Post by BRADDOCK on Sept 1, 2023 23:16:17 GMT -5
”Why the fuck, bro?” Tyler asks, walking up the small driveway into the carport attached to his brother’s single-wide trailer. In the shade of said carport, his brother is under the hood of the fifty-one Ford pickup they saw in a wrecking yard a few weeks ago. Braddock continues wrenching on something under the hood and only stops to hold up a fist with his middle finger extended. ”Yeah, fuck you too. I can’t believe you bought this pile of shit. You’ve been hit in the head way too much… How much longer? I thought we were heading out ‘as soon as I got here?’”
Braddock turns the socket wrench, removing the bolt completely before standing upright and tossing the bolt into a can half full of gasoline. He picks up a rag and starts wiping the grime mixed with sweat and WD-40 from his hands. ”I’m ready!” he declares and he barely gets the words out when Tyler’s head starts shaking “no.”
”Asshole, we are not going to this meeting with you looking like that! Go in and get something nicer that a t-shirt and cut-offs! Dude, we are meeting with the city about moving our tattoo shop out of that shitty little building. Somewhere with better parking and a working ac…. C'mon, man…” he pleads with his brother who reluctantly heads through the sliding door leading into his bedroom. Tyler smokes a cigarette while waiting and, after checking the time on his phone, opens his mouth to hurry his brother along. As if on cue, however, Braddock exits through the sliding door and closes it behind him.
”Better, Dad?” he asks, sarcastically, while giving his brother the finger. His Mohawk his slicked back and the t-shirt and cut-offs have been replaced by a pair of newer Ariat jeans and a black-and-yellow flannel made by the Dixxon Flannel Company. The duo cruise over to town hall and sit down with members of the zoning committee. After a meeting that lasts a little more than an hour, the duo are walking out to Tyler’s Chrysler 300, grinning like Jackals.
A shirt time later and they are in Stockton’s “Cheetahs Gentlemen's Club,” sitting at a table near the main stage. Yeah, it’s technically the day shift, but it’s close enough to shift change that the day girls are filtering out and the night shift ladies are replacing them. A frosty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon sits on a napkin next to an empty shot glass, in front of Braddock while a glass of beer is half finished in front of Tyler.
A short brunette, a former gymnast and cheerleader in high school, approaches the two wearing a skirt, bra, and a pair of high heels. She smiles at Tyler, who returns the favor, and she reaches out and takes his hand. He smiles at his brother before allowing himself to be led to a private room.
While his brother is busy, Braddock retreats outside to the Chrysler and smokes a bowl before returning inside some twenty minutes later. Tyler is waiting as are fresh beers and a plate of steak nachos. Braddock takes his seat and drains the old can of PBR.
”Feel better after that dance?” he says with a smirk.
Tyler just shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that; I went to school with that chick in Fresno. I mean, yeah, I got a dance and her number, but she also said she wants some ink. She wants me to let her know once we got the shop all moved and shit…”
Braddock has shoveled a few chips full of cheese, steak, beans, and all the rest of the fixing. He wipes his mouth with a handful of napkins while his eyes are fixed on a heavily tattooed Chola workin the pole and the stage. He sets a ten dollar bill on the edge of the stage and pops the top on the fresh PBR.
Tyler digs in to the nachos as well and takes a swig of his Guinness. ”We sign papers for that place down at the Port on Monday; you gonna be here or should I move it to Tuesday?” he knows one of the challenges of working with his brother is his newfound busy wrestling schedule.
Braddock drains half the can in two gulps while nodding his head. When he opens his mouth, however, it was to belch rather than speak. He tufts a cheese, bean, and guacamole laden chip into his mouth and rolls his eyes in delight. ”They got the best fuckin nachos here! As for Monday…I can be back here by mid-afternoon. Saturday morning I fly out to Tennessee for U.W.L. and then Sunday I’m in Oklahoma….or Kansas….or some shit. I got the plane tickets already. And I’m meeting that May chick I’ve been kinda seein; she’s comin to watch my match on Rise.” he “toasts" with his brother, clinking his beer can against Tyler’s mug of Guinness.
”She is fine as fuck, bro. Isn’t she taller than you?” he asks with an edge malice behind it. The only response he gets from his brother is a raised middle finger. ”Are you two, like, a couple now? Or are you guys just having a good time?”
”Playin it by ear; we ain’t rushin in to anything and are getting to know each other. That’s all…” he says before shoveling in another overloaded chip. A glob of sour cream and guacamole fall off of the chip, just barely miss the edge of the table, and lands on the floor next to his foot. Talk about lucky…
”Alright, I’ll set up signing the paperwork for Monday afternoon. Three o’clock or so, cool?” he asks and his brother nods, chewing another bite of nachos before washing it down with the rest of his beer. A waitress sides by, deftly replacing the empty PBR with a fresh one as well as a shot of Jameson.
The rest of the evening is spent drinking and watching the ladies of Stockton’s “Cheetahs Gentlemen’s Club” shimmy and shake and show off their money makers. By the time they leave, they require an Uber and Tyler ultimately sleeps on the ground in his brother’s carport. Inside the double-wide, Braddock is face first on the floor of his bathtub, still wearing the clothes from the night before.
Saturday August 2nd 9:43am
Braddock is sitting in an airport somewhere. He has on a faded and well loved (ie; worn) Lamb of God t-shirt and a baggy pair of jeans while, on his head, a black stocking cap is pulled down snug. With his glasses on, he looks slightly less like a threat. Not much…but a little less. He clears his throat and begins.
”In a couple nights I will be in Tulsa, beating the Hell out of some f(bleep!)kin balding, pasty wad of sh(bleep!)t. I mean, I am goin to f(bleep!)k him up!” he says with a grin. He removes his glasses and wipes them clean with the edge of his shirt. ”Technically, this match is The Dynasty versus The Asylum but, really, it’s an over-glorified squash; I’m going to beat Blake like I’m Casey Affleck and Blake was that hot blonde chick in the ‘Killer Inside Me' flick. Might even make Blake piss himself like she did!” he says, shaking his head an laughing.
”Zephyr and Nox don’t need to be banned from ringside. I don’t need em to beat your ass, Blake. All my life I have been the smaller guy in the fight but, like my entire life, I'ma beat the dog piss out of the bigger guy. Your Dynasty clique would be smart to stay out of our match; I'll ragdoll that fat f(bleep!)k you call a manager or any of those bitch-boys you run around with. I’ve been to jail before and I ain’t afraid to go back.
As far as Donnie Harris goes; what else needs to be said. His dumbass shows his face in my match and he loses his title shot. Seeing as how he bases his life, and value, on holding a belt I’d be willing to bet my beer allowance for the month that he won’t be a factor. When you lose, Blake, it’s going to be because I beat your ass!” his voice is raised at the end, there, and draws some looks from several of the people around him. He gives a small wave and a bashful smile before continuing.
”Now boarding for flight 1272 to Knoxville, Group A, please come to Gate Nine!” A woman’s voice announces over the public address system. Braddock stands up and grabs a backpack in the seat next to him.
”For all the doubters, dipsh(bleep!)t know-it-alls on ‘X' and other social media; go f(bleep!)k yourselves. You don’t have to watch our product. Either shut the f(bleep!)k up and watch or turn the damn channel. You sound like a bunch of pu(bleep!)ies, whining and crying like a Tween who didn’t get their Taylor Swift tickets. You’re not working here. Your opinion about who is or who isn't Champion is none of your f(bleep!)kin business if you ain’t competing here! You all know who I'm talking to.”
The last thing we see is him walking up to the camera before it cuts out.
***If you ain’t with us (OCW) then you don’t matter***[/i[/u][/color]
Braddock turns the socket wrench, removing the bolt completely before standing upright and tossing the bolt into a can half full of gasoline. He picks up a rag and starts wiping the grime mixed with sweat and WD-40 from his hands. ”I’m ready!” he declares and he barely gets the words out when Tyler’s head starts shaking “no.”
”Asshole, we are not going to this meeting with you looking like that! Go in and get something nicer that a t-shirt and cut-offs! Dude, we are meeting with the city about moving our tattoo shop out of that shitty little building. Somewhere with better parking and a working ac…. C'mon, man…” he pleads with his brother who reluctantly heads through the sliding door leading into his bedroom. Tyler smokes a cigarette while waiting and, after checking the time on his phone, opens his mouth to hurry his brother along. As if on cue, however, Braddock exits through the sliding door and closes it behind him.
”Better, Dad?” he asks, sarcastically, while giving his brother the finger. His Mohawk his slicked back and the t-shirt and cut-offs have been replaced by a pair of newer Ariat jeans and a black-and-yellow flannel made by the Dixxon Flannel Company. The duo cruise over to town hall and sit down with members of the zoning committee. After a meeting that lasts a little more than an hour, the duo are walking out to Tyler’s Chrysler 300, grinning like Jackals.
A shirt time later and they are in Stockton’s “Cheetahs Gentlemen's Club,” sitting at a table near the main stage. Yeah, it’s technically the day shift, but it’s close enough to shift change that the day girls are filtering out and the night shift ladies are replacing them. A frosty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon sits on a napkin next to an empty shot glass, in front of Braddock while a glass of beer is half finished in front of Tyler.
A short brunette, a former gymnast and cheerleader in high school, approaches the two wearing a skirt, bra, and a pair of high heels. She smiles at Tyler, who returns the favor, and she reaches out and takes his hand. He smiles at his brother before allowing himself to be led to a private room.
While his brother is busy, Braddock retreats outside to the Chrysler and smokes a bowl before returning inside some twenty minutes later. Tyler is waiting as are fresh beers and a plate of steak nachos. Braddock takes his seat and drains the old can of PBR.
”Feel better after that dance?” he says with a smirk.
Tyler just shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that; I went to school with that chick in Fresno. I mean, yeah, I got a dance and her number, but she also said she wants some ink. She wants me to let her know once we got the shop all moved and shit…”
Braddock has shoveled a few chips full of cheese, steak, beans, and all the rest of the fixing. He wipes his mouth with a handful of napkins while his eyes are fixed on a heavily tattooed Chola workin the pole and the stage. He sets a ten dollar bill on the edge of the stage and pops the top on the fresh PBR.
Tyler digs in to the nachos as well and takes a swig of his Guinness. ”We sign papers for that place down at the Port on Monday; you gonna be here or should I move it to Tuesday?” he knows one of the challenges of working with his brother is his newfound busy wrestling schedule.
Braddock drains half the can in two gulps while nodding his head. When he opens his mouth, however, it was to belch rather than speak. He tufts a cheese, bean, and guacamole laden chip into his mouth and rolls his eyes in delight. ”They got the best fuckin nachos here! As for Monday…I can be back here by mid-afternoon. Saturday morning I fly out to Tennessee for U.W.L. and then Sunday I’m in Oklahoma….or Kansas….or some shit. I got the plane tickets already. And I’m meeting that May chick I’ve been kinda seein; she’s comin to watch my match on Rise.” he “toasts" with his brother, clinking his beer can against Tyler’s mug of Guinness.
”She is fine as fuck, bro. Isn’t she taller than you?” he asks with an edge malice behind it. The only response he gets from his brother is a raised middle finger. ”Are you two, like, a couple now? Or are you guys just having a good time?”
”Playin it by ear; we ain’t rushin in to anything and are getting to know each other. That’s all…” he says before shoveling in another overloaded chip. A glob of sour cream and guacamole fall off of the chip, just barely miss the edge of the table, and lands on the floor next to his foot. Talk about lucky…
”Alright, I’ll set up signing the paperwork for Monday afternoon. Three o’clock or so, cool?” he asks and his brother nods, chewing another bite of nachos before washing it down with the rest of his beer. A waitress sides by, deftly replacing the empty PBR with a fresh one as well as a shot of Jameson.
The rest of the evening is spent drinking and watching the ladies of Stockton’s “Cheetahs Gentlemen’s Club” shimmy and shake and show off their money makers. By the time they leave, they require an Uber and Tyler ultimately sleeps on the ground in his brother’s carport. Inside the double-wide, Braddock is face first on the floor of his bathtub, still wearing the clothes from the night before.
Saturday August 2nd 9:43am
Braddock is sitting in an airport somewhere. He has on a faded and well loved (ie; worn) Lamb of God t-shirt and a baggy pair of jeans while, on his head, a black stocking cap is pulled down snug. With his glasses on, he looks slightly less like a threat. Not much…but a little less. He clears his throat and begins.
”In a couple nights I will be in Tulsa, beating the Hell out of some f(bleep!)kin balding, pasty wad of sh(bleep!)t. I mean, I am goin to f(bleep!)k him up!” he says with a grin. He removes his glasses and wipes them clean with the edge of his shirt. ”Technically, this match is The Dynasty versus The Asylum but, really, it’s an over-glorified squash; I’m going to beat Blake like I’m Casey Affleck and Blake was that hot blonde chick in the ‘Killer Inside Me' flick. Might even make Blake piss himself like she did!” he says, shaking his head an laughing.
”Zephyr and Nox don’t need to be banned from ringside. I don’t need em to beat your ass, Blake. All my life I have been the smaller guy in the fight but, like my entire life, I'ma beat the dog piss out of the bigger guy. Your Dynasty clique would be smart to stay out of our match; I'll ragdoll that fat f(bleep!)k you call a manager or any of those bitch-boys you run around with. I’ve been to jail before and I ain’t afraid to go back.
As far as Donnie Harris goes; what else needs to be said. His dumbass shows his face in my match and he loses his title shot. Seeing as how he bases his life, and value, on holding a belt I’d be willing to bet my beer allowance for the month that he won’t be a factor. When you lose, Blake, it’s going to be because I beat your ass!” his voice is raised at the end, there, and draws some looks from several of the people around him. He gives a small wave and a bashful smile before continuing.
”Now boarding for flight 1272 to Knoxville, Group A, please come to Gate Nine!” A woman’s voice announces over the public address system. Braddock stands up and grabs a backpack in the seat next to him.
”For all the doubters, dipsh(bleep!)t know-it-alls on ‘X' and other social media; go f(bleep!)k yourselves. You don’t have to watch our product. Either shut the f(bleep!)k up and watch or turn the damn channel. You sound like a bunch of pu(bleep!)ies, whining and crying like a Tween who didn’t get their Taylor Swift tickets. You’re not working here. Your opinion about who is or who isn't Champion is none of your f(bleep!)kin business if you ain’t competing here! You all know who I'm talking to.”
The last thing we see is him walking up to the camera before it cuts out.
***If you ain’t with us (OCW) then you don’t matter***[/i[/u][/color]