“Lemme tell you fellers somethin’.”
King Kong Frank has a worn look etched across his face. Bushy brows furrow over bloodshot eyes and thin lips hide behind that wild, wiry mange of a beard that has been Frank’s trademark for longer than he can remember. For the first time, however, a few pronounced shocks of grey are noticeably creeping into the Smoky Mountain Mastadon’s featured facial hair.
This doesn’t make him any less frightening of a man.
“I done made my name rasslin’ all over the gyat-dang world. I been to Canada, been to Europe, been to Japan enough times I done won me two of them Deathmatch tournaments an’ even got me a Worl’ Title over there.”
“It’s been a good life. Real good. Course, I ain’t never had no time to settle down an’ start me a family or anything like that, but that ain’t never mattered to me none. Hell, I got a whole bunch’a good brothers from runnin’ up an’ down these roads, night after night, year after year. From Mexico to Puerto Rico to Timbuk-daggum-tu, I been everywhere there is to go, an’ I done rassled ever’body there is to rassle.”
Frank is bare-footed, as usual, and dressed in a worn-out pair of denim overalls. The Premier American Championship has been haphazardly stuffed between the straps of his overalls and hangs down past Frank’s knees. This has become his CLASSIC look since the day he defeated Shujin Yama for said title belt.
“An’ then, just when I was all set to call it quits an’ ride off into the sunset I got the call from CLASSIC Rasslin’ to come in an’ work a few shots for the new company while they got their feet underneath ‘em. An’ I did, an I been here ever since!”
Frank smiles, remembering the good times.
Well, more like remembering all the good fights.
And the bad ones.
Such is life as an athlete in the King of Sports.
“I ain’t even gon’ lie, I didn’t know if CLASSIC was gon’ make it or not. They was damn sure doin’ somethin’ different at a time when ever’body else was doin’ the same ol’ borin’ bullcrap. It was a gamble, an’ it paid off! Ever’body I done talked to done had more fun rasslin’ fer CLASSIC than they ever did anywhere else! An’ I can say fer daggum sure that my time here in CLASSIC’s done been some’a the best times I ever had!”
“But that’s all over now, ain’t it?”
The mood changes.
“After this upcomin’ episode of CLASSIC TV, it’s all over.”
Frank snorts, this is not something that the big man is keen on.
“An’ on the very last show of the company that I helped build from the ground up through blood, sweat, an’ as much moonshine as ol’ Frank could drink I got some mask-wearin’ little hippy luchadork what thinks he gon’ take this here-”
Frank rips the PAC Title belt out of his overalls, pulling loose one of the straps in the process.
“-‘MERICAN CHAMPEENSHIP BELT-”
The gold center plate gleams as Frank brandishes the title.
“-away from me! HA!”
His eyes go wild. Well, wilder.
Just like that and ol’ Frank is fired all the way up.
“WELL LEMME TELL YOU SOMETHING YOU UNDERWEAR LOVIN’ SUMMANABEEEEEETCH! I DONE RASSLEFIGHTED BIGGER, BADDER, STRONGER, FASTER, AND SLEAZIER YAY-HOOS THAN YOU! ASK LORD COLOSSUS! ASK SHUJIN YAMA! I DONE WHUPPED ‘EM ALL! YOU UNNARSTANNIT?!”
Frank throws the belt over his massive shoulder and takes a moment to attempt to reel it back just enough to stay safe for network Television.
“Nope. I done worked my hind-end off to get this…”
He pats the belt.
“…an’ ain’t no snivelin’ little boy gon’ be the one to take it off’a me.”
Frank stares. Undercover Lover is in very real danger.
“I came here to CLASSIC Rasslin’ to be King Kong Frank.”
Bushy brows furrow.
“After this week, there ain’t gonna be no more CLASSIC Rasslin’ though.”
Is that a tear welling up in the corner of the Smoky Mountain Nightmare’s eye?
“I reckon that means there ain’t no more mountain for ol’ Frank to be the King Kong of. What that means is there ain’t gon’ be no more King Kong Frank.”
Say what now?
“My name is Frank Dylan James, an’ next week I’m comin’ to give Undercover Lover a CLASSIC ass-whuppin that he ain’t never gon’ forget!”
. . .