“Tell you what, though, that Troy fella looks like the type’a sum-bitch that worries more about what color kick-pads he’s wearin’ than whether’re not he’s gon’ make it through the next match alive. Naw’mean?”
Grin begets smirk. Smirk begets chuckle.
“But that ain’t what the big deal is, is it?”
The Hillbilly Jesus shakes his head ‘no.’
“Th’ big muh-fawkin’ deal is that fat shit Moo-Shee-Gee-Harrah.”
He stops again, dead in his tracks. Beady eyes betray malicious intent. Big bushy brows furrow and that oversized red honker of his scrunches up, the mere thought of Mushigihara almost turning his cast-iron stomach.
“Swear ta gaw-damn Christ, I’m tired’a losin’ ta yer big ass.” The color drains from his generally haggard face. “In Japan. On the Tookin’ Road. At home in HOSS…”
Gone is the wild emotion and near incoherent rambling that Frank has become known for and recognized by, replaced by a deadpan, almost apathetic inflection.
“Ain’t got no time for no pussy excuses, you done beat my ass fair’n square ever’ gyat-damn time we rassled here lately.” Frank snorts. “That shit’s embarrassin’, son. You even went an’ took mah Strong Style Grand Prix title belt from me an’ ya can’t even fit it around your fat shit waist.”
Eyes narrow.
“So here’s what we gon’ do.”
Nostrils flare.
“We gon’ carry our asses ta merry fawkin’ London-town, an’ we gon’ meet up in the Main fuggin’ Event. We gon’ throw some hands, some foots, an’ hell prob’ly even some chairs ‘for it’s over’n done with. We gon’ find out right then an’ there who th’ gyat-damn strongest is. We gon’ find out who punches harder, who’s got a harder fuckin’ noggin, an’ who’s flat out TOUGHER than the other.”
Cracked, yellowed teeth are bared.
“An’ after I get done grindin’ yer stupid fat stankin’ ass inta paste in Ber-fuckin-lin, Germany, mayhap…“ His smirk widens. “Just mayhap the pit in my stomach won’t feel so much like a batch’a hot coals burnin their way out through my fawkin’ soul.
Frank rolls his neck and arranges his next thought carefully.
“An’ iff’n I can’t beat’cha this time…”
Pragmatism does not look good on the Appalachian Nightmare.
“Mayhap I just ain’t good enough for this shit no more.”
Without a sound or gesture, Frank’s eyes go wild and his demeanor goes hectic.
“I reckon we jus’ gonna have ta see.”
Darkness.