King Kong Frank might be a raging behemoth inside of a wrestling ring, but by all accounts, so long as nobody bothers him, he seems to be a pretty affable fellow outside the squared circle. He’s a guy you know you could drink a beer with, except it wouldn’t be beer. It’d be a handle of ‘shine, and you’d probably end up naked halfway up a mountain somewhere in Tennessee.
But, whatever. It’s that type of abject supposition that gives the modern-day hillbilly a bad name.
The cool, crisp air outside the arena at twilight felt almost like being up in the mountains. It’d have to do, out on the road and all. After all, his moonshine makin’ equipment is portable. We don’t have to sit on formalities around here. The booze travels.
Standing over a still with vapor rising up out of it, Frank looks down with satisfaction at the latest batch percolating in the pot.
KKF: Yup, reckon that’ll do just fine.
Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Frank sees someone trying to tip-toe past, looking up to the sky and whistling and trying badly to be invisible. It is clearly Scott Hunter. However, he has an absolutely ridiculous Wild West-looking fake mustache on his face that looks like he got it out of the clearance bin at Party City… which is exactly where he got it from.
KKF: Hey! Yeah, you, git yer Scott-Hunter-lookin’ behind over here!
“Scott” puts his hand over his chest and looks around.
”Scott” Hunter Who, me? My name’s not Scott.
Frank slowly steps toward him, and “Scott” shrinks slightly as the gigantic mountain of a man approaches.
KKF: Don’t take me fer stupid, boy, I know me a tail-tuckin’ yellow-bellied Scott Hunter-lookin’ piece’a trash when I see one, an’ RIGHT NOW I’M LOOKIN’ RIGHT AT’CHA!
”Scott” Hunter: Oh… (chuckling) …I see where you got confused. See, I’m not Scott Hunter. I’m Not Hunter. And, well, I mean, while that Scott Hunter fellow sounds like a really cool guy and probably gets lots of chicks and also 10% off appetizers at Applebees… I’m not him.
KKF: Oh, you’re him, alright…
Not Hunter: No no no… you’re not hearing me. I said I’m NOT him. NOT.
KKF: (unimpressed) Yeah, yer about to be a knot alright, as in I’mma tie yer neck inta one!
Hunter holds his hands up, slowly backing away and trying to angle himself to make a run for it.
Not Hunter: Let’s not be too hasty. First of all, as I said, I’m NOT HIM! But also, I read somewhere that Scott Hunter had suffered a terrible head wound and was in a coma for the last three weeks! How could you be mad at him?! He was out cold, with no clue as to his surroundings! How could I be expected to wrestle at ClassicMania under those conditions?!… (Hunter realizes his mistake) ….is what I read he was thinking.
Frank just shakes his head.
KKF: They’s somethin’ wrong wit’you, boy! An’ you don’t know nothing about no good brew. Reckon I ain’t never met nobody quite like ya, either! It really is a shame I’mma have to turn yer face inta’ mashed taters for ya real quick!
Frank advances, and Hunter turns and sprints away, screaming like my wife when she sees a spider. Frank follows for a few steps before choosing his fresh batch of shine over a pursuit through the building and a fight with half the security types on call for the evening.
KKF: GYATdern weirdo. HUSS!