Gordy:
COME ON BOAH!
The Texas Stampede sticks his chin out defiantly towards “King Kong” Frank Dylan James. With nurses scattering and the Georgia Peach Doris Hilton looking pleased as punch at the further animosity between the two behemoths things have indeed been calmer here in the trainers room backstage at the Classic Wrestling studio.
Gordy:
FREE SHOT, RIGHT CHERE!
Gordy taps his chin with his index finger. This whole mess, I imagine… considering the satisfied smile on her face, was obviously orchestrated by Mrs. Hilton. That point of course being moot with both men about to come to blows. Frank hollars across the room and the small legion of security guys now standing between him and Gordy Lovett.
Frank:
WHAT IN TARNATION IS YER DAGGUM MALFUNCTION? WHY TRY’NA ACT LIKE SOME KINDA BILLY BADASS ALL’A SUDDEN?
The Cowpuncher scowls and shakes his head.
Gordy:
Because I didn’t come to this here place to be nobody’s GOT dang drinkin’ buddy! THAT’S WHY! This here lady might have my big hairy ass over a barrel but on this here? Dang it she ain’t wrong! I done a lot a nothin’ with most of my wrasslin’ career, Frank! Twenty years a bein’ one of the boys and just fillin’ a flippin’ spot! I AINT FILLIN NOTHIN’ ANYMORE! Besides that ol’ REAL WORLD TITLE BELT!
The Georgia Peach waves and smiles as the security guys attempt to haul Frank towards the door.
Doris:
And that’s where I come in, love. See Mr. Lovett is an investment my dear. And Doris Hilton doesn’t invest in losers. You buy low, put in the elbow grease, and then sell high. That’s what daddy used to say.
King Kong Frank hollars over the shoulder of the burliest of the men currently failing at moving him backward.
Frank:
ONLY THANG THAT BOY DONE SOLD IS HIS OWN SELF RESPEC’!
The Stampede pushes against the men and women keeping him from advancing.
Gordy:
SHUT’CHER DAMN MOUTH, YA’ MONGREL DAWG! OL’ GORDY LOVETT’S GONNA’ CONTROL HIS OWN DANG OL’ DESTINY! YOU HEAR ME BOAH?!
Referees and agents flood the room. The sheer number of bodies it takes to keep Frank and Gordy away from one another hasn’t quite been calculated as of yet, but you’re starting to get a picture of how many they’re gonna try to use. Doris takes the opportunity, with Frank good and pinned, to needle the Smokey Mountain Mastodon.
Doris:
Gentleman, kindly remove this over-alled peasant from the trainer’s room, thank you please? Lord knows the last time IT WASHED…
A string of hollered expletives escape Frank’s bearded face as the small battalion of security goons push, pull, and yank the barefoot brawler clear from the trainers room door.
Doris:
Now. Jack Fargo, you kind-hearted little thing… Mr. Lovett would like to have a few words with you, darling.
…to be continued