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.
Now. Jack Fargo, you kind-hearted little thing… Mr. Lovett would like to have a few words with you, darling.
The rip-snortin’ Cowpunchin’ Texas Stampede rolls his shoulders and hooks both thumbs in the worn old bullrope still wrapped around his person. He doesn’t even hazard a glance at Doris. He simply leans forward and pours out enough wild eyed energy to power a small Texas town.
LISTEN HERE LITTLE BUCKAROOS! ‘Cause ah’m only gonna say this here once. As short and sweet as a subject of this magnitude can be… that subject bein’ ME! MR. GORDY GOT-DAMN LOVETT! See I got a problem, Jack. If’n ah don’t see my win loss record up two to one I… I don’t know what the hell I’mma do… I don’t know what in tarnation I’m capable of, ya’ know?
He slowly raises a big meaty Texas sized fist and looks at it with awe.
I might just get on home to the ranch and take out a whole damn herd… HAWHAWHAWHAW!
Raucous, knee slapping laughter from the Texas Stampede.
Naw, see, I done like ol’ Slim Pickens and learned to stop worrying and love the bomb, man.
He gives a side glance over towards his balls-o-brass manager, Mrs. Hilton.
The Stampede’s done got his noggin on straight and he’s finally seein’ this here promotion fer the golden opportunity it is. Only way to get to the top of a place like this is to look at ever single sorry sucker back here as a damn sorry SNAKE! Even the feller’s that come atcha with a smile… and a damn beer. Jack! You seem a lot like ol’ Frank back there. Can’t help but be an affable feller… cordial to a fault. A bronze medal winnin’ Mr. Manners.
The Georgia Peach interjects with her husky southern drawl.
And Gordy dear, he’s brand new to professional wrestling. Straight off the minor leagues this one. And so PROUD of his little third place award, isn’t he?
The cow punchin’ cowpuncher cracks his knuckles and starts to slowly unwind the cowbelled bullrope from around his torso.
You ain’t stepped onto a canvas with anythang quite like me, BOAH! Come at me with that fancy O-lympy buuuuuull garbage and I’ll put yer’ bronzed butt in the dang hospital! But look at us, Jack! Two regular ol’ fly-over state lunkheads in a locker room filled with dang ol’ magicians and zombies and and… a got-damn BUS PERSON, fer cryin’ out loud… but see, I been around nonsense like this fer’ the better part a mah whole life. Olympics or no dang ol’ Olympics…
He snaps the bullrope taught with a satisfying, ropey THWACK.
… yer’ an ol’ GREENHORN, BOAH! This here cowpoke is gonna toss you around that there ring like a sack of damn kittens, son! Classic Wrasslin’ is still at a critical point, man. We’re both sittin’ at one and one. When the dust settles and somebodys walkin’ around with that ol’ World title belt there’s gonna be a liiiiiiiiine a contenders a mile long… somebody with a two one records gonna be further up that there line, plain and simple.
The cowbell hanging from the end of the rope clanks violently as Gordy manhandles the bullrope.
You can leave the hardware at home. Yer’ third place medal don’t impress me none, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna win you any favors in this here match. Last bit of tape you released to the world showed you fussin’ with yer’ pappy about bein’ a low down dirty pro wrestler. Even with that sort of poison bubblin’ in yer’ belly you ain’t got the kind of fire it takes to stop a freight train like ol’ Gordy Lovett!
CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG
He rattles the cowbell directly in the camera like a complete unhinged psychopath.
Jack, ah’ma shoot straight with ya’… ah’m gonna do my damdest to prove your daddy right. That this here world ain’t fer the likes a you. Wrasslin’ ain’t silly but you growin’ a hair up your keister to BE ONE… yeah, ol’ pappy Fargo was on the money. That’s is DAMN silly.
Looking up and away.
NOW ONE A YOU FELLERS GET ME A DANG OL’ ICE PACK!