As usual Doris Hilton looks like a million bucks… if a million bucks could also look really REALLY ticked off. The Georgia Peach sits behind her big oak desk with one fist clenched in anger, the other swirling a dirty martini by the stem. Behind her hangs a huge oil painting of a fierce celt warrior woman stabbing a spear into the heart of what looks to be a rather surprised Roman soldier. Across the room fishing a beer out of a beat up old styrofoam cooler he most certainly brought with him sits the Cowpunchin’ Cowpuncher.
“What I SHOULD do is rock up on that ol’ Myers creep and pop him in his damn lips, lemme tell you what… “
Doris’ scowl only deepens. “You’ll do no such thing. What you’re GOING to do is embarrass the barefoot lunatic and keep your little win streak going… right up to that pathetic little nincompoop this ridiculous company pinned their World title to. I swear to God this company attracts clowns like a summer picnic draws flies… “”
She leans back in her chair, taking a deep swing from her drink, unclenching her fist in the process. “What you’re GOING to do, mah dear boy is SMEAR that inbred fool across that pristine canvas in front of the world. I want him to be the first of so many you HOGTIE and skin alive, Gordy dear. Eventually I want you to set that World championship right here on top of my dearly departed daddy’s desk… along with the HIDE of every bus driver, disco dancer, spaceman, boogie monster, nasty foreigner, magician, fatso sex freak and blasted HILLBILLY between it and you.”
The Stampede cracks open a Lone Star and slugs down half the can before wiping his chin and burping inward, much to Doris’ chagrin. “Boy that dang ol’ feller really did crawl up yer’ corn hole, didn’t he? If’n all this ice cold bluster is meant to motivate just go head and reign it on back in because ol’ FRANK?! He’s had one o’ the worst beatin’s of his dang ol’ life comin his way for YEARS, lemme tell ya’ HWHAT!”
He obliterates the rest of his beer and smashes it into his bemulletted head. He leaps out of his seat knocking over his cooler spilling slushy water and several six packs of the cheapest beer in Texas all over what looks to be a rather old and expensive looking leather sofa. “King Kong… KING KONG? Got dang ol’ Frank James is a barefoot, inbred, lyin’, back stabbin’, politickin’ piece of TRASH is what he is! He’s just as bad as any scum suckin’ city slicker… “
He narrows a quick glance over at Doris.
“That wooly snakes ridden so many other men’s coattails to the top his nose permanently smells like ASS! Imma’ skin that snake, Hilton… make mah self the nastiest, smelliest pair of boots anybody ever seen, I tell you HWHAT! Everybody ‘round this place think they got the peckin’ order all figured out… that ol’ KING KONG is the be all and end all of crazy S.O.B. here in Classic Wrasslin’… that fat old man thinks he’s sickin’ Frank on ol’ Gordy? Like this here’ll end up some sort of punishment… when all’s gunna happen is Imma fold that nasty pair of overalls all neatlike with ‘at BOAHS KEISTER STILL IN ‘EM BAW GAWD!”
“And you’re going to do it or I’ll develop your disgusting little farm into a blasted Wal Mart. Maybe your dear old Peepaw could be a greeter, love? Keep the old fart busy with no land to tend. You know how the mind can GO with age.”
Gordy stops cold and looks across the room at Doris. “Scuse me?”
“It’s just… we’ve done this before, haven’t we? Your little stutter step when this whole Classic enterprise started. Lots of bluster. You’re so good at bluster. But it still seems you’re about fifty fifty on the whole winning matches part of the arrangement. I just don’t want you forgettin’ what you’re doing all this for. And how serious I am when I tell you I just don’t want Frank James beaten. I want him BEATEN. I want a message sent to that arrogant blockhead Griffin Myers that nobody threatens Doris Hilton without consequences.”
Gordy reaches down and snatches up a couple Lone Stars from couch cushions.
“Not even him.”
He cracks into both cans. The Stampede, as serious as we’ve ever heard him.