Post by Heathen Jones on Apr 24, 2024 10:29:52 GMT -5
In the orange and yellow twilight, on a ribbon of gravel road, he struggled to drive himself home. Already swerving, he nearly Duked the car speeding over a hill; had to jerk from being left of center through a dip; and nearly lost control around each winding curve through the towering tuliptrees.
Less than a mile up the road, Remi Matthews sat waiting.
“Oh man, she’s gonna pop him!”
Seated in the middle of the sofa with her feet pulled up under her, she was fixed to the situation unfolding on screen. Much like the capacity crowd, she was absolutely surprised it ended with a handshake and they walked away from one another without incident.
“No Fuding way!”
Shaking her head in disbelief, she drove her hand into a half-eaten bag of Funyuns, pulled out a mess of them and went crunching through the commercial. An obvious tie-in, ESPN+ advertised that fans could watch Thunder Pro LIVE! and anytime -On Demand! A few chugs of grape Faygo to wash down the onion goodness as the show returned. Mark Markson and Nick Napier welcomed the viewing audience to Friday Night Fury.
That’s when she heard him pull into the driveway.
Like every other Saturday night, she paused her show and waited, expecting him to come stumbling in with a stack of cash that he’ll throw down on the table. She already had the stuff she would need to stitch and wrap him up to recover for the week in the bathroom.
She waited.
And she waited some more.
The car had shut down several minutes ago; the headlights cut out, jolting her into semi-darkness, if not for the television.
His car door never opened.
Her stomach sank as she stood up.
“Baby?” she called out.
The heavy door of the cabin stood open as she slowly approached.
“Baby?” she whimpered, opening the screened door.
“BABY?!” screeching and dodging their yard ornaments as she raced to the car.
Bryan Parker laid across the console into the passenger’s seat as she threw the door open.
“Oh Poop, oh Poop…” She cried, fighting to get him seated.
Her eyes widened and flooded with tears, “Baby, what the Fudge? Who did this?”
His face was entirely busted up; his left eye was swollen shut and visibly throbbing; his nose was bent to the left side and gushing blood; and more blood from a gash in his lip trickled down into a crust building up in his beard.
“Fudge!”
She didn’t call the police or for an ambulance, but she frantically dialed for help.
In the thirty minutes it took for Uncle Saul to arrive, she cleaned his face as best as she could. Tearing pieces from her “Eras Tour” t-shirt, she wiped the blood away. Saul and the boys, his other two nephews, helped her get Bryan from the car and into the cabin.
There was no going to the hospital.
See, like Uncle Saul and his boys, Paid to Pummel, the duo of Kuntry Twang and Lil’ Roscoe, fans of professional wrestling may instantly recognize Bryan and Remi as the infamous Heathen Jones and his main squeeze Hickey; however, much like the dastardly people they do business with outside of wrestling, the authorities would immediately recognize this crooked bunch -and, whatever Bryan had done to wind up like this, Heathen Jones had nothing to do with it.
Luckily, it’s on a Wiki somewhere that Remi has studied nursing and has a nice upstanding career to fall back on. Very helpful in situations like this and it wasn’t long before she had him dressed and drugged up -feeling real nice.
“What the Fudge happened?” Saul asked.
“Nothin’,” Parker huffed.
“What the Fudge do you mean, ‘nothing’,” Saul pointed, “look at your face.”
“Got to do what I got to do, Unk…”
“You ain’t got to do this,” Saul shook his head.
“Leave it be.”
“You got options, boy,” Saul tried.
“Yeah,” Parker cut him off, “like what? Working with you?”
“Well, there’s that,” Saul nodded, “I mean, we ain’t getting the Poop kicked out of us.”
“That's because your Poop don’t sell no more, Unk,” Parker laughed. “What you don’t pass around while telling your stories in locker rooms on the weekends, those two smoke all week. Get out of here with that Poop.”
Saul threw a sad and disappointed look at the two grossly obese men sizing up where five-foot two-inches would stand against Lil Roscoe’s near seven-foot frame. All the while laughing and, Kuntry Twang -just barely five-feet nine-inches himself, parodied the hashtag “massive chokeslam” of the night on his knees.
“Well,” Saul returned his attention, “like I said, you have options.”
“Nah,” Parker shook his head with a heavy frown, “she can’t. What I mean is, she won’t go back.”
“It’s in her blood, for Fudge sakes,” Saul slapped his knees, “fourth-generation. She’s the niece of J.R. Matthews, dammit.”
“Well,” Parker shrugged, “not everyone fits into their family business, Unk.”
“What the Hell is that supposed to mean,” it doesn’t take much to get Saul fired up these days.
“Calm down,” Parker assured, “see, since he; well, since the night that Johnny; you know, ever since he died, she’s been done.”
“What about you?” Saul reached, “You were set for stardom. He had the path cleared for you.”
“I know.”
“You paid your dues with him watching out for you.”
“I know,” the agitation was clear.
“You made good on every match he set up…”
“I KNOW!”
“...you were there boy.”
“Dammit, Unk, I know,” Parker rolled his back to Saul, “but I ain’t doing it without her.”
The Ativan kicked in and it was only minutes of the somewhat-quiet silence before Parker was snoring. Saul stood from the chair and turned around to find Remi standing in the doorway.
“Been there a minute?”
“A few,” she admitted.
Crossing in front of Kuntry and Roscoe while confusion over who was the real who played out on screen, Remi joined the old man at the table for a toke. Silently puffing, they listened to the action play out as the cheers turned to jeers and back to cheers again. The fans were astonished with the champion’s intentions in one match while the loser of the next waded through them to escape, yet the two said nothing.
“He’s really good at it, you know?”
Saul left Remi with these words to consider as he left with his nephews. She closed the door and glanced back at the television as a blood stained plate of a championship belt closed the show.
"Yeah," she nodded, "it's time."
Less than a mile up the road, Remi Matthews sat waiting.
“Oh man, she’s gonna pop him!”
Seated in the middle of the sofa with her feet pulled up under her, she was fixed to the situation unfolding on screen. Much like the capacity crowd, she was absolutely surprised it ended with a handshake and they walked away from one another without incident.
“No Fuding way!”
Shaking her head in disbelief, she drove her hand into a half-eaten bag of Funyuns, pulled out a mess of them and went crunching through the commercial. An obvious tie-in, ESPN+ advertised that fans could watch Thunder Pro LIVE! and anytime -On Demand! A few chugs of grape Faygo to wash down the onion goodness as the show returned. Mark Markson and Nick Napier welcomed the viewing audience to Friday Night Fury.
That’s when she heard him pull into the driveway.
Like every other Saturday night, she paused her show and waited, expecting him to come stumbling in with a stack of cash that he’ll throw down on the table. She already had the stuff she would need to stitch and wrap him up to recover for the week in the bathroom.
She waited.
And she waited some more.
The car had shut down several minutes ago; the headlights cut out, jolting her into semi-darkness, if not for the television.
His car door never opened.
Her stomach sank as she stood up.
“Baby?” she called out.
The heavy door of the cabin stood open as she slowly approached.
“Baby?” she whimpered, opening the screened door.
“BABY?!” screeching and dodging their yard ornaments as she raced to the car.
Bryan Parker laid across the console into the passenger’s seat as she threw the door open.
“Oh Poop, oh Poop…” She cried, fighting to get him seated.
Her eyes widened and flooded with tears, “Baby, what the Fudge? Who did this?”
His face was entirely busted up; his left eye was swollen shut and visibly throbbing; his nose was bent to the left side and gushing blood; and more blood from a gash in his lip trickled down into a crust building up in his beard.
“Fudge!”
She didn’t call the police or for an ambulance, but she frantically dialed for help.
In the thirty minutes it took for Uncle Saul to arrive, she cleaned his face as best as she could. Tearing pieces from her “Eras Tour” t-shirt, she wiped the blood away. Saul and the boys, his other two nephews, helped her get Bryan from the car and into the cabin.
There was no going to the hospital.
See, like Uncle Saul and his boys, Paid to Pummel, the duo of Kuntry Twang and Lil’ Roscoe, fans of professional wrestling may instantly recognize Bryan and Remi as the infamous Heathen Jones and his main squeeze Hickey; however, much like the dastardly people they do business with outside of wrestling, the authorities would immediately recognize this crooked bunch -and, whatever Bryan had done to wind up like this, Heathen Jones had nothing to do with it.
Luckily, it’s on a Wiki somewhere that Remi has studied nursing and has a nice upstanding career to fall back on. Very helpful in situations like this and it wasn’t long before she had him dressed and drugged up -feeling real nice.
“What the Fudge happened?” Saul asked.
“Nothin’,” Parker huffed.
“What the Fudge do you mean, ‘nothing’,” Saul pointed, “look at your face.”
“Got to do what I got to do, Unk…”
“You ain’t got to do this,” Saul shook his head.
“Leave it be.”
“You got options, boy,” Saul tried.
“Yeah,” Parker cut him off, “like what? Working with you?”
“Well, there’s that,” Saul nodded, “I mean, we ain’t getting the Poop kicked out of us.”
“That's because your Poop don’t sell no more, Unk,” Parker laughed. “What you don’t pass around while telling your stories in locker rooms on the weekends, those two smoke all week. Get out of here with that Poop.”
Saul threw a sad and disappointed look at the two grossly obese men sizing up where five-foot two-inches would stand against Lil Roscoe’s near seven-foot frame. All the while laughing and, Kuntry Twang -just barely five-feet nine-inches himself, parodied the hashtag “massive chokeslam” of the night on his knees.
“Well,” Saul returned his attention, “like I said, you have options.”
“Nah,” Parker shook his head with a heavy frown, “she can’t. What I mean is, she won’t go back.”
“It’s in her blood, for Fudge sakes,” Saul slapped his knees, “fourth-generation. She’s the niece of J.R. Matthews, dammit.”
“Well,” Parker shrugged, “not everyone fits into their family business, Unk.”
“What the Hell is that supposed to mean,” it doesn’t take much to get Saul fired up these days.
“Calm down,” Parker assured, “see, since he; well, since the night that Johnny; you know, ever since he died, she’s been done.”
“What about you?” Saul reached, “You were set for stardom. He had the path cleared for you.”
“I know.”
“You paid your dues with him watching out for you.”
“I know,” the agitation was clear.
“You made good on every match he set up…”
“I KNOW!”
“...you were there boy.”
“Dammit, Unk, I know,” Parker rolled his back to Saul, “but I ain’t doing it without her.”
The Ativan kicked in and it was only minutes of the somewhat-quiet silence before Parker was snoring. Saul stood from the chair and turned around to find Remi standing in the doorway.
“Been there a minute?”
“A few,” she admitted.
Crossing in front of Kuntry and Roscoe while confusion over who was the real who played out on screen, Remi joined the old man at the table for a toke. Silently puffing, they listened to the action play out as the cheers turned to jeers and back to cheers again. The fans were astonished with the champion’s intentions in one match while the loser of the next waded through them to escape, yet the two said nothing.
“He’s really good at it, you know?”
Saul left Remi with these words to consider as he left with his nephews. She closed the door and glanced back at the television as a blood stained plate of a championship belt closed the show.
"Yeah," she nodded, "it's time."
