“I done rassled bigger, badder men than you.”
King Kong Frank’s voice is hot gravel on cracked pavement.
“I been beat up, knocked out, passed over an’ lef’ fer dead.”
Frank manifests from the ether, existing everywhere and nowhere at once. The lighting is all but non-existent, shadows dance across the Barefoot Brawler’s face but he doesn’t mind. Turns out Lord Colossus might not be the only one with a penchant for the over-dramatic.
“But I ain’t never been put down fer good.
Ol’ Frank’s made of tougher stuff than that! You can call me hard-headed if you want, maybe this ol’ hillbilly’s just too thick to know any better! Or maybe all the years of drinkin’ myself silly an’ gettin’ walloped upside the head’s done put a callous where my brain ought to be!
Mayhap I’m just tougher than anybody else. Maybe not, but I’m dang sure tougher than you, Lord Colossus. You know good an’ well I was on the road to whippin’ yer big behind last time at Slam-a-Thon when that piece of Texas trash Gordy Lovett decided to stick his big ol’ nose in our business! Speakin’ of, maybe you wanna have yer skinny little twerp of a mouthpiece give Gordy’s ol’ harpy of a boss a call an’ ask her what happened to that cow punchin’ piece’a crap when ol’ Frank decided to teach him a lesson!”
Upon further inspection, it appears that Frank is in some sort of workshop. There are tools in varying states of decay hung from pegs in the walls as well as a couple of very obviously hand-made workbenches all around him. A broken-antlered deer head adorns the wall over the door, and a few piddling projects are scattered about haphazardly.
A single hanging light flickers as it waxes and wanes above Frank’s head. It’s not enough light to be doing the kinds of work that a set-up like this generally denotes, but King Kong Frank hasn’t ever been the kind of guy who follows the norm or is even aware of it. He does the best he can with what he’s got to work with, and generally, it’s worked out for the big lug more times than it hasn’t.
“An’ you think yer any better?
You ain’t proved nothin’ to nobody since you been here in Classic ‘cept that yer a bully an’ a coward! Ever’ time you come face to face with anybody on a level playin’ field you either cheated or ya run away wit’ yer big spikey tail tucked square between them chicken legs of yours! Sure, maybe you whipped a couple’a asses here an’ there, beat up some greenhorns an’ powerbombed some ijits, but ever’ time it’s mattered you done choked on yer own leather!
Or you let that little wimp Whezl do the work for ya!
You ain’t no man, boy, and you sure as heck ain’t got the salt to get the job done against the likes of King Kong Frank!”
The Smoky Mountain Mastodon grins his toothy grin. On the table in front of him is a portentous pile of interlocked steel that glints in the decaying light. Frank jabs a meaty hand into the stacked and coiled steel and brings it up to eye level.
“An’ now it’s come to this.
You an’ me, big’un, chained together by ten foot of pain, an’ no buncha rules to get in the way of me beatin’ you to within an inch of yer life! We been dancin’ around this fer months now, boy, an’ if I’m bein’ honest I’m gettin’ about tired’a lookin’ at that stupid mask you call a face! I might even rip that bastard off an’ show the world just how ugly you is underneath it! I got me some bad intentions for you, I’m gonna make ya bleed an’ I’m gonna make ya wish that l’il Walt Whezl never bothered to pluck yer silly backside out of the void and stand you in front of me!
You don’t know nothin’ about Steel, boy.
Leather an’ spikes, maybe, but this…”
Frank brandishes the chain as if it were weightless. It isn’t, but that fella is strong as an ox and he’s been twirling that chain over his head for nigh on fifteen years.
“This here is the tool of my trade.”
With a clamorous thunk, Frank drops the chain back down on the table.
“An’ this Sunday? My trade is whippin’ yer big ass!”