Post by Deleted on Nov 25, 2013 9:03:40 GMT -5
The scene opens in a ramshackle shack. There’s a large oaken table, some rickety chairs, and a large pile of blankets and pillows that probably serves as someone’s bed. Prominently centered is a large, tin wash basin filled with water, and a mesh sack filled with… something.
Caleb Fourchon wanders into the shot. He’s a huge man, with broad shoulders, long rangy arms, and bronzed skin criss-crossed with scars. His hair is dark and of medium length; greasy and in a slight widow’s peak. His bulging forehead seems to jut out over his beady, close set eyes and Roman nose. He speaks.
“Dis Sunday Ah got mah first WCF match. It a battle royale. Dat when you stick a bunch of wrasslers in de ring and dey got to throw all de udders out over de top rope to win. Boss Lerch use dis match all de time to see who kin rate in de company in de WCF, and it always remind me of sumpthin.”
Fourchon hefts the large sack and holds it to the camera.
“Dese mudbugs gots to be separated before you boil dem. Got to find out which ones good and which ones bad. You do dat like so.”
He dumps the bag into the basin. The room fills with sounds of the crawfish striking the bottom of the metal tub.
“De dead mudbugs, dey drift to the top. Makes it simple to git rid of dem so all you got left is good eatin. See de correlashun? Dis Sunday, eight wrasslers gonna fight to prove dey wurth a damn. Seven of dem ain’t gonna measure up. Dey de floaters. Dey de rope smokers, de purty boys, de PEESHAWNKS (1), de nerdsmashers, de space wurwolves, and de toxic Mexicans. Dey de ones gonna be tossed by yers truly: Caleb Fourchon.”
The Cajun Crippler smiles broadly. His teeth are ivory white, though horrifically sharp and jagged. Someone from off camera speaks up.
“Uh, Mister Fourchon? It looks like all the crawfish are floating up in the water.”
While this is true, Caleb does not seem fazed.
“Dat because dey all already dead. Ain’t crawfish season right now, COUYON (2). Dis all supposed to be symbolic.”
The voice continues.
“All right, but what about the fact that this promo is late, and the match already happened, and that you’re just trying to save face by putting up something?”
Fourchon’s grin vanishes. His little button eyes dart back and forth, “Um, look, everything move slower down de bayou, onna account of de heat.”
“It’s 46 degrees right now.”
“Dat even worse! Folks with thin blood git all logy when de temperature drops! In fact, dat de reason Ah gonna lose, or did lose, or whatever, de Battle Royal Sunday. Colorado chilly place.”
“You’re a regular hothouse flower, huh, Caleb? You and Peyton Manning.”
Caleb’s brow furrows, “Dis promo dun. Git de hell outta mah shack.”
And he’s right. The promo’s over.
Footnotes:
(1) Peeshwank: Cajun for small person, a runt.
(2) Couyon: Cajun for fool.
Caleb Fourchon wanders into the shot. He’s a huge man, with broad shoulders, long rangy arms, and bronzed skin criss-crossed with scars. His hair is dark and of medium length; greasy and in a slight widow’s peak. His bulging forehead seems to jut out over his beady, close set eyes and Roman nose. He speaks.
“Dis Sunday Ah got mah first WCF match. It a battle royale. Dat when you stick a bunch of wrasslers in de ring and dey got to throw all de udders out over de top rope to win. Boss Lerch use dis match all de time to see who kin rate in de company in de WCF, and it always remind me of sumpthin.”
Fourchon hefts the large sack and holds it to the camera.
“Dese mudbugs gots to be separated before you boil dem. Got to find out which ones good and which ones bad. You do dat like so.”
He dumps the bag into the basin. The room fills with sounds of the crawfish striking the bottom of the metal tub.
“De dead mudbugs, dey drift to the top. Makes it simple to git rid of dem so all you got left is good eatin. See de correlashun? Dis Sunday, eight wrasslers gonna fight to prove dey wurth a damn. Seven of dem ain’t gonna measure up. Dey de floaters. Dey de rope smokers, de purty boys, de PEESHAWNKS (1), de nerdsmashers, de space wurwolves, and de toxic Mexicans. Dey de ones gonna be tossed by yers truly: Caleb Fourchon.”
The Cajun Crippler smiles broadly. His teeth are ivory white, though horrifically sharp and jagged. Someone from off camera speaks up.
“Uh, Mister Fourchon? It looks like all the crawfish are floating up in the water.”
While this is true, Caleb does not seem fazed.
“Dat because dey all already dead. Ain’t crawfish season right now, COUYON (2). Dis all supposed to be symbolic.”
The voice continues.
“All right, but what about the fact that this promo is late, and the match already happened, and that you’re just trying to save face by putting up something?”
Fourchon’s grin vanishes. His little button eyes dart back and forth, “Um, look, everything move slower down de bayou, onna account of de heat.”
“It’s 46 degrees right now.”
“Dat even worse! Folks with thin blood git all logy when de temperature drops! In fact, dat de reason Ah gonna lose, or did lose, or whatever, de Battle Royal Sunday. Colorado chilly place.”
“You’re a regular hothouse flower, huh, Caleb? You and Peyton Manning.”
Caleb’s brow furrows, “Dis promo dun. Git de hell outta mah shack.”
And he’s right. The promo’s over.
Footnotes:
(1) Peeshwank: Cajun for small person, a runt.
(2) Couyon: Cajun for fool.
