Post by Braddock on May 19, 2015 14:36:32 GMT -5
Alexa, you bore me…
Frank is sitting on a ratted out couch in a pair of baggy black Dickies and an unbuttoned black Bermuda style shirt with a white leaf pattern running down the sleeves and sides of the shirt. His hair is wet or greasy, one can’t be too sure, and his beard is unruly as ever. He puffs on a blunt as big around as a fine Cuban, its cherry burning a bright orange with each drag, and while he strokes his beard a grin spreads across his lips.
You brag about beating two fatasses who had no business being in the ring in the first place. Now, you’re in this match and, from what I gathered, something to do with your career is on the line. Real nail biting shit right there.
He throws his head back in a fit of laughter before taking another drag from his blunt.
Split tails like you, constantly trying to prove themselves against men and always failing. That military school back in the nineties; chick sues to get into the school but dropped out because she couldn’t cut it. That’s just one of thousands of examples I could throw at you. But, like a woman, you won’t listen.
He shakes his head in disgust.
You’re going to possibly retort with some string of bullshit about how you’ve been in this business awhile now. How you have beaten men many times before and how I’ve just said what has been proven wrong by you so many times before. This time it’s different. You are looking at the man who is going to put your ass on the shelf for a while. So back out of this match while you still can. Take a vacation. Watch the “Notebook” or some shit and relax. I got this shit handled….
He clenches the blunt in his lips and rises slowly to his feet. The plaster wall behind him is yellowed and a large spider web network of cracks is the only decoration on the grimy canvas. He crosses the room and makes his way down the short hall; his massive frame filling the small space the hall provides while his head has about an inch and a half of clearance. We arrive in a kitchen where he spins the lid off of a mason jar that he has apparently fished out of the fridge. It’s slightly less than half full with a brown tinted liquid which he proceeds to swallow two large gulps. Air whistles quietly as it passes between his teeth when he sucks in a sharp breath. A coughing fit follows as he places the jar on the counter and retrieves his blunt. He moves through the small kitchen and out a door into a soft rain before crossing the small yard to enter a dilapidated wooden shed. A curl of smoke rises from the center of the roof. We’ve seen this place before.
Once inside it is show to be the roof he has been shooting his promotions in lately. A small fire crackles and pops and gives off the only light in the room. The flames send dancing shadows playing across his face while behind him, on the wall, a symbol featuring a grouping of arrows firing off in all directions, has been painted hastily on the wall. Before he resumes his ranting he takes another large pull from the blunt.
And now the dirtsheets are abuzz that the great Whitey Ford may return in the corner of that pissant pile of shit, Buck Somethin-or-other. Look, I watched his promotion from awhile back and it sobered me up. I literally went from being stoned out of my gourd to as sober as a church mouse. Is Whitey gonna cut Buck’s promotions for him? Wrestle for him? Cause that sniveling bitch stands no chance in there with High Tide let alone the likes of me. Whitey and Buck can both kiss my ass…
I’m not coming into this match looking to half ass it. I’m coming for the belt. It doesn’t matter who you are, including my Tag Team partner, I will go through you to get that gold. Point blank period. Light, Archer, Tyrone, Alexa…. It doesn’t matter….none of you can hold a candle to me. I’ve been in this business fifteen years and have numerous titles reigns to my credit. You worthless fucks can’t even lace my boots….
A pale, raven haired beauty enters the shot and slides up next to Frank and pulls his face to hers for a lingering kiss before whispering something into his ear. He grins, it falters, and he nods his head. She kisses him on the cheek before releasing his head and taking her leave. He watches, twitterpated and infatuated, before turning his attention back to the camera.
The Underground Championship is mine. That glorified jobber is just holding it for now. After Livning a Legacy I will be holding that belt. Alexa will be watching the broadcast from home each week. And the rest of the fellows in the match will be licking their wounds. The dirty firefly era is about to begin in P.C.W. and it’s gonna be a wild ride…..
He puffs on the blunt and smirks at the camera through the tangle of his hair as it hangs in his face. He is more than ready for Living a Legacy and it shows….
Frank is sitting on a ratted out couch in a pair of baggy black Dickies and an unbuttoned black Bermuda style shirt with a white leaf pattern running down the sleeves and sides of the shirt. His hair is wet or greasy, one can’t be too sure, and his beard is unruly as ever. He puffs on a blunt as big around as a fine Cuban, its cherry burning a bright orange with each drag, and while he strokes his beard a grin spreads across his lips.
You brag about beating two fatasses who had no business being in the ring in the first place. Now, you’re in this match and, from what I gathered, something to do with your career is on the line. Real nail biting shit right there.
He throws his head back in a fit of laughter before taking another drag from his blunt.
Split tails like you, constantly trying to prove themselves against men and always failing. That military school back in the nineties; chick sues to get into the school but dropped out because she couldn’t cut it. That’s just one of thousands of examples I could throw at you. But, like a woman, you won’t listen.
He shakes his head in disgust.
You’re going to possibly retort with some string of bullshit about how you’ve been in this business awhile now. How you have beaten men many times before and how I’ve just said what has been proven wrong by you so many times before. This time it’s different. You are looking at the man who is going to put your ass on the shelf for a while. So back out of this match while you still can. Take a vacation. Watch the “Notebook” or some shit and relax. I got this shit handled….
He clenches the blunt in his lips and rises slowly to his feet. The plaster wall behind him is yellowed and a large spider web network of cracks is the only decoration on the grimy canvas. He crosses the room and makes his way down the short hall; his massive frame filling the small space the hall provides while his head has about an inch and a half of clearance. We arrive in a kitchen where he spins the lid off of a mason jar that he has apparently fished out of the fridge. It’s slightly less than half full with a brown tinted liquid which he proceeds to swallow two large gulps. Air whistles quietly as it passes between his teeth when he sucks in a sharp breath. A coughing fit follows as he places the jar on the counter and retrieves his blunt. He moves through the small kitchen and out a door into a soft rain before crossing the small yard to enter a dilapidated wooden shed. A curl of smoke rises from the center of the roof. We’ve seen this place before.
Once inside it is show to be the roof he has been shooting his promotions in lately. A small fire crackles and pops and gives off the only light in the room. The flames send dancing shadows playing across his face while behind him, on the wall, a symbol featuring a grouping of arrows firing off in all directions, has been painted hastily on the wall. Before he resumes his ranting he takes another large pull from the blunt.
And now the dirtsheets are abuzz that the great Whitey Ford may return in the corner of that pissant pile of shit, Buck Somethin-or-other. Look, I watched his promotion from awhile back and it sobered me up. I literally went from being stoned out of my gourd to as sober as a church mouse. Is Whitey gonna cut Buck’s promotions for him? Wrestle for him? Cause that sniveling bitch stands no chance in there with High Tide let alone the likes of me. Whitey and Buck can both kiss my ass…
I’m not coming into this match looking to half ass it. I’m coming for the belt. It doesn’t matter who you are, including my Tag Team partner, I will go through you to get that gold. Point blank period. Light, Archer, Tyrone, Alexa…. It doesn’t matter….none of you can hold a candle to me. I’ve been in this business fifteen years and have numerous titles reigns to my credit. You worthless fucks can’t even lace my boots….
A pale, raven haired beauty enters the shot and slides up next to Frank and pulls his face to hers for a lingering kiss before whispering something into his ear. He grins, it falters, and he nods his head. She kisses him on the cheek before releasing his head and taking her leave. He watches, twitterpated and infatuated, before turning his attention back to the camera.
The Underground Championship is mine. That glorified jobber is just holding it for now. After Livning a Legacy I will be holding that belt. Alexa will be watching the broadcast from home each week. And the rest of the fellows in the match will be licking their wounds. The dirty firefly era is about to begin in P.C.W. and it’s gonna be a wild ride…..
He puffs on the blunt and smirks at the camera through the tangle of his hair as it hangs in his face. He is more than ready for Living a Legacy and it shows….
