We’re backstage at the studio, right outside the locker rooms. Already dressed in his trunks, ready for action, we see the wild and wooly cowpuncher from Cut and Shoot, Texas Mr. Gordy Lovett stretching out before his match-up with the odd-ball Scott Hunter. The Texas Stampede is looking sporting in his black trunks, cowboy style wrestling boots, and bull rope looped around his “trimmed” Willie Nelson t-shirt like an outlaws bandoleer. Not far from him, on a GIANT brown and grey cellular telephone about the size of a shoebox… I believe that’s what they’re called… his manager, The Georgia Peach Doris Hilton.
Hilton: … well it better be taken care of, you little nitwit. Or you, your little girlfriend and that bastard child of yours will be out on your butts, do you hear me? Yeah, well, right back at you honey, I’ve been called worse… well I have to be here and make sure my little project stays the course, you know that…
Doris gives Gordy a somewhat annoyed, quick bit of side eye.
The intense phone call continues in the background. From the other direction swaggers none other than the mighty Smoky Mountain Savage himself, King Kong Frank. Oblivious to pretty much everything, as is his way, Frank lumbers up to the Texas Stampede with a mason jar in one hand and a six pack of Lone Star in the other and a goofy grin on his face. He happens a cockeyed gander down the hall real quick to make sure Doris is still preoccupied…
Frank: Well crap fire and save box matches, look who it is!
He takes a long, messy pull from his mason jar.
Frank: Figgered ya might wanna get a li’l pre-match workout in! Just like the old days!
The Hillbilly Jesus offers up the full sixpack of the best, cheapest beer in Texas to his now and again road acquaintance. The look on Gordy’s face is conflicted… but beer. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder and shrugs, snagging the six delicious room temperature treats from Frank’s meaty mitt. Lovett snaps into one, downing the entirety of the can. A burp of some size and, I’m assuming, smell rumbles up from Gordy’s gut as he immediately snaps into a second beer. He eyeballs Frank up and down…
Gordy: So whatchu up to back ‘ere besides whettin’ my whistle? You ain’t wresslin’ tonight.
Frank: I gots me a weasel problem needs fixin’, if’n ya know what I mean.
Gordy: [completely sincere] Aww, dang man, shoulda’ told me. I coulda’ thrown a couple a Peepaw’s old weasel traps in the pick-up before I headed on out ‘ere to wrassle. That crazy old fart has a trap for near on everthang, man.
The burly hillbilly’s grin widens.
Frank: Ain’t no problem, good buddy, you know I like to get mah hands dirty ever’ now an’ again!
Lovett chuckles and takes an enormous swig from his new beer.
Before the two men’s pleasantries can continue much further The Georgia Peach sidles back up beside her client. Doris narrows her cat-like green eyes and shoots daggers at the Smokey Mountain Mastodon. She notices the now four-pack of beer hanging from Gordy’s finger, reaching over and breaking the poor big guy’s heart and takes the rest of the beer away.
Hilton: You have a match in literal minutes, you idiot.
Lovett crushes the empty still clutched in his paw out of sheer shock. Doris turns her attention back to Frank.
Hilton: As for you, you mongrel… you leave my client be. He needs to keep his head on straight and get his first win tonight…
She scowls and gives a little more quick, icy side-eye to her client.
Hilton: … for his own good. So hit the BRICKS you disgusting hillbilly. Go swill gasoline and huff paint, or whatever it is you people do, preferably somewhere far AWAY from my client.
Gordy angrily sulks, turns away from the situation and continues stretching and preparing for his match. The Georgia Peach lets a nasty little smile roll across her lips. Frank looks over her shoulder at his friend but is only greeted by the silence of his wide back and shoulders. Frank’s wordless disappointment is easy to suss out. He again lifts his jar and takes the saddest swig of moonshine anyone’s every swug and simply turns and heads back down the hallway from whence he came.
Frank: [muttering to himself] Gyat-dang screechin’ harpy… reminds me’a my ol’ lady.