Post by Bubba on May 17, 2015 22:46:09 GMT -5
OOC: There will be several misspelled words in Bubba Reece’s dialogue, it is there to add authenticity to the character.
As the scene opens on Bubba, he is sitting in the same busted up La-Z-Boy in front of the same run down blue house, paint still chipped, sagging roof still not so firmly in place. The well-worn banjo nestled in Bubba’s lap Bubba looks lost in thought as he absent mindedly strums no recognizable tune. As the camera pans around the unmistakable bulk of Frank Merritt is strangely absent. Suddenly the music stops and Bubba stands up, his sleeveless flannel shirt falling open exposing his bare belly and chest. His cutoff camo pants showing the wear of long days and nights away from a washtub or soap. Smiling a gap toothed grin at the camera, he motions for the cameraman to follow. Bubba strolls into the house, the screen door banging shut from its fully open position, any remnants of screen that are left hanging from the door sway from the force of the slam. The dimly lit living room is sparsely furnished, what would be antique furnishings is so thread bear and dilapidated that it could barely be considered firewood. Bubba sighs heavily the sudden gust of air sends dust swirling in the last fading sunlight filtering through moth eaten curtains. Taking in the entire room the camera catches and hangs on a picture slightly askew in a picture frame so coated with dust the lettering “Thar’s No Place like Home!” is barely visible.
“Well let me be the first to welcome you to casa day Reece!” Bubba gestures grandly seeming proud of his humble abode. “I would give y’all the full tour but my grandmamma can be kinda uncouth around strangers.”
Turning slightly Bubba begins to pace around the room almost nervously it seems, his black combat boots counting a hollow cadence on the worn hardwood floor. He rings his hands a bit then wipes his brow with his bared forearm before he turns back to the camera.
“First off I want to thank all y’all for lettin me come be a part a the P. C. Dubya, Pure class Wrastlin well it’s just that, pure class! Now I know there are some here that might think a backwoods hick like me ain’t got no class, but that cain’t be farther from the truth. I know I didn’t have my best showin at the last Trauma event, an I know I need to do better to prove myself to y’all, rest assured, I WILL prove myself to ya at Livin a Legacy.”
Resuming his circuit around the room Bubba seems to have calmed whatever nervousness he had been feeling and with confidence he looks back at the camera and continues to pace as he speaks.
“Let’s talk about Livin a Legacy fer a minute, when I saw that the high up muckity mucks at P. C. Dubya put me an mah pal Frank Merritt up aginst seven other wrastlers I was thinkin like y’all! This ain’t fair! They need more than just seven wrastlers to go up aginst Frank an me. Hell we cain’t even split this group evenly between us…how is that fair!”
Bubba’s pacing quickens as he speaks, his hands are held out in front of him, his fingers slightly flexed as if he’s holding someone’s head in his hands. With each point he makes he shakes this imaginary head a bit more violently.
“Oh there are a couple in this that will deserve some special attention. Like Tyrone, I owe you big time son! I see a spiked DDT onto a steel chair in yer future seeins how you like steel chairs so much. Don’t worry High Tide I know you ain’t no slouch, ifin it weren’t fer Tyrone you might have pulled off an upset…”
With this last statement Bubba erupts into gut wrenching laughter. After collapsing onto the well-loved couch Bubba holds up one finger asking for a moment to collect himself. Several gasps of breath later Bubba stands again wiping tears from his eyes.
“Grandmamma always said laughter was good fer the soul! But really Tide you an I BOTH know…HELL the whole a P.C. Dubya knows that that match would not have ended any other way but with mine an Frank’s hands raised in vict’ry. It’s alright me an Frank will have a bunch more fun beatin on ya at Livin a Legacy.”
Pausing a moment to crack his neck Bubba breathes in deep and lets out a slow, long exhale. He then resumes his pacing unwilling or unable to sit still for long.
“Now it has come to my attention that there will be a feller named Buck Brochamp er some such competin aginst us on the 24th, my beef with you is personal son, ya see, I knew a guy named Buck a long time back. He left town owin me money…now I know you more’n likely ain’t that Buck, but as my daddy always said, one Bucks as good as any other! My daddy was always the smart one… Come Livin a Legacy I’m gonna git my two pigs worth outta yer sorry hide Buck!”
As Bubba makes this last point his hands have become clinched fists, his knuckles white with the pressure from holding those fists tight. Looking down at his hands he opens them slowly, almost tenderly like the action may have been painful. When Bubba levels his gaze at the camera again his jovial demeanor and spirited way of speaking are gone, had there been a thermometer in the room it’s possible that it might have registered a 10 degree drop in temperature. As Bubba resumes speaking he no longer paces, his voice is much quieter, and he seems to vibrate with the effort to contain himself.
“Now for the rest a ya, I don’t know ya, an I don’t wanna know ya. All y’all need ta know is that Frank an me are a comin. Any doubts that Frank an me are ready fer this are bout to be put ta rest. Ya see I was trained by two a the best. Hacksaw Jim Duggan could lay a beatin like none other in the sport, and you ain’t been through nuttin until you been thumped on the head by a two ba four a few dozen times, an catchin a big boot from the likes a Hillbilly Jim well that’ll clear yer head a bad thoughts that’s fer sure! Some a you high falootin types like ta say you been made better er stronger by bein cast inta the crucible and comin out the other end, forged in far an pain, well all y’all comin inta the ring with me an Frank…we will make ya better! Ya see we ARE the crucible! We ARE the FAR an the PAIN! We WILL throw a beatin on ALL Y’ALL the likes ta which you ain’t NEVER seen! Them high up muckity mucks may need ta go find some more wrastlers to fill the ranks a the underground class. And as fer the belt…it’s a comin home with either me er Frank…it don’t matter which one. Sorry Ms. Black ya seem like a nice enough person but ya ain’t leavin with that belt…period…”
As the last of Bubba’s mini tirade fades to silence Bubba swipes at a bit of spittle that had found its way through the gap where his two front teeth had once occupied, and with that action Bubba’s countenance changes back to the Jovial expressive good ol boy that he is.
“Now let me play a little ditty as ya start ta headin towards the door.”
Bubba picks up the banjo that had been set in an inconspicuous corner, strumming a couple quick notes to get his bearing on the instrument he hits one chord for tone and then begins singing.
“Some glad mornin when this life is o’er…I’ll fly away…”
The banjo then picks up and the sounds of clapping and stomping can be heard as the Reece family crowds into the living room to take up the beloved gospel hymn. As the camera fades to black an elderly voice can be heard.
“Who was here Bubba?”
“Nobody grandmamma jist some people wantin ta know bout Wrastlin…”
As the scene opens on Bubba, he is sitting in the same busted up La-Z-Boy in front of the same run down blue house, paint still chipped, sagging roof still not so firmly in place. The well-worn banjo nestled in Bubba’s lap Bubba looks lost in thought as he absent mindedly strums no recognizable tune. As the camera pans around the unmistakable bulk of Frank Merritt is strangely absent. Suddenly the music stops and Bubba stands up, his sleeveless flannel shirt falling open exposing his bare belly and chest. His cutoff camo pants showing the wear of long days and nights away from a washtub or soap. Smiling a gap toothed grin at the camera, he motions for the cameraman to follow. Bubba strolls into the house, the screen door banging shut from its fully open position, any remnants of screen that are left hanging from the door sway from the force of the slam. The dimly lit living room is sparsely furnished, what would be antique furnishings is so thread bear and dilapidated that it could barely be considered firewood. Bubba sighs heavily the sudden gust of air sends dust swirling in the last fading sunlight filtering through moth eaten curtains. Taking in the entire room the camera catches and hangs on a picture slightly askew in a picture frame so coated with dust the lettering “Thar’s No Place like Home!” is barely visible.
“Well let me be the first to welcome you to casa day Reece!” Bubba gestures grandly seeming proud of his humble abode. “I would give y’all the full tour but my grandmamma can be kinda uncouth around strangers.”
Turning slightly Bubba begins to pace around the room almost nervously it seems, his black combat boots counting a hollow cadence on the worn hardwood floor. He rings his hands a bit then wipes his brow with his bared forearm before he turns back to the camera.
“First off I want to thank all y’all for lettin me come be a part a the P. C. Dubya, Pure class Wrastlin well it’s just that, pure class! Now I know there are some here that might think a backwoods hick like me ain’t got no class, but that cain’t be farther from the truth. I know I didn’t have my best showin at the last Trauma event, an I know I need to do better to prove myself to y’all, rest assured, I WILL prove myself to ya at Livin a Legacy.”
Resuming his circuit around the room Bubba seems to have calmed whatever nervousness he had been feeling and with confidence he looks back at the camera and continues to pace as he speaks.
“Let’s talk about Livin a Legacy fer a minute, when I saw that the high up muckity mucks at P. C. Dubya put me an mah pal Frank Merritt up aginst seven other wrastlers I was thinkin like y’all! This ain’t fair! They need more than just seven wrastlers to go up aginst Frank an me. Hell we cain’t even split this group evenly between us…how is that fair!”
Bubba’s pacing quickens as he speaks, his hands are held out in front of him, his fingers slightly flexed as if he’s holding someone’s head in his hands. With each point he makes he shakes this imaginary head a bit more violently.
“Oh there are a couple in this that will deserve some special attention. Like Tyrone, I owe you big time son! I see a spiked DDT onto a steel chair in yer future seeins how you like steel chairs so much. Don’t worry High Tide I know you ain’t no slouch, ifin it weren’t fer Tyrone you might have pulled off an upset…”
With this last statement Bubba erupts into gut wrenching laughter. After collapsing onto the well-loved couch Bubba holds up one finger asking for a moment to collect himself. Several gasps of breath later Bubba stands again wiping tears from his eyes.
“Grandmamma always said laughter was good fer the soul! But really Tide you an I BOTH know…HELL the whole a P.C. Dubya knows that that match would not have ended any other way but with mine an Frank’s hands raised in vict’ry. It’s alright me an Frank will have a bunch more fun beatin on ya at Livin a Legacy.”
Pausing a moment to crack his neck Bubba breathes in deep and lets out a slow, long exhale. He then resumes his pacing unwilling or unable to sit still for long.
“Now it has come to my attention that there will be a feller named Buck Brochamp er some such competin aginst us on the 24th, my beef with you is personal son, ya see, I knew a guy named Buck a long time back. He left town owin me money…now I know you more’n likely ain’t that Buck, but as my daddy always said, one Bucks as good as any other! My daddy was always the smart one… Come Livin a Legacy I’m gonna git my two pigs worth outta yer sorry hide Buck!”
As Bubba makes this last point his hands have become clinched fists, his knuckles white with the pressure from holding those fists tight. Looking down at his hands he opens them slowly, almost tenderly like the action may have been painful. When Bubba levels his gaze at the camera again his jovial demeanor and spirited way of speaking are gone, had there been a thermometer in the room it’s possible that it might have registered a 10 degree drop in temperature. As Bubba resumes speaking he no longer paces, his voice is much quieter, and he seems to vibrate with the effort to contain himself.
“Now for the rest a ya, I don’t know ya, an I don’t wanna know ya. All y’all need ta know is that Frank an me are a comin. Any doubts that Frank an me are ready fer this are bout to be put ta rest. Ya see I was trained by two a the best. Hacksaw Jim Duggan could lay a beatin like none other in the sport, and you ain’t been through nuttin until you been thumped on the head by a two ba four a few dozen times, an catchin a big boot from the likes a Hillbilly Jim well that’ll clear yer head a bad thoughts that’s fer sure! Some a you high falootin types like ta say you been made better er stronger by bein cast inta the crucible and comin out the other end, forged in far an pain, well all y’all comin inta the ring with me an Frank…we will make ya better! Ya see we ARE the crucible! We ARE the FAR an the PAIN! We WILL throw a beatin on ALL Y’ALL the likes ta which you ain’t NEVER seen! Them high up muckity mucks may need ta go find some more wrastlers to fill the ranks a the underground class. And as fer the belt…it’s a comin home with either me er Frank…it don’t matter which one. Sorry Ms. Black ya seem like a nice enough person but ya ain’t leavin with that belt…period…”
As the last of Bubba’s mini tirade fades to silence Bubba swipes at a bit of spittle that had found its way through the gap where his two front teeth had once occupied, and with that action Bubba’s countenance changes back to the Jovial expressive good ol boy that he is.
“Now let me play a little ditty as ya start ta headin towards the door.”
Bubba picks up the banjo that had been set in an inconspicuous corner, strumming a couple quick notes to get his bearing on the instrument he hits one chord for tone and then begins singing.
“Some glad mornin when this life is o’er…I’ll fly away…”
The banjo then picks up and the sounds of clapping and stomping can be heard as the Reece family crowds into the living room to take up the beloved gospel hymn. As the camera fades to black an elderly voice can be heard.
“Who was here Bubba?”
“Nobody grandmamma jist some people wantin ta know bout Wrastlin…”