Enter Frank. Well, please don't. Not literally.
On Mon, Jan22, 2018 3:10pm America/Phoenix
Enter Frank. Well, please don't. Not literally.
The warehouse seemed to be locked in a battle between being disgusting and being menacing. It was dark, ready to give tetanus as soon as possible, and somehow damp. Basically it was exactly the kind of place Frank found himself all too often as of late. So when the last vestiges of glass from a wide window shattered out, and the aforementioned Frank went sailing through it in a most involuntary fashion, nobody who knew the bastard would have been remotely surprised. He crashed unceremoniously through a stack of crates, and rolled along the floor. Not, of course, that there was a ceremonious way to crash through crates. For a moment he just lay there, groaning, then coughing, then laughing in that way you can only laugh when hit with an overwhelming amount of pain. It took him a minute to roll over, slowly pulling himself to his feet… still laughing. Frank Warren looked by all accounts like a samoan who fell slightly on the less stocky side, though well built. His hair was pulled back into loose braids, though it looked like a process he didn’t get done with any regularity. His caramel skin was lightly pockmarked, and peppered with signs of a life poorly lived. Scars, at the very least. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his clothes were mismatched beneath his old army jacket. “Man you never do anything the easy way, do you, Frank?” a voice echoed from the darkness, accompanied by boots crunching on broken glass. Frank coughed, “Yeah, well, I unlock more achievements this way.” The not-Frank voice belonged to a short, hairy man. If you were doubting his hairiness because of the shining bald pate glistening in the warehouse’s dim lighting, no worries, he’s done the world the favor of a shirt buttoned way too low. The mottled grey mass of chest hair had a couple of gold chains parting it. Maybe. That hair was thick, so it was hard to tell. His clothes were red, and nice enough, for the kind of piece of crap he was. “Mmhm. How’s that working out for you, Frankie?” He said, smiling a mouth full of unnaturally white teeth, as a woman stepped into view behind him. She was a tower of improbable muscle. Her vest was snug, her rolled up pinstripe shirt crisp, and her look like a jacked up, fashionable bookie. She popped her knuckles, each crack singing it’s own dedication to malice. Simultaneously, a man stepped up behind Frank, pinning his arm behind him. This guy was asian, had cornrows, solid gold grill, a heavy fur coat, and wore sunglasses even though it was night time. Maybe because his future was bright? “Night’s young, Martin,” Frank said, wincing at the closeness of the man behind him. “You wanna tell Chinese Macklemore behind me to get his little woody off my back?” “It’s my gun, dumbass.” Said the man behind him. Frank shook his head, “That line may work for your Tinderellas, but I’m not convinced. Also you got that hammer lock, like, way wrong.” “That gun,” the hairy man - Martin - said, “Is the least of your worries. Well, okay, I guess not the least, considering it’s a gun, but you get the picture.” “Starting to lose it, actually.” “You’re gonna start losing your fingers if you don’t start convincing me, real fast like, how you’re gonna get me the money you owe me, Frankie,” Martin, looked at something under his fingernails. Probably theatric spirit. “Yeah, about that, I think I’m gonna need an extension of -” A meaty smack resonated throughout the warehouse, the burly woman having closed the distance to Frank and connecting with a backfist destined to win the backfist awards… I mean, if there were such a thing. She shook her hand, undoubtedly freeing it of the ringing pain of the strike, and stepped backward. “The Medusa doesn’t like talk of extensions, you see,” Said Martin, shaking his head sadly, “She’s meticulous that way.” Frank spit blood out, “Jesus Christ, what do you feed her?” “Mostly idiots who owe me money.” Frank chuckled, “Fair enough. Listen, Martin, I got some bad news for you, pally. And not like the kind you normally get from the clinic.” Another meaty smack, and again the Medusa was shaking the ringing out of her fist. “Oh, she’s not a fond of smartass douchebag talk, either.” Frank spit more blood, and opened and closed his eyes with pain, “So. Strong. Okay…” Frank tried to get his bearings back, “So like I was saying. Bad news for you, Martin.” “More than the genuine discomfort your presence inflicts upon any human around you?” Frank chuckled, “You know, Martin, I’m really starting to enjoy these little chats. The witty reporte. The macho antipathy. But I’m afraid you, the Eastie Boy behind me, and your Ovarian giant are-” Another massive backhand. Even martin winced. It was taking longer for Frank to focus through the pain. He let loose a string of expletives, coughing, and finally laughing again. “Jesus, Frankie, it’s like you never learn,” Martin said, actual empathy in his eyes, “I gotta ask, are you genuinely slow? LIke… I mean, legally.” “Okay… Okay…” Frank tried to breathe, “Alright. So. The bad news is… this is our last little tea party.” The Medusa lifted a hand, but Martin put a hand on her arm. He shook his head at her, and looked at the barely conscious Frank, “What, exactly, do you mean by that, you trash weasel?” “I mean,” Frank said, grinning bloody teeth, “Take a look over my shoulder. Behind those barrels there.” The uncanny trio did just that, all making the same comical uncertain faces, which then synchronistically turned into furrowed eyes, and again into a perfect triplicate of shock. “Is that a f*cking camera?” Martin said, genuinely surprised, “Wait… is that a f*cking camera MAN!?” Frank laughed his rough laugh, “Yeah, looks like I’m going into the family business. That means I’m going to have cameras on me 24/7. I’m going to be in the public spotlight.” The three looked incredulously at him, Martin almost sputtering, “Oh Jesus, Frank, this is low - even for a dirtbag like you. You’re bringing cameras into our world? There’s a code to this, you know?” “What code?” Frank spat, “There’s no code. Just survival, Marty. We’re scum. I mean… look at your outfits. You look like eastern european vampire extras from Blade 2.” “But… but… you hate wrestling! Everyone knows that!” Martin stammered. “Yeah, holmes, it’s, like, weirdly the first thing everyone says about you, dude,” the man behind him said. Frank frowned, “Aw man, really? The first thing? Not like, my snappy one liners or anything?” Medusa shrugged, “Yeah, no, it’s always the hating wrestling thing,” “Eh well,” Frank said, “Guess it beats that thing with the |BLEEP| shop.” “Oh, that’s the second thing,” the man behind him offered helpfully. “Goddamit,” Frank spat, “Anyway, it’s been fun, but I gotta put on a good show. Sorry about that. And your money.” Jesus Built my Hotrod by Ministry started to play. Loudly. Now, it probably wasn’t playing for Frank and the other dirtbags, but rather, was added in post by the WWX when they aired this video. The industrial punk of it meshed well with the melee, that was for sure. Frank moved with a blur of speed. His hand flew backward, grabbing a fistfull of dreadlocks, then he dropped to his knee sending the man behind him flying ass over teakettle toward Martin and the Medusa. Turns out that guy really did have that hammer lock like, way wrong. Frank’s aggressors all hit the floor, a tangle of limbs, profanity, and one oversized fur coat. Frank stumbled to his feet just as a Medusa shaped blur flew at him, her skull cracking fist narrowly missing it’s mark as our hero (ha!) moved just an inch to the side to avoid it. His knee met her gut with a thud, and she doubled over. Frank moved with the grace of a trained wrestler - which, despite his hatred of the sport, he was - and slid behind her, arms wrapped around her waist. His bridge was flawless, his german suplex impeccable, and the Medusa crashed into the warehouse floor and folded up like an accordian. “Chinese Macklemore” scrambled up, looking for his gun, but found only the delicious taste of a shuffling sidekick to his face. He stumbled backwards, in a daze, and fell through what remained of the window Frank had initially crashed through. The music stopped. That left only Martin. Little, hairy Martin. He looked up, an attempt at a smile crossing his sleeze-ball features, “Frank! Frankie! My boy! I’m certain this is all a misunderstanding, you see!” “But of course,” Frank said through his bloody grin, and picked up Martin by the scruff of his odious jacket. He comically dusted off Martin’s suit, as if in apology, “So here’s the beef, you second rate Danny Devito. I’m going to walk out that door. You or anyone working for you may want to avoid me for as long as humanly possible, lest you end up getting inconveniently famous. And one day, probably soon - depending on my signing bonus, you’ll find your money, wrapped and posted, in your mailbox. Yeah?” Martin struggled to smile, “Yeah.” Frank patted him on the top of his shiny pate, “See? Sometimes I do things the easy way.” With that, Frank turned to leave, pausing only to scoop up the gold-plated Desert Eagle laying on the ground from the now unconscious adversary with the poor hammer lock. Tucking it in the back of his pants, he made his way toward the door, stepping over the unconscious Medusa as he went. “I mean, not really the easy way,” Martin ventured, calling after him, “You could’ve just told us that before Medusa busted your face up, you know.” Frank paused, considering, “Yeah, I guess. But it wouldn’t be very good TV, now would it?” Martin chuckled, “For someone who hates the wrestling business, you seem oddly good at it.” Frank chuckled, straightened his army jacket, and made his way out. “Life sucks that way, Marty. Catch you on the flip.”