Post by Southern Comfort on Apr 26, 2012 23:06:58 GMT -5
(Weeks have passed since the last time "Roughneck" Chris Crude stepped into a wrestling ring. In fact, the last time was as a student in some run-down, half-ass wrestling school south of Lubbock. So long, Crude had gone back to work in the oilfield…his dream to wrestle professionally on the back-burner.
Sitting on the john recently, Crude was thumbing through the latest edition of Wrestling Observer and saw that New York City Championship Wrestling was looking for new talent to expand their promotion into a national powerhouse. Struggling to drop that deuce, Crude spent a lot of time staring at that ad and really thinking of all the possibilities around living in the big city and bright lights of New York.
After filling the bowl, Crude tossed the magazine aside and paid the ad little thought for much of the day. However, in a case of déjà vu, Crude found himself back on the shitter the next morning and found that edition of Wrestling Observer just calling to him. He plucks the magazine off the floor and flips through a number of pictures of sexy-asses, half-dressed female “wrestlers“ before stopping on the article about NYCCW again.
Pondering his future while on his throne, Crude makes a decision to give it a shot…why not? Forty-seven and one rank ass dump later, Crude picks up the phone and calls, collect, the NYCCW office.)
Crude: This here New York City Championship Wrasslin’?
(The voice on the other end of the phone is inaudible.)
Crude: Yea, listen here now…my name is Chris Crude and I’m out here in Odessa, Texas working in these damn oil fields. I don’t wanna’ be doin’ this shit no more, ya’ hear? I’m looking to move on up to the big time and do a little professional wrasslin’.
(Crude pauses, listening intently while scratching his balls.)
Crude: So you telling me I need to drive to Illinois? What they hell is in Illinois?
(The answer confuses Crude.)
Crude: Why in sam hell is New York City Championship Wrasslin’ gonna’ have some matches in Illinois. That ain’t New York City, I don’t know if you know that…shit.
(More listening from Crude.)
Crude: Awww, whatever hombre. I’ll see ya’ll then. Oh yeah, I got me a good friend named Henry…ya’ll mind if he comes wrasslin’, too?
(Apparently the response was a yes.)
Crude: Aight, good buddy. We’ll see ya’ll in not-New York to fight for New York City Championship Wrasslin’. Shit is silly, but whatever ya’ll say Mr. check-writer, sir.
(Crude makes sure that he has everything loaded into the back of his 1987 Ford Truck. He looks back at his mother's house, and his old fat-ass momma is standing on the porch. A tear comes to her eye as he walks over.)
Crude: Ol‘ big woman, I know I got to head on up there to damn Illinois. I got to make this damn money as a big wrasslin’ star.
Momma Crude - I know, baby boy. If you get in trouble up there, you come on home to this ol‘ fat woman, and I make you some of that squirrel chili and a big glass of Jack Daniels.
Crude: Damn, you gotta’ be careful with that fire water. They goin’ to get ya’ if you get that seventh or eighth DWI. Them damn police be hasslin’ us salt of the earth kinda’ people.
(He hugs his momma and walks over to the truck. He gets in, only after pulling on the door about four or five good times, and drives slowly down the gravel driveway, watching his momma and his double-wide trailer disappear into the rearview. That ol’ damn Ford squeals as it pulls onto the highway and heads toward I-40. He drives for three hours or so before stopping to take a good piss and grab some fine pork rinds and a Sams Choice cola. Climbing back into the cab of the truck, his cell phone rings to the tune of “Freebird“. Crude answers the phone and puts it on speaker so he can enjoy his fine meal of rinds and a cheap ass coca-cola knock-off.)
Crude: Yello? Who this be?
Betty Sue: Chris, it's me, you‘re sweet little big woman.
Crude: Hey there darlin’, how you be doin’. How ya’ daddy…heard he got drunk yesterday evenin’ and tried wrasslin’ a alligator down there around Huntsville.
Betty Sue: I’m good, honey. Ol’ daddy gone be fine, too. He beat that gator’s ass, Chris. You shoulda’ seen him, boy, he rode that bastard like Pecos Bill. Anyway, your momma just called me and lawd Jesus she was cryin’. She said you heading to Illinois to do some of that silly wrasslin‘. Were you not going to tell me?
Crude: Shit, darlin’, I just found out they wanted them a piece of ol’ Chris Crude. I was gonna’ get around to tellin’ ya sometime. You be watchin’ me like a damn eagle-hawk, ol’ biddy.
Betty Sue: Aw, baby, I wanna’ be up there wit’ ya’
Crude: Damn, woman, how I’m gonna’ get ya’ up yonder? You can’t drive and ya’ big ass can’t get on no airplane. Shit, I’d have to buy damn two seats for ya’ on the damn airplane. I’ll have to win the damn lottery, hell.
Betty Sue: Damnit Chris, you just a jackass to me. You gonna’ miss this good lovin’.
Crude: Big woman, I’m a pro wrassler now. I’ma get all kinda’ wild ass, porn-type, freaky bitches now. You old news.
Betty Sue: ASSHOLE.
(They other end of the line goes quite as Crude laughs out loud. He tosses the phone into the passenger seat and bears down the interstate. With the radio belting classic country, Crude begins to ponder his future in the business: championships, money, bitches. Time flies by as he thinks things over. By the time he snaps out of it, he’s rolling into Conway, Arkansas. He slows down to ask some jackass riding a bicycle for directions to his hotel. A short trip later, he checks in and heads toward his room.
A man of simple means, he leaves pretty much everything in the back of his truck…with the exception of a backpack in the floorboard of the truck‘s cab. Tossing the bag on the bed, he sits down beside it and ponders what a professional wrassler would do next.. He decides that an introduction video is just what he needs. Hell, he’s heard all about that damn internet thing.
Crude rummages through his bag until he finds an old ass camcorder. Fishing through the bag some more, he finds and pops open a new tape and puts it in the ancient piece of technology.)
Crude: I brought this to make me one of ‘dem celebrity sex tapes, but this’ll work.
(He turns the camcorder on and sets it up on the TV in the hotel room. He positions it where he can stand round about center of the room. Nervous as a cat in a Chinese restaurant, he paces for a few minutes, psyching himself up, before he turns to the camera.)
Crude: How ya'll are? This is Chris Crude, the ROUGHNECK! Ya’ll people up there with New York City Championship Wrasslin’ gonna see a lot of me here real soon. I’m an honest man ya’ll, so I’ma be straight with ya’ll. I ain‘t never done this before, but I‘m treat it just like the first time I got into some ol‘ heifer’s panties…I‘m just gonna‘ jump right in and hold on tight.
Ya’ll gotta’ understand, I’m just a wrestler looking for a contract and a home. I’m a real roughneck now, the hardest working son of a fat bitch ya’ll could ever hope to find. I hear a lot of people talk about changin’ things or takin’ over or some shit when they join a company. I ain’t here to save a damn thing. The damn straight truth is, this company gotta’ save me. If I can’t make it here, I‘ma have to go back to Odessa and I ain‘t really lookin‘ forward to that. It‘s hot as hell and boring as shit in Odessa, Texas…plus I done pissed off my woman coming up here. Ya‘ll gotta‘ now, that bitch was a big woman, too. She could kick my ass, tell ya the truth.
I know ya’ll are looking for the best, and I am just that. I’m the best at a bunch of stuff. I guarantee I’m the best damn oil field worker in NYCCW. I bet I’m the best guy from Odessa, Texas on the NYCCW roster. Hell, see, I’m the best. Outside the ring, I’m just an ol’ normal bastard, every day guy. When I get in that ring, I‘m like a fly on shit…I just jump on ya‘ and whoop some ass.
Why ya‘ll wanna see me up there? Why the hell not? Why ya’ll not want to see me, boy I’ll have women lined up to watch NYCCW wrasslin’. Them bitches love me, I tell ya.
Ya’ know what else I’d like to tell ya? Hell, I’d like to tell ya’ who I was gonna’ be fightin’ up there at this NYCCW show. I called up there and talked to them people, but they just told me to show up. So that’s what I’ma do…I’ma show up. I got my trunks in the truck and my boots and my baby oil to rub all over me so I look shiny and strong and cool and I’ma proceed to beat asses like molasses…naw, hell…that don’t really work. I’ma smash your shit with a rubber dic…naw, that don’t work either. I’ma…I’ma…hell, I guess I’ma call my momma.
(Flustered, he steps forward and turns the camera off, rewinds it, and then pulls it out of the camcorder. He grabs a pen from a drawer in the hotel room and marks the tape and puts it in the case. Whipping out his cell phone, he bunches in a few numbers and waits for an answer.)
Crude: Henry Henderson, brotha’ what is up? I got good news.
(An odd look crosses his face and he begins to sniff the air around him. Seconds later he lifts his arm and sniffs an arm pit.)
Crude: Damn, hell, I gotta’ wash my ass tonight. Anyway, bro we gonna’ be doin’ some wrasslin’. Can you believe it? I’ma be there to pick you up in the morning. I’m already in Conway.
(You can hear an excited yelp on the other end of the phone.)
Crude: Sounds like you’re screwin’ a donkey over there or something. Anyway, you bangin’ some girl that went to that ITT Tech, right? You think she can put a video on the internet for me?
(Crude waits for an answer.)
Crude: Hell, it ain’t that kinda’ video. Anyway, I’ll see ya in the morning.
(Tossing the phone on the bed, Crude heads for the shower, trying to wash the stink from his ass. Soon, he sprawls out over the cold sheets and turns the lights out. Scenes of wrasslin‘ fame dancing in his head.)
Sitting on the john recently, Crude was thumbing through the latest edition of Wrestling Observer and saw that New York City Championship Wrestling was looking for new talent to expand their promotion into a national powerhouse. Struggling to drop that deuce, Crude spent a lot of time staring at that ad and really thinking of all the possibilities around living in the big city and bright lights of New York.
After filling the bowl, Crude tossed the magazine aside and paid the ad little thought for much of the day. However, in a case of déjà vu, Crude found himself back on the shitter the next morning and found that edition of Wrestling Observer just calling to him. He plucks the magazine off the floor and flips through a number of pictures of sexy-asses, half-dressed female “wrestlers“ before stopping on the article about NYCCW again.
Pondering his future while on his throne, Crude makes a decision to give it a shot…why not? Forty-seven and one rank ass dump later, Crude picks up the phone and calls, collect, the NYCCW office.)
Crude: This here New York City Championship Wrasslin’?
(The voice on the other end of the phone is inaudible.)
Crude: Yea, listen here now…my name is Chris Crude and I’m out here in Odessa, Texas working in these damn oil fields. I don’t wanna’ be doin’ this shit no more, ya’ hear? I’m looking to move on up to the big time and do a little professional wrasslin’.
(Crude pauses, listening intently while scratching his balls.)
Crude: So you telling me I need to drive to Illinois? What they hell is in Illinois?
(The answer confuses Crude.)
Crude: Why in sam hell is New York City Championship Wrasslin’ gonna’ have some matches in Illinois. That ain’t New York City, I don’t know if you know that…shit.
(More listening from Crude.)
Crude: Awww, whatever hombre. I’ll see ya’ll then. Oh yeah, I got me a good friend named Henry…ya’ll mind if he comes wrasslin’, too?
(Apparently the response was a yes.)
Crude: Aight, good buddy. We’ll see ya’ll in not-New York to fight for New York City Championship Wrasslin’. Shit is silly, but whatever ya’ll say Mr. check-writer, sir.
(Crude makes sure that he has everything loaded into the back of his 1987 Ford Truck. He looks back at his mother's house, and his old fat-ass momma is standing on the porch. A tear comes to her eye as he walks over.)
Crude: Ol‘ big woman, I know I got to head on up there to damn Illinois. I got to make this damn money as a big wrasslin’ star.
Momma Crude - I know, baby boy. If you get in trouble up there, you come on home to this ol‘ fat woman, and I make you some of that squirrel chili and a big glass of Jack Daniels.
Crude: Damn, you gotta’ be careful with that fire water. They goin’ to get ya’ if you get that seventh or eighth DWI. Them damn police be hasslin’ us salt of the earth kinda’ people.
(He hugs his momma and walks over to the truck. He gets in, only after pulling on the door about four or five good times, and drives slowly down the gravel driveway, watching his momma and his double-wide trailer disappear into the rearview. That ol’ damn Ford squeals as it pulls onto the highway and heads toward I-40. He drives for three hours or so before stopping to take a good piss and grab some fine pork rinds and a Sams Choice cola. Climbing back into the cab of the truck, his cell phone rings to the tune of “Freebird“. Crude answers the phone and puts it on speaker so he can enjoy his fine meal of rinds and a cheap ass coca-cola knock-off.)
Crude: Yello? Who this be?
Betty Sue: Chris, it's me, you‘re sweet little big woman.
Crude: Hey there darlin’, how you be doin’. How ya’ daddy…heard he got drunk yesterday evenin’ and tried wrasslin’ a alligator down there around Huntsville.
Betty Sue: I’m good, honey. Ol’ daddy gone be fine, too. He beat that gator’s ass, Chris. You shoulda’ seen him, boy, he rode that bastard like Pecos Bill. Anyway, your momma just called me and lawd Jesus she was cryin’. She said you heading to Illinois to do some of that silly wrasslin‘. Were you not going to tell me?
Crude: Shit, darlin’, I just found out they wanted them a piece of ol’ Chris Crude. I was gonna’ get around to tellin’ ya sometime. You be watchin’ me like a damn eagle-hawk, ol’ biddy.
Betty Sue: Aw, baby, I wanna’ be up there wit’ ya’
Crude: Damn, woman, how I’m gonna’ get ya’ up yonder? You can’t drive and ya’ big ass can’t get on no airplane. Shit, I’d have to buy damn two seats for ya’ on the damn airplane. I’ll have to win the damn lottery, hell.
Betty Sue: Damnit Chris, you just a jackass to me. You gonna’ miss this good lovin’.
Crude: Big woman, I’m a pro wrassler now. I’ma get all kinda’ wild ass, porn-type, freaky bitches now. You old news.
Betty Sue: ASSHOLE.
(They other end of the line goes quite as Crude laughs out loud. He tosses the phone into the passenger seat and bears down the interstate. With the radio belting classic country, Crude begins to ponder his future in the business: championships, money, bitches. Time flies by as he thinks things over. By the time he snaps out of it, he’s rolling into Conway, Arkansas. He slows down to ask some jackass riding a bicycle for directions to his hotel. A short trip later, he checks in and heads toward his room.
A man of simple means, he leaves pretty much everything in the back of his truck…with the exception of a backpack in the floorboard of the truck‘s cab. Tossing the bag on the bed, he sits down beside it and ponders what a professional wrassler would do next.. He decides that an introduction video is just what he needs. Hell, he’s heard all about that damn internet thing.
Crude rummages through his bag until he finds an old ass camcorder. Fishing through the bag some more, he finds and pops open a new tape and puts it in the ancient piece of technology.)
Crude: I brought this to make me one of ‘dem celebrity sex tapes, but this’ll work.
(He turns the camcorder on and sets it up on the TV in the hotel room. He positions it where he can stand round about center of the room. Nervous as a cat in a Chinese restaurant, he paces for a few minutes, psyching himself up, before he turns to the camera.)
Crude: How ya'll are? This is Chris Crude, the ROUGHNECK! Ya’ll people up there with New York City Championship Wrasslin’ gonna see a lot of me here real soon. I’m an honest man ya’ll, so I’ma be straight with ya’ll. I ain‘t never done this before, but I‘m treat it just like the first time I got into some ol‘ heifer’s panties…I‘m just gonna‘ jump right in and hold on tight.
Ya’ll gotta’ understand, I’m just a wrestler looking for a contract and a home. I’m a real roughneck now, the hardest working son of a fat bitch ya’ll could ever hope to find. I hear a lot of people talk about changin’ things or takin’ over or some shit when they join a company. I ain’t here to save a damn thing. The damn straight truth is, this company gotta’ save me. If I can’t make it here, I‘ma have to go back to Odessa and I ain‘t really lookin‘ forward to that. It‘s hot as hell and boring as shit in Odessa, Texas…plus I done pissed off my woman coming up here. Ya‘ll gotta‘ now, that bitch was a big woman, too. She could kick my ass, tell ya the truth.
I know ya’ll are looking for the best, and I am just that. I’m the best at a bunch of stuff. I guarantee I’m the best damn oil field worker in NYCCW. I bet I’m the best guy from Odessa, Texas on the NYCCW roster. Hell, see, I’m the best. Outside the ring, I’m just an ol’ normal bastard, every day guy. When I get in that ring, I‘m like a fly on shit…I just jump on ya‘ and whoop some ass.
Why ya‘ll wanna see me up there? Why the hell not? Why ya’ll not want to see me, boy I’ll have women lined up to watch NYCCW wrasslin’. Them bitches love me, I tell ya.
Ya’ know what else I’d like to tell ya? Hell, I’d like to tell ya’ who I was gonna’ be fightin’ up there at this NYCCW show. I called up there and talked to them people, but they just told me to show up. So that’s what I’ma do…I’ma show up. I got my trunks in the truck and my boots and my baby oil to rub all over me so I look shiny and strong and cool and I’ma proceed to beat asses like molasses…naw, hell…that don’t really work. I’ma smash your shit with a rubber dic…naw, that don’t work either. I’ma…I’ma…hell, I guess I’ma call my momma.
(Flustered, he steps forward and turns the camera off, rewinds it, and then pulls it out of the camcorder. He grabs a pen from a drawer in the hotel room and marks the tape and puts it in the case. Whipping out his cell phone, he bunches in a few numbers and waits for an answer.)
Crude: Henry Henderson, brotha’ what is up? I got good news.
(An odd look crosses his face and he begins to sniff the air around him. Seconds later he lifts his arm and sniffs an arm pit.)
Crude: Damn, hell, I gotta’ wash my ass tonight. Anyway, bro we gonna’ be doin’ some wrasslin’. Can you believe it? I’ma be there to pick you up in the morning. I’m already in Conway.
(You can hear an excited yelp on the other end of the phone.)
Crude: Sounds like you’re screwin’ a donkey over there or something. Anyway, you bangin’ some girl that went to that ITT Tech, right? You think she can put a video on the internet for me?
(Crude waits for an answer.)
Crude: Hell, it ain’t that kinda’ video. Anyway, I’ll see ya in the morning.
(Tossing the phone on the bed, Crude heads for the shower, trying to wash the stink from his ass. Soon, he sprawls out over the cold sheets and turns the lights out. Scenes of wrasslin‘ fame dancing in his head.)