Just outside the arena, Scott Hunter is walking up on the entrance area for wrestlers, sporting his favorite t-shirt, a combination REO Speedwagon and Survivor tour t-shirt, with “Wheels are Rollin’ Tour – 1985” across the back, and a human heart on front, engulfed in flames.
Head down he walks up the sidewalk, and comes upon the small encampment of King Kong Frank Dylan James, whose back is to him as he huddles over the top of a makeshift still, looking like some sort of Appalachian alchemist.
Scott frowns. This is not something he regularly sees in Tampa, or here, or anywhere. He walks over, ever so carefully so as not to disturb the big brutish man in front of him.
Suddenly, Frank turns around, and Scott stops in his tracks, looks up and starts whistling, rocking back and forth heel to toe, looking ridiculous and fooling nobody. Fortunately Frank couldn’t care less. He raises one of his gigantic paws and points at Hunter.
“You! Get over here!”
Scott looks at Frank, eyes wide, and puts his hand on his own chest.
Frank smirks and lets out a snort.
“Somebody’s gotta test my latest batch, an’ I done already been drinkin’ since last Tuesday! You ever drink the hard stuff, boy?”
Scott makes a face.
“You mean like a White Claw or something?”
Frank’s face crinkles up like someone just farted loudly.
“Jesus boy, get’cher narrow behind over here! This here’s real deal honest to goodness Smoky Mountain Fire Water! Not none of that fancy cityboy nonsense.”
Scott warily makes his way over. Frank takes a small metal cup and gets a full portion, then hands it over.
“Down the hatch!”
Scott holds it up to his nose, sniffs it, then takes it all in one gulp. Frank seems a bit surprised and impressed by this, and watches for a reaction.
Scott goes into a full blown cartoony sputtering coughing fit, to Frank’s amusement, but then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“So this is like YOUR version of a White Claw then? I’m not sure about it, I feel like it needs to be stronger.”
Frank’s eyes go wide, his wiry beard bristles, and his mind is absolutely blown.
“Is you speakin’ ill of my gran’pappy’s hooch?”
“No!” Scott backtracks, “Course not! It’s just that-”
Frank reaches out and grabs the young grappler, pulling him bodily in for a two-man huddle. It doesn’t seem malicious… yet. “So… what you thinkin’? More yeast? Ethanol? Fatbacks an’ Similac? CAROLINA REAPERS?”
The wheels are turning…
“Lookee here,” Frank squeezes Scott’s shoulders. “You’s obviously a man with a with so-fist-ipated palate! An’ that’s jus’ what I need!”
“I… uh-” Scott stammers.
“Nevermind all’a that! We gotta get this next batch goin’ before the Main Event tonight! GIT-R-DONE!!”
Frank drags Scott Hunter off to who knows where, to do who knows what, all in the name of his gran’pappy’s best hooch…