Post by The Hangmen on Aug 28, 2020 16:32:31 GMT -5
Shooter swung the door of Raging Frank Lowe’s house open with a violent push. Through the doorway stormed both Shooter and his partner, Noose, the two men hired weeks back by the Action Wrestling’s superstar. Frank looked up from his easy chair and smiled. Shooter immediately marched to Frank’s seat and reached down and grabbed Frank by the collar of his shirt before lifting Frank into a standing position.
“What. the. fuck. did you do, Frank?!”
Frank smiled at Shooter’s angry energy.
“You know, Shooter, I like to see this shit out of you! The energy is good, man. The potency of it. The umph. I love it. It’s good shit, man.”
Shooter pulled Frank in so the men were nose to nose. Shooter’s deep, almost snorting breaths stuck an intimidating note so intense that Frank decided to try a different approach.
“Hey, hey. Shooter. There’s a good fucking reason for what I did at that second rate TVl. Let me go. Take a seat, and let’s talk.”
With his head cocked to the side and his rage still frothing out of him, Shooter abided by Frank’s request after a tense moment and released his boss. Frank returned to the seat he had been so violently lifted from and motioned for his men to grab a spot on the couch. As the Hangmen sat, Frank moved himself to the edge of his own chair, leaning in for effect on his explanation.
“You boys are upset I signed you up for Showdown?”
“You’re goddamn right, Frank.”
“You ain’t supposed to do that shit without lettin’ us know first!”
Frank nodded.
“Ok. Ok. I get that. Want me to back us out, or do you two feel like…”
Frank’s tone shifted.
“...YOU CAN MAN UP FOR ONE FUCKING NIGHT AND CRUSH THIS SHITTY COMPANY?!”
Shooter’s eyes narrowed in anger. Noose just looked confused.
“Look, I got you two a legit fucking booking so that the three of us can close yet another fucking casket in this business. APW is sinking a hell of a lot more than it’s swimming, boys. We can tie a fucking cinder block around it’s legs and send it to the bottom of the murky depths… That is… IF you boys will play along. So… will ya?”
Shooter’s anger shifted to thought, and his narrowed eyes continued to bore a hole through Frank. Noose looked over to Shooter in an attempt to gauge his response.
“Shooter…”
Shooter shrugged off Noose’s attempt to gain his attention. Noose, failing to understand why Shooter remained focused on Frank, reached out and shook his friend by the shoulder.
“SHOOOOOOOOOOOTERRRRRRRRRR!”
Shooter’s gaze darted to Noose.
“Motherfucker, can’t you see I’m thinking?! Chill the fuck out!”
Noose recoiled from Shooter’s outburst, and Shooter’s eyes flashed back to Frank.
“So you want us to merc a whole ass wrestling company in one night, Frank?”
Frank grinned.
“Yeah.”
Shooter’s body language communicated interest but confusion.
“Why?”
“I put damn near everything I had into winning that fucking All In briefcase at Uprising, and what did it get me, Shooter?”
Shooter shook his head.
“Another fuckin’ head wound, bossman.”
“Yeah. Exactly. So if I can’t have what I fucking want, why should anyone else get what they want? Corey Black and FPV and Graham Baker want to dance around and play tag champs in some podunk, backwater company like APW? Why would I not stick my nose in it and fuck that shit up?! Who do they think they are?! If Frank Lowe ain’t happy, fuckin’ nobody will be!”
“But why them specifically? Why not put sugar in the gas tank of Vayden’s big ol’ pickup or throw bleach on Shadowlove’s model clothes or replace Lissie Hope’s KY Jelly with a bottle of Gorilla Glue? Why did you pick the Man Made Gods?”
“Because I fucking wanted to, Noose. That’s it. I picked those motherfuckers because I fucking wanted to. I saw an opportunity to piss in their fucking Cheerios, and I grabbed that shit.”
“Hmm. Ok...”
“So just so we’re clear: the three of us are going to Alpha Showdown to fuck up the hopes and dreams of everyone attached to APW?”
Frank smiled.
“Simply put? Yup.”
Shooter nodded his head as he thought.
“You know, me and Noose never ‘wrestled’ before, Frank.”
“I know.”
“BUT... there ain’t two better brawlers in the fuckin’ world. That’s why you hired us, right? We’re fuckin’ in. We’ll make sure them Gods piss blood.”
Frank smiled mischievously.
“Trust me, Shooter, I’m counting on it.”
“Wait…”
Everyone turned toward Noose.
“Why are three of us goin’ if it’s only the tag match? Why are there three of them?!”
Frank smirked and gave Noose a thumbs up.
“I’m glad you can count, Noose. Getting smarter all the time… You boys familiar with Freebird Rules?”
Shooter nodded in affirmation, and Noose shook his head no.
“Well, Noose, it means we operate as a three-headed monster, so they know they’ll face two of us, but not which two. We have the ability to scheme them and plan.”
“Can’t they do the same to us?”
“Sure, but they’re all interchangeable parts, Noose. Three cogs in the shitty little machine. Who gives a shit if it’s Black/FPV or Black/Baker or Baker/FPV? It’s like tapioca and vanilla. The flavor’s basically the fuckin’ same. It’s just the feel of it that’s different. It doesn’t change a goddamn thing who they put out. For us though? It’s a whole different world of hurt if it’s you two or any of you and me.”
“How? Shooter’s a brawler. I’m a brawler. You’re…?”
“I’m a technical master, Noose. Don’t you fucking forget it, ok? But we’re special. They’re the kind of guys who call themselves Gods and don’t live up to the hype.”
“Do we?”
“Do we what? Do we call ourselves Gods? Hell no. Do we live up to the hype?... Well, I guess that’s up to us to prove at Alpha Showdown, huh?”
Noose smiled as Frank’s confidence infused into his spirit. Shooter, eyes still narrowed in thought, started to nod in agreement.
“Yeah. I like this shit, Frank. I like this shit a lot. Sorry I doubted you.”
“Shooter, you’re a big angry bastard. I don’t expect nothin’ less!”
All three men shared a big laugh.
“This is why I didn’t bother to run it by you boys. I know what the fuck I’m doing. You just gotta trust Raging Frank Lowe to do right by you. I pay well, and I beat asses. You’re comin’ along for the ride, boys.”
The Hangmen smile and nod along with Frank’s braggadocious rant.
“What. the. fuck. did you do, Frank?!”
Frank smiled at Shooter’s angry energy.
“You know, Shooter, I like to see this shit out of you! The energy is good, man. The potency of it. The umph. I love it. It’s good shit, man.”
Shooter pulled Frank in so the men were nose to nose. Shooter’s deep, almost snorting breaths stuck an intimidating note so intense that Frank decided to try a different approach.
“Hey, hey. Shooter. There’s a good fucking reason for what I did at that second rate TVl. Let me go. Take a seat, and let’s talk.”
With his head cocked to the side and his rage still frothing out of him, Shooter abided by Frank’s request after a tense moment and released his boss. Frank returned to the seat he had been so violently lifted from and motioned for his men to grab a spot on the couch. As the Hangmen sat, Frank moved himself to the edge of his own chair, leaning in for effect on his explanation.
“You boys are upset I signed you up for Showdown?”
“You’re goddamn right, Frank.”
“You ain’t supposed to do that shit without lettin’ us know first!”
Frank nodded.
“Ok. Ok. I get that. Want me to back us out, or do you two feel like…”
Frank’s tone shifted.
“...YOU CAN MAN UP FOR ONE FUCKING NIGHT AND CRUSH THIS SHITTY COMPANY?!”
Shooter’s eyes narrowed in anger. Noose just looked confused.
“Look, I got you two a legit fucking booking so that the three of us can close yet another fucking casket in this business. APW is sinking a hell of a lot more than it’s swimming, boys. We can tie a fucking cinder block around it’s legs and send it to the bottom of the murky depths… That is… IF you boys will play along. So… will ya?”
Shooter’s anger shifted to thought, and his narrowed eyes continued to bore a hole through Frank. Noose looked over to Shooter in an attempt to gauge his response.
“Shooter…”
Shooter shrugged off Noose’s attempt to gain his attention. Noose, failing to understand why Shooter remained focused on Frank, reached out and shook his friend by the shoulder.
“SHOOOOOOOOOOOTERRRRRRRRRR!”
Shooter’s gaze darted to Noose.
“Motherfucker, can’t you see I’m thinking?! Chill the fuck out!”
Noose recoiled from Shooter’s outburst, and Shooter’s eyes flashed back to Frank.
“So you want us to merc a whole ass wrestling company in one night, Frank?”
Frank grinned.
“Yeah.”
Shooter’s body language communicated interest but confusion.
“Why?”
“I put damn near everything I had into winning that fucking All In briefcase at Uprising, and what did it get me, Shooter?”
Shooter shook his head.
“Another fuckin’ head wound, bossman.”
“Yeah. Exactly. So if I can’t have what I fucking want, why should anyone else get what they want? Corey Black and FPV and Graham Baker want to dance around and play tag champs in some podunk, backwater company like APW? Why would I not stick my nose in it and fuck that shit up?! Who do they think they are?! If Frank Lowe ain’t happy, fuckin’ nobody will be!”
“But why them specifically? Why not put sugar in the gas tank of Vayden’s big ol’ pickup or throw bleach on Shadowlove’s model clothes or replace Lissie Hope’s KY Jelly with a bottle of Gorilla Glue? Why did you pick the Man Made Gods?”
“Because I fucking wanted to, Noose. That’s it. I picked those motherfuckers because I fucking wanted to. I saw an opportunity to piss in their fucking Cheerios, and I grabbed that shit.”
“Hmm. Ok...”
“So just so we’re clear: the three of us are going to Alpha Showdown to fuck up the hopes and dreams of everyone attached to APW?”
Frank smiled.
“Simply put? Yup.”
Shooter nodded his head as he thought.
“You know, me and Noose never ‘wrestled’ before, Frank.”
“I know.”
“BUT... there ain’t two better brawlers in the fuckin’ world. That’s why you hired us, right? We’re fuckin’ in. We’ll make sure them Gods piss blood.”
Frank smiled mischievously.
“Trust me, Shooter, I’m counting on it.”
“Wait…”
Everyone turned toward Noose.
“Why are three of us goin’ if it’s only the tag match? Why are there three of them?!”
Frank smirked and gave Noose a thumbs up.
“I’m glad you can count, Noose. Getting smarter all the time… You boys familiar with Freebird Rules?”
Shooter nodded in affirmation, and Noose shook his head no.
“Well, Noose, it means we operate as a three-headed monster, so they know they’ll face two of us, but not which two. We have the ability to scheme them and plan.”
“Can’t they do the same to us?”
“Sure, but they’re all interchangeable parts, Noose. Three cogs in the shitty little machine. Who gives a shit if it’s Black/FPV or Black/Baker or Baker/FPV? It’s like tapioca and vanilla. The flavor’s basically the fuckin’ same. It’s just the feel of it that’s different. It doesn’t change a goddamn thing who they put out. For us though? It’s a whole different world of hurt if it’s you two or any of you and me.”
“How? Shooter’s a brawler. I’m a brawler. You’re…?”
“I’m a technical master, Noose. Don’t you fucking forget it, ok? But we’re special. They’re the kind of guys who call themselves Gods and don’t live up to the hype.”
“Do we?”
“Do we what? Do we call ourselves Gods? Hell no. Do we live up to the hype?... Well, I guess that’s up to us to prove at Alpha Showdown, huh?”
Noose smiled as Frank’s confidence infused into his spirit. Shooter, eyes still narrowed in thought, started to nod in agreement.
“Yeah. I like this shit, Frank. I like this shit a lot. Sorry I doubted you.”
“Shooter, you’re a big angry bastard. I don’t expect nothin’ less!”
All three men shared a big laugh.
“This is why I didn’t bother to run it by you boys. I know what the fuck I’m doing. You just gotta trust Raging Frank Lowe to do right by you. I pay well, and I beat asses. You’re comin’ along for the ride, boys.”
The Hangmen smile and nod along with Frank’s braggadocious rant.
| The shot opened on a view of Noose’s visage. Angry. Impatient. Ready to fight. “I only been in Action Wrestling up to this point, and I’ll be real honest here, I when I been around there, I heard the same three letters A LOT. Them letters is F-P-V. Three time world champion. The first one to pull it off even! Now that my boss walked me and Shooter through the door of APW, I’m hearin’ ‘em again. F-P-V. F-P-V. F-P-V.” Noose cocked his head sideways in thought. “But what’s weird is that with all this talk about the man himself, all this yappin’ about FPV, I ain’t never seen the man in the flesh. Ain’t that weird? Three time champion in a company I’ve been in and around for 3 months. CURRENT tag champ in a company I’m invading with my brother and my boss. Is the man fuckin’ invisable? Did he get lost somewhere? Is this Jumanji comin’ to life? Did FPV get sucked into a board game?! How else do you explain away this fuckin’ disappearing act? If the motherfucker didn’t somehow find himself an invisibility cloak or some other bullshit, how the hell else can we wrap our heads around his MIA status? Does he just hate the fans? Did he get the ‘rona?! HOW CAN ANY OF US KNOW IT’S SAFE TO BE IN THE RING WITH THAT MAN?! All I’m sayin’ right now, is that FPV up and vanished when the goin’ got tough and things got hard. Lost a tough match at Action’s biggest show of the year and he disappeared. Only shows up here to defend the belt against shit tier opponents. Where the fuck is FPV?” Noose shrugged for the camera. “We need an AMBER Alert for this sumbitch? Frank is begging for the big signs over all the interstates to read: ‘Be on the lookout for a washed up has-been who, like his regular tag partner, beats the dead horse of WCF whenever he can. He’s presumably stuffed in some strange man’s trunk right now, but honestly, he’s probably a little into it trunk stuffin’.’ I got bad news, Franky... the law can’t print that kinda thing on them highway billboards! Your bedroom life is goddamn obscene, and I can’t believe you’d have the audacity to suggest it! Little kids is readin’ them signs! Good god fearin’ types, too! You gettin’ your trunk stuffed is a bridge too far!” Shooters hand flew in from off camera and socked Noose in the shoulder. “Man, no more of that shit. We ain’t shooting on this motherfucker’s sexual identity.” Noose looked off-screen and nodded to indicate he understood. “I would like to offer my sincerest apologies to the APW audience of 12 people, many of who are prolly watchin’ this promo at home.” “Get on with it, man.” Noose regathered himself and continued. “Franky, here’s the deal… The Hangmen, you see, we’re here to help you out. We know how little you like showing up in this company. We’ve been here for all of like 10 minutes, and honestly, we get it. But we’ll do you a favor. When we take that shitty, stupid little belts off you ‘Man Made Gods’...” Shooter laughed off screen and Noose smirked but held his composure. “...well, you won’t have to come back to APW again to defend them. Pretty sweet deal, huh? We take the straps off you guys, and you get to stay home and stuff… uh… no, uh… You get to stay home and do whatever you want to whoever is interested.” Noose turned to Shooter off-camera and whispered loudly. “That better?” “Yeah. Keep goin’. You almost there, man.” Noose turned his full attention back to the camera. “You wanna be home so bad, Franky? Fine. Stay there. Let Corey and your boy Graham Baker show up to defend the gold. You boys go Freebird Rules when y’all attempt to defend your straps, and we’ll go Freebird Rules when we take ‘em from you. Any given day, I know for sure you and the rest of your shitty little crew can’t handle us, no matter what pairings show up, so let’s fuckin’ dance Frank.” Noose smirked to Shooter off-camera and then turned back to the camera. “But don’t go gettin’ fresh and handsy with me, Frank. I don’t dance like you do…” “I told you to quit that gay-bad nonsense, Noose! Your time’s up. It’s my turn.” Shooter shoved Noose out of the camera shot as he entered it. “Musta drew the short straw, huh? I gotta talk my mess about Graham Baker, aka the member of Man Made Gods most likely to inspire an impassioned reaction of ‘WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?’ from the general public… Man, that’s fun, huh? Ain’t nobody in the APW audience got a FUCKING CLUE who you are, Graham. For some reason, they don’t seem to give a shit about transitional US champions from another company...” Shooter’s intensity pulsated through his body, his eyes glared into the camera, and his muscles vibrated with every beat of his heart. “Graham, you came to Action Wrestling from… somewhere. You dallied in EPIC with my boss, and you attached yourself to a handful of motherfuckers there. When you walked into Action Wrestling, you, what? Attached yourself to yet another handful of motherfuckers in Action. What’s wrong, Graham? You can’t stand on your own? You gotta come in and immediately tie your identity and career to other people?” Noose butted in with a loud whisper. “Shooter, uh, man… we’re a group, too…?” Shooter stared a hole through Noose off-camera. “You getting paid. I’m getting paid. This shit’s a fucking JOB, Noose. Now shut the fuck up, and let me do my shit, goddamn it.” Noose’s silence was deafening. “Baker, I know you and my boy Frank ran in that EPIC place at the same time. Some parallel experiences and all that. I’ll spot you one thing… You were here first. You blazed the trail, right? How’s that all turned out for you? A hot potato TV title reign. A hot potato US title reign. Boy, what’s the matter with you? Are you hot potatoing your balls, too? Sure as fuck looks like it. You get your grubby little mitts on something and suddenly, it’s gone. You can’t defend shit, Baker. Sure you’ve got that magic in a bottle when it comes to the big title victory, but you shit the bed when it comes to the lockdown work you gotta do in defending the motherfucker. And look what we got here… Graham Baker staring down the barrel of yet another opportunity to shit the bed and roll around in his filth. I just gotta hope our boy Graham showers it off before he covers the rest of the Gods in shit.” Shooter shuddered at the entirely hypothetical smell. “We’re looking at our options of the three of you showing up at Showdown and honestly Baker, there isn’t one of us Hangmen that’s remotely afraid of any one of you Man Made Gods, but speaking just for myself? I am damn near giddy about seeing you step in the ring across from us. I think about that, and honestly, I get more than a little excited. Because there isn’t one Man Made God I’d rather UNmake than you, Graham. I want to show the world that your hype has been fiction, that your reputation is a castle made of sand, that your confidence is made outta fucking sugar glass. Baker, you’re standing on fragile ground, hiding your deficiencies behind other motherfuckers, who can’t push through to hold down the fort after he’s won the damn thing. Me? I’m a fucking wrecking ball. I ain’t got deficiencies to hide. I’m not holding down the fort, I AM the fucking fort.” Shooter puffed his chest out confidently and snarled into the camera. “So step up motherfucker. I CAN’T WAIT to knock your ass back down.” Frank’s laugh boomed as he stepped into the camera shot and slapped Shooter on the back. “Excellent work, Shooter. You boys are straight up… killers.” Frank smirked and then focused himself on the promo. “So, Corey, let me get this straight. For what, a whole damn year, right? You were holding gold in Action Wrestling and moonlighting here in this cosplay fed so you and the lesser Frank could win gold together as a team? I mean… why? Like exactly why in the hell…?! Action Wrestling is the biggest, best company in the world. No one compares. My whole career was an endless effort to get in a ring as high profile as that one, and after your whole career… after 20 years of jerkin’ your own chain in a meaningless hell you called the WCF… after year after year of pouring your heart into something the average fan couldn’t give two shits about… you just do it again?” Frank laughed. “WHY?! Why would you spin your wheels here of all fuckin’ places? I mean, hell, Corey, APW is the kind of place that would embarrass the word “shithole” when you used it to describe the company in an ENTIRELY accurate way. Why are you slumming it here, Corey? Why would you let them ride your reputation as the supposed ‘The King of All Wrestlers’ to some lame attempt at relevance?! This whole tag team run feels jusssssst a little bit like Corey Black and Graham Baker and the lesser Frank have just been turning tricks and whoring themselves out for low-rent johns. You boys doing ok? Having money troubles? Look, Corey, if you need a payday loan, I’d be happy to help you out so you don’t have to bog yourself down in this… place.” Frank reached into his back pocket and grabbed his wallet. He opened the wallet and thumbed through it for a second before redirecting his attention back to the camera. “Yeah, I can spot you, Corey. Anything to help yet another so-called legend…” Frank slipped his wallet back into his pocket. “Now, I know that might sound a bit hypocritical given that I’m bringing my boys here so we can wreck your title run, but honestly, Corey, we’re doing it for your benefit. Me and the Hangmen are gonna show up in Vegas to take your tag titles and then light the motherfuckers on fire. We’re here to terminate your sad connection to the podunk little shitshow that is APW. We’re here to strap a rocket to all three of your asses to fly you back to where you fucking belong: backs to the mat in Action Wrestling, jobbing for people like me in a real company. I know, it’s probably uncomfortable for you, Corey, given that you’ve been kind of stuck in this style of rut for a while, right? I mean, hell, you returned to Action Wrestling initially to fight Jaice Wilds and then you locked yourself in some low-card hell with that Hardcore Title and came here to battle for the tag straps… When someone of real talent FINALLY challenged you in your year-long run for the Hardcore strap, you lost it. The same thing will be true come Alpha Showdown when you FINALLY have some challengers that are worth a shit, and you lose your strap AGAIN.” Frank gave the universal motion of a title belt around his waist with a proud smile on his face. “You can do everything in your power to hide from real challengers, Corey. You can hide in a weaker division than you’re capable of fighting in or in a company that’s weaker than you’re capable of fighting in. You can work on the downlow to ensure you defend your titles here against a team of your good ol’ boys from WCF. That’s fine, Corey. The stupid assholes in the stands or watching at home on, uh… Netflix?” Frank turned to someone off camera. “This shit broadcasts on NETFLIX?!” Frank laughed heartily. “Ha! What a fucking joke!” Frank shook his head in astonishment. “Oh, god. I lost my train of thought. What the fuck was I saying? … Oh, the assholes who swear their loyalty to APW… Those assholes just aren’t smart enough to see through your bullshit, Corey, but I am. Sure, you secure long title reigns. You hold on to belts for a good run. But you might as well be doing that as a heavyweight in the cruiser division, Corey. I don’t think you’re the man that you think you are, but I’ll be goddamned if you, Corey Black, ain’t just A HELL OF A LOT better than the titles you have busted your ass to hide behind. For at least the past year, you’ve been nothing but a fucking coward who lacks the fucking balls to face his equals, to look someone better than him in the eye and fight. Well, Corey, your hide-n-seek game is over. The Hangmen are here to not only take your little security blankets but to reveal to the world how much much empty bravado your whole fucking mystique really is.” Frank punched the palm of his left hand with his right. “King of All Wrestlers. Man Made God. I don’t care. The only name that’s gonna matter after Showdown is ‘Former Tag Team Champion,’ Black.” Frank smiled an masochistic smile and continued. “So when we clean house and beat the ever loving piss out of the Man Made Gods, what do we get? One of us gets a shot at the big paperweight that’s wrapped around the waist of Zaigon Carter. Doesn’t that tell you everything you need to know about this company? The fact that APW would bring in The Hangmen… three guys who have never set foot in this company before this moment… three guys who couldn’t give a shit less about being here… three guys who would revel in the opportunity to destroy this place from the inside… and APW gives us an opportunity to win three of their most prized belts on night one?!” Frank offered up a half scoff/half laugh. “Honestly, what the fuck are they thinking?!” Frank shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “More importantly, why would Zaigon allow himself to be put through this ridiculous shit?” Frank paused for a moment as a smirk grew on his face. “Isn’t that one just a little more obvious? Zaigon knows damn well this place doesn’t feature a whole lot of competition. He’s not afraid of this roster. He’s not expecting them to put up all that much of a fight. Well, pity for him that The Hangmen aren’t on the roster, huh? Pity that Raging Frank Lowe isn’t an APW, uh, star. Zaigon didn’t see this shit coming when he signed up for this Showdown concept. He didn’t predict that the best of the best from a REAL wrestling company would show up on his doorstep to drop a flaming bag of shit on the stoop. Well, Zaigon, we’re here, and we’re ringing your goddamn doorbell whether you like it or not. You don’t have to open the door though, Z. No sweat at all. We’ve got no problem kicking that motherfucker down and inviting ourselves into your world.” Frank’s smirk turned into a full- blown shit-eating grin. “Zaigon, the point here is that you being the champion of APW is like being the skinniest kid at fat camp. I mean, shit, someone in APW has got to have the belt, so it might as well be you, right? But you should always remember that wearing gold in this company doesn’t make you a fucking champion, it means you’re the the top of the trash heap. It means you’re the prettiest girl in the burn ward. It means you aren’t fit to shine my fucking boots, Zaigon. The ONLY reason Corey Black and the rest of the Man Made Gods haven’t risen up and smacked the shit out of you already is that they just don’t feel like it, so when The Hangmen hit those fuckers in the mouth and one of us steps up to face you man-to-man, our toughest match of the night will have already come and gone. Facing you? Man, facing you will be like a goddamn vacation from the quality of competition that we’re used to. You can’t hold a candle to the people I’d have to face in Action Wrestling. Hell, even the dead man himself, Nathan Gust, would pose a greater threat to my success than you do! You’re not even fit to hold Derrick Vayden’s extra-small jock or the thimble that fits both of his little velveteen baby balls like a glove. ” Noose and Shooter both stepped into the shot, flanking Frank on each side. All three men stared into the camera with angry, dead eyes as the shot faded out while Frank spoke his last lines. “So Zaigon... So Champ… As of this moment, you are the king of shit mountain, and Showdown is where The Hangmen invade and concur your kingdom. What the fuck are you going to do about it beyond piss your pants and let it happen?” |
