Thanksgiving on the mountain.
King Kong Frank has retrofitted his GranPappy’s skunk-water still into the rootin’est tootin’est turkey fryin’est Rube Goldberg machine that you ever did see! There are at least three birds bobbing up and down in the giant copper boiling pot and the Lord only knows what a guy like Frank might inject a turkey with before flash-frying it at something like six-thousand degrees.
The Smoky Mountain Mastadon stands, satisfied, with one hand resting on a bony hip and the other holding an old mason jar full of the aforementioned hooch. The drink sloshes comically, as Frank is something of an animated fellow, especially when he gets to drinkin’ and talking about wrestling.
Rasslin’, as it were.
I wadn’t good enough to whip that ol’ Lord Colossus.
Frank takes a glug from the jar, unphased.
That’s an ass-whuppin’ ol’ Frank ain’t likely to EVER forget!
He shrugs and salutes.
That’s fine. He might be some kind’a weirdo hippy freak, but he can daggum sure throw them hands, and ol’ Frank can respect that!
First, I got this big ass Hoodoo kid from the Island standin’ in front of me, lookin’ like he wants to cut my toenails off with a buck knife so he can do one of them magics on me an’ make me cluck like a chicken ever’ time I hear the word farfegnugen! What kinda happy crappy ya reckon that is?
The Barefoot Brawler takes another big boy swig from his jar.
Well CRAP fire an’ save me some box-matches! HAH! Ol’ Frank don’t give a dirty gyat-dang what kind’a silly business ya get up to, Hoodoo! All I wanna know is how many times I’mma get to punch you in that melon head of yers before yer eyes roll back in yer head an’ ya stop tryin’ to fight back! An’ you can better believe I’mma find out, boy, ‘cuz ol’ Frank’s in a mood an’ you happen to be the ijit they decided to throw up against me to take my anger’n frustration out on! An’ hell, might even turn out yer a tough ol’ boy what has some salt…
…but I’mma still mash yer taters, ya get me?
An’ I swear ‘for GAWD ALMIGHTY that you and yer tattoos ain’t got a snowball’s chance in ol HAY-DEES of gettin’ out of this weapons-grade ass-whuppin’ I’m about to throw on you fer no other reason than because I can and they like to pay me to do it!
Frank is becoming noticeably more and more excited, and thus more animated and more agitated. It’s a vicious circle, egged on by moonshine and pride, and almost sure to end badly.
YOU GIT THAT BIG BOY?
YOU GOT A FIGHT COMIN’!
YOU BETTER BRING EVER’THANG YOU GOT!
BRING YER FRIENDS, HELL YOU MIGHT BETTER DRIVE A DADBLASTED TANK UP IN THE RING AN TRY TO RUN MY BIG BEHIND OVER, CUZ OTHERWISE I’MMA SMACK YOU AROUN’ LIKE MANGREL DOG DONE GOT CAUGHT TRYN’A KILL THE CHICKENS!
Stopping to slurp down the rest of the moonshine that he’d been holding, Frank seems to pick the perfect moment to bring it down just a notch or two. It’s like maybe the big galoot is a little better at this than he lets on…
An’ as fer the rest of y’all…
I got sump’in fer each an’ every one’s y’all! All you gotta do is be big enough an’ bad enough to say the word! Ol’ Frank ain’t scared’a NOBODY walkin’ an’ you can take that right there all the way to the daggum bank!
He smiles that Hillbilly Jesus grin, it’s almost off-putting.
Now if’n y’all would excuse me, I got a whole mess’a Appalachians to feed in there an’ I gotta make sure somebody brought the dang ol’ CRANBERRY SAUCE! HAH-HAH- BECAUSE CRANBERRY SAUCE! GET IT! HAH!
And that’s that.
To put a period on it, just remember that no matter the circumstances…
Ol’ Frank can’t help but be ol’ Frank.
Every. Single. Time.