Lovett Ranch. Nothing special, just a few acres out in the south Texas brush country. Enough to keep cattle. This particularly pretty stretch has been in the Lovett family for nearly seven generations. Little Gordy Lovett started a life-long love affair with roughhousing and rabblerousing right here in these pastures. Now some info that might make ol’ Gordy’s one business relationship make more sense.
As of last year, thanks to Gordy’s unimpressive fifteen years plus as a pro wrestler, it all now belongs to one Doris Hilton.
We find The Stampede himself sitting atop a fence post, watching the sun come up. Empty blue and silver Lone Star Light cans are crushed and littered all around him. As always he’s dressed in his Levi’s and snake-skin roach-kickers. Sporting a cut-off Molly Hatchet t-shirt. Gordy scans the beautiful orange skyline… a voice startles him.
“Howdy boy, how ya’… JEEAYZ-US!”
Spinning around atop the fencepost with the deftness of a man half his size he yeets a spinning back fist right into the neck of his own grandfather. The old man stumbles back shocked, but not surprised. His grandson has never been the sharpest knife in the drawer… he scans the sea of crushed beer cans and sighs as he rubs his neck.
Gordy hops down off the fence post with concern.
Awww DANG, Peepaw, I’m sorry! You snuck up on me there, man!
You really still are one big ol horsey galute, ain’tcha? Just like when you was a kid.
The old man narrows his eyes and looks around suspiciously.
That evil wench what stole our land ain’t around is she? Damn Georgians… shifty, all of ‘em.
Naw, Peepaw. Doris ain’t here.
Gordy awkwardly hoists himself back up onto his perch, reaches into the Wal-Mart sack he’s hung off the barb-wire, and produces yet another lukewarm Lone Star and cracks into it.
Why you saddled us with that dang’ol…
I did it so we could still live here, Peepaw. The bank was gunna’ take ever’thang… the hell was ah supposed to do, man?
He hangs his head and his grandpa totters up to the fence line and carefully leans on the barb-wire.
S’ppose you’re right. You keepin’ that she-witch happy… business-wise-speakin’ that is?
Naw, Doris ain’t too pleased with me right now.
She needs ya’ to get angry… big as you are you never been one to stick up fer’ yer’self, Gordy. Biggest damn kiddo anyone ever done seen… tender as a dang ol’ lamb. You’re a fine wrassler and yer’ tough as boot leather but damnit Gordy… don’t make me agree with that goofy-ass woman and tell ya’ ye’ ain’t got no FIRE in yer’ belly.
He looks around at the Ranch, the sun rising higher bathing the whole place in bright morning light.
Lemme tell ya’, son. Get angry if only for the fact that Hilton woman saw you comin’ a mile away and played you like a FIDDLE…
Nodding, he hops off the fence post into the cow pasture. A few curious animals lumber up to the Lovett’s… probably expecting food. The livestock tilt their heads as “Peepaw” continues getting his gigantic grandson appropriately hyped.
You give that devil-woman exactly what she asked fer’… a RIP snortin’ Lovett boy ready to STOMP folks! Especially filthy Floridians!
HELL YEAH! FLORIDA IS DANG OL’ DONKEY BALLS, MAN!
The Texas Stampede starts pumping his arms, nodding in intense agreement with his grandpa. The crowd of cows, goats and sheep grows by a good handful, heads tilted in calm confusion.
Now tell me whatcher’ gunna’ do to that goofy ol’ Scott Hunter feller! Go on!
Gordy lets loose a gutteral hollar, hesitating only a moment before straight up PUNCHING ONE OF THE COWS. The big beast slumps over onto the ground out cold. He climbs the wood and barb-wire “turnbuckle” and beats his chest towards nobody in particular.
I’M GORDY LOVETT, THE TOUGHEST S.O.B. YOU EVER FACED, BOY! Plain-Jane-ass, vanilla lookin’ Florida DING-DONG! GET READY, BOY! GET READY FER A STAMPEDE! Imma’ whoop yer’ keister all the way back to that nasty swamp of a state you done crawled out of, YA’ HIPPY-DIPPY JOKER! Yer’ a joker, ain’tcha? Dang ol’ JOKIN’-JOKER! You come at ol’ Gordy with that playtime CRUD?!
He points emphatically at the suckerpunched cow, its unmoving tongue lolling out of its mouth.
AIN’T PLAYIN’, BOY! NOT ONE BIT!