Post by Deleted on Feb 14, 2018 7:16:04 GMT -5
Welcome back ya’all; now, things norm’ly gets started or finished, but they almost always heat up really fast, ‘ere at Bull’s Knott.
“Ya didn't keep yer word, Bacon!” Matthew Gamble echoed over the lake, “Now, Skeeter's bunked-up in’a clink!”
Evan Roberts kept his distance and didn't put up much of an argument while Bryan Parker and Baby Bull kept Gamble from throttling him. Sometimes, the job simply doesn't work out as planned. As was the case the night of Roberts' ride along with the County Sheriff.
“Ya ‘bout the lowest of the low, ya no good,” Gamble broke lose of his friends and snatched Roberts by the throat, slamming him against the wood paneling.
Bull's front doors swung open hard…
This ‘ere is Riot, he's a second-generation Matthews, but what’cha’all need to kno’ is he’s Momma Heidi’s faithfully an’ father o’em there twins. He's called Harmony home ev’r since ‘is father dammed up’a lake. Riot's the law.
Leathers, head to toe; a Harley•Davidson riding, Jack Daniels guzzling former SWAT officer. Riot even brought a few saintly and crooked “lawman” roles to the ring for both his father and brother when the situation demanded it.
“Drop that man, Oty.”
“He -rested Skeeter an’ I’ma jus’ s’posed to be care free ‘bout it?”
Ol’ Coyote put’a squeeze on ‘im wit’ both hands, tighter than’a lake moccasin would wrap ‘round’a frog.
“Drop him.”
“He gonna make it right?” Gamble refused to release his grip.
“He goes any deeper shade of purple,” Riot put his hand on Gamble’s shoulder, “he won't have a chance to.”
“MATTHEW!” An stern female voice growled from the kitchen.
R’member me sayin’ that Riot's the law? Go on an’ scratch that. See, ‘less ya cookin’ fer yerself, there's only one way o’eatin’ ‘round the banks an’ Momma Heidi makes certain o’it. Ol’ Riot ans’rs to Momma Heidi.
Roberts was immediately gasping as Gamble dropped him that instant. By the time the very large, young man in Mossy Oak had turned around, Momma Heidi was back in the kitchen. Riot helped Roberts collect himself and straightened the collar of his red flannel shirt. He guided the off-duty Park Ranger around Gamble, Parker and Baby Bull as they exited out the back.
As was usual every evening, a bonfire warmed children and adults playing games and socializing together. The entire population of the lake, at some point each evening, stops by Bull's.
Only the most frigid cold or sock-soppin’ rain ev’r keepin’ ‘em-all from gettin’ t’gether. Momma Heidi’s there ev’ry day tho’, makin’ three meals’a day fer ev’ry one o’em, no matt-uh the weather.
Baby Bull returned to the smoker burning oak to finish a few seasoned, juicy chicken breasts. Gamble and Parker hopped in Parker’s lifted Jeep.
“How’d it happen, Bear?” Gamble wanted the details as he pushed the passenger seat all the way back, making room for his legs.
“Way Bacon tells it,” Parker explained, retrieving a small gift box from under his console, “his partner had it out fer any one o’us,” opening the box, he removed a snack sack of red-haired, Tennessee-grown Hogsbreath, a ⅝” socket and a grinder, “said soon as he had ‘im, he wudn’t gettin’ ‘way.”
“Why?”
“We're b’hind, Oty,” Parker said, packing the socket, “wit’ Cheatham an’ wit’ Bacon.”
“Fuck!” Gamble stomped down into the floorboard.
“Wit’out ya ‘ere,” Parker said, passing the green hit to Gamble, “I ain't gettin’ as much out.”
“I ain't doin’ it,” Gamble was adamant as he exhaled.
“I ain't askin’ ya,” Parker took his hit and continued, “I jus’ wantcha to un’erstan’ ya only leave me one,” passing the socket back, “well, two other choices.”
Gamble took a slow, deep hit and passed the socket back with the smoke held with his breath. Nearly a minute passed by before he exhaled through his nostrils and stared through his partner with the most intent glare.
“We d’pend on it, Oty,” Parker answered, though never questioned, “Momma’s storage an' freezers, ev’rythang’s runnin’ low.”
Ol’ Coyote is’a mess o’e-motions, real unsteady. On one han’, he gotsta worry ‘bout 'is home an’ on’a oth’r, he really gotsta keep ‘is focus.
“I’ma gonna make this right,” Gamble said after a few minutes silently passing the socket. “I gots’a big chance nex’ Monday in…”
A tap on Parker’s window interrupted Gamble. Both turned to find Remi Matthews with a jar of Knott Moonshine in each hand. As Parker rolled down the window, smoke rolled out of the Jeep.
“‘ere yous are,” she smiled, passing the jars through the window before leaning in to plant a big kiss on Parker’s face. “Momma says she's closin’ in’a hour. Dad's ‘ere ta help ‘er clean up.”
“So,” Parker laughs, “they gonna lock up, turn’a music up an’ dance all night.”
“Shuddup you,” Remi poked Parker in his chest, “it's cute. I’ma go finish up the tables.”
“Ya don't serve on Wins’days,” Gamble sat forward in the passenger's seat.
“I’ma coverin’ Rebs t’night,” she explained, without thinking, “Bacon's takin’ ‘er ta Nashville t’night ta tell’er the big news,” she continued, oblivious, “they jus’ left.”
Parker slowly dropped his head and leaned against the steering wheel.
It was only a matter of time before the question cross Gamble’s mind, “What's the,” he air quoted, “‘big news’?”
It was right ‘bout then, that there eldest twin, realized jus'what she jus' stepped in.
“Cheatham county called ‘im,” Parker started.
“That ass-hat’s gonna gets a job,” Gamble was red, “fer what he did to Skeeter!”
He slung the passenger door open and slammed it shut. All two-hundred and sixty-five pounds on his six-and-a-half foot frame whistled loud into the speckled night sky; and then, he headed down the hill to the bank.
‘ere she comes, that’s ‘is heart an’ soul, goo ol' Mary Jane, comin'a bellowin’ down’a hill right at ‘im. She'll fine- ‘im too. B’fore he met her, he figured on callin’ ‘er GPS; an’ now, that’d jus’ been braggin’.
Gamble’s faithful bloodhound ran, howling down to the bank and to his side. He sat down on the cold, hard dirt with his legs crossed. She leaned in, panting hard and accepted a few laps he offered her from the jar. She laid down, wrapping around his hips, with her head on his right knee.
“I’ma not gonna let this hurt Momma, MJ,” Gamble talked to his dog as he searched his right pocket for a tightly rolled joint.
Gamble sat there with his dog, watching the fire dance on the surface of the lake and listening to the crowd as it mellowed to silence. He sat there, chiefing on the life blood of his home and, of course, he shared big puffy clouds with Mary Jane. When the crowd was gone and, with the exception of the crackling wooden pallets, the lake was quiet, old-school ballads echoed down to the banks.
“Girl, yer lookin’ fine t’night,” Gamble sang along, “an’ ev’ry guy has gotcha in ‘is sights.”
He continued singing every word of “Angel Eyes” through the end, slowly rocking left, then right and back. It's the first song that Riot and Momma Heidi dance to every time they close Bull's Knott early. It's the song that he stammered and stuttered through the first time, but he used to sing it to Rebi Matthews, sitting right here, every night like this one.
Midway into the next song, just as he realized he had smoked the last of his marijuana, he was tapped between his shoulders.
“Here,” the earlier stern female voice, still cigarette and whiskey rough, but softer, “hit this big fucker here.”
Momma Heidi done purdy much raised all these heathens an’, most o’their bad habits be on ah-count o’all 'ers. She ain't shy to tippin’ back’a jar an’ she gots rollin’ tight fatties to a science.
Gamble took the large handrolled blunt; it was overstuffed, but perfect. Compared to the finest and fattest premium cigar you could imagine, her roll was air-tight green through and through.
“She gotcha wrapped up tight, huh?” Momma Heidi said, sitting down beside Gamble and Mary Jane.
“Nah,” he shook his head, “she gots Bacon now.”
“No,” she attempted, “I was talking about…”
“Nah,” he shook his head again, “I mean, Celeste is’a certain kind’a Sweetness, I jus’ dunno why she let ‘im talk to ‘er that way, but…”
“But, I was talking about your dog,” she dropped the conversatuon into an awkward silence as they continued passing the smoke between one another.
“Why ain'tcha up there dancin’ wit’ Riot?
“He's washing the dishes,” she answered. “Why aren't you telling everyone your big news?”
“Ain't no one cares.”
“I'm sure that's not the case,” she nudged. “Tell me what has you so excited, Boy.”
“I gots a couple big matches comin’ up,” he smiled, “if’n I can win ‘em, I'll be able to help ‘round ‘ere wit’out havin’ to run scout any more.”
“Of course you can win them,” she assured him, “and you shouldn't worry too much about helping around here.”
“They’s both some big matches,” he explained, “an’ both might lead to ev’n bigger matches. See,” she listened to him as they passed the blunt and he got to be excited, “I dunno who I’ma gonna be facin’ yet, but I already kno’ I gots’a Cavalcade Qualifier at’a next Spirit an’ Pride show.”
“What's Cavalcade?”
“Gots no clue,” he shrugged, “but I’ma bettin’, if’n I win it, it'll pay a nice stack.”
“It should also solidify that all of your hard work is paying off,” she led, then asked, “you said a couple of matches.”
“Gots ‘nother shot at’a shot at gettin’a ADub title to,” he told her, “the United States Championship.”
“Well, that's quite exciting,” she encouraged him to continue, “but what is ADub?”
“Action Wrasslin’,” he laughed, “but, really, could’ja imagine me representin’ these whole United States?”
“Sure, I can.”
“I hafta beat a purdy shifty fella’ in order to gets my spot in’a big six-pack match at’a pay-per-view in March,” he explained.
“So,” she figured, “this is another qualifying match, only in Action Wrestling?”
“Ya gots it,” he blew a cloud of smoke down for Mary Jane to sniff from the air, as he passed it back. “Gonna be a learnin’ ‘xperience if’n I win or lose.”
“How so?”
“Large fella, like ol’ Stone Hendrix,” he answered, “only, they call ‘im ‘BIG’ John Frost fer’a reason.”
“So,” she passed the blunt back, “he's a big fucker like you?”
“Bigger than me, Momma” he took the smoke into his lungs, “wit’ lots more ‘xperience an’ I'ma try to learn how he carries ‘imself an’ sets things up. If’n I pay good ‘nuff ‘tention,” he passes back to her, “I’ma really hopin’ to learn howta pace wit’out gettin’ gassed.”
“You big fuckers have always had it rough,” she nodded, smoke escaping through her nostrils.
“Yeah,” he chuckled under his breath, “these smaller guys are fast an’ they seem to run on’a darned ol’ Energizers.”
“So,” she took the smoke back, “what makes him so ‘shifty’?”
“Do ya r’member Marcus Cain…”
“Hell yes, he was fucking brutal,” she nodded, “didn't he escape from Alcatraz?”
“If’n all them stories be true,” he nodded, “a couple o’times.”
They sat quietly, Gamble passed to Momma Heidi and she passed back to him.
“Big John lot like ol’ Marcus Cane,” he continued, passing back to her, “he likes’ta hurt people.”
“So,” she slugged him, “learn to protect yourself.”
“Jus’ like ‘em ADub suits hadda do,” he went on, “went an’ r’trieved this mean ol’ boy wit’a chopper an’ guards armed to’da teeth.”
“No shit?”
“Sure ‘nuff did,” he confirmed. “Gots ‘im straight off thiscondemned island-slammer in Russia.”
“He had to fight every day just to survive then,” she heard the concern in her voice and trailed off.
“Yep,” he nodded, lost in the still darkness of the lake before him, “purdy much.”
“If you need schooling in that old-yard style brawling,” she nudged him, “I bet Riot could teach you a thing or two beforehand.”
“P’rolly gonna hafta go on an’ ask ‘im.”
“Win or lose,” she patted his left shoulder, “everyone can see the hard work you are putting in to earn these opportunities.”
“Can't be thinkin’ o’myself wit’ yer freezer an’ pantry goin’ empty,” he hung his head low.
“Silly, Boy,” she shook her head, “don't allow your partner to bait you. Riot raises the cows, pigs and chickens that fill my freezers and Pappy grows the vegetables and spices in the pantry.”
“Both o’us knows it takes more than that to…”
“Salt, pepper, sugar and soda don't cost an arm and a leg, Boy.”
“So, why…”
“He wants you on these banks with him,” she explained. “He is choosing not to be in your corner and you really shouldn't run scout any more. It's a problem for him, not you.”
“But…”
“But, what, Boy?” she asked, but didn't allow him to answer, “Do you think that when the girls are ready next summer that they are going to stick around here?” Again, she keeps him from getting a word in, “No, they are both thinking Rose City most likely. Wrestling has been in Harmony’s waters long before the crop ever was.”
“Then what?”
“That will be for him to decide at that time,” she answered. “Right now, the decision is yours. Go win, Boy.”
While she left behind a good amount of wisdom, he remains a “good ol’ boy from Tennessee” and, with the route currently unsecured, he still has plenty enough of reason that he must win.
In’a end, ain't no one else gotta live wit’cher d’cisions ‘xcept-choo. Ol’ op-or-tunity don't come ‘round too oft’n an’ when it does, livin’ wit’ ev’n tryin’a take off’an’ run wit’ it is bett-uh than regrettin’ not ev’r tryin’ at all. Until next time, ya’all heathens b’have an’ be good to one-uh ‘nother.
“Ya didn't keep yer word, Bacon!” Matthew Gamble echoed over the lake, “Now, Skeeter's bunked-up in’a clink!”
Evan Roberts kept his distance and didn't put up much of an argument while Bryan Parker and Baby Bull kept Gamble from throttling him. Sometimes, the job simply doesn't work out as planned. As was the case the night of Roberts' ride along with the County Sheriff.
“Ya ‘bout the lowest of the low, ya no good,” Gamble broke lose of his friends and snatched Roberts by the throat, slamming him against the wood paneling.
Bull's front doors swung open hard…
This ‘ere is Riot, he's a second-generation Matthews, but what’cha’all need to kno’ is he’s Momma Heidi’s faithfully an’ father o’em there twins. He's called Harmony home ev’r since ‘is father dammed up’a lake. Riot's the law.
Leathers, head to toe; a Harley•Davidson riding, Jack Daniels guzzling former SWAT officer. Riot even brought a few saintly and crooked “lawman” roles to the ring for both his father and brother when the situation demanded it.
“Drop that man, Oty.”
“He -rested Skeeter an’ I’ma jus’ s’posed to be care free ‘bout it?”
Ol’ Coyote put’a squeeze on ‘im wit’ both hands, tighter than’a lake moccasin would wrap ‘round’a frog.
“Drop him.”
“He gonna make it right?” Gamble refused to release his grip.
“He goes any deeper shade of purple,” Riot put his hand on Gamble’s shoulder, “he won't have a chance to.”
“MATTHEW!” An stern female voice growled from the kitchen.
R’member me sayin’ that Riot's the law? Go on an’ scratch that. See, ‘less ya cookin’ fer yerself, there's only one way o’eatin’ ‘round the banks an’ Momma Heidi makes certain o’it. Ol’ Riot ans’rs to Momma Heidi.
Roberts was immediately gasping as Gamble dropped him that instant. By the time the very large, young man in Mossy Oak had turned around, Momma Heidi was back in the kitchen. Riot helped Roberts collect himself and straightened the collar of his red flannel shirt. He guided the off-duty Park Ranger around Gamble, Parker and Baby Bull as they exited out the back.
As was usual every evening, a bonfire warmed children and adults playing games and socializing together. The entire population of the lake, at some point each evening, stops by Bull's.
Only the most frigid cold or sock-soppin’ rain ev’r keepin’ ‘em-all from gettin’ t’gether. Momma Heidi’s there ev’ry day tho’, makin’ three meals’a day fer ev’ry one o’em, no matt-uh the weather.
Baby Bull returned to the smoker burning oak to finish a few seasoned, juicy chicken breasts. Gamble and Parker hopped in Parker’s lifted Jeep.
“How’d it happen, Bear?” Gamble wanted the details as he pushed the passenger seat all the way back, making room for his legs.
“Way Bacon tells it,” Parker explained, retrieving a small gift box from under his console, “his partner had it out fer any one o’us,” opening the box, he removed a snack sack of red-haired, Tennessee-grown Hogsbreath, a ⅝” socket and a grinder, “said soon as he had ‘im, he wudn’t gettin’ ‘way.”
“Why?”
“We're b’hind, Oty,” Parker said, packing the socket, “wit’ Cheatham an’ wit’ Bacon.”
“Fuck!” Gamble stomped down into the floorboard.
“Wit’out ya ‘ere,” Parker said, passing the green hit to Gamble, “I ain't gettin’ as much out.”
“I ain't doin’ it,” Gamble was adamant as he exhaled.
“I ain't askin’ ya,” Parker took his hit and continued, “I jus’ wantcha to un’erstan’ ya only leave me one,” passing the socket back, “well, two other choices.”
Gamble took a slow, deep hit and passed the socket back with the smoke held with his breath. Nearly a minute passed by before he exhaled through his nostrils and stared through his partner with the most intent glare.
“We d’pend on it, Oty,” Parker answered, though never questioned, “Momma’s storage an' freezers, ev’rythang’s runnin’ low.”
Ol’ Coyote is’a mess o’e-motions, real unsteady. On one han’, he gotsta worry ‘bout 'is home an’ on’a oth’r, he really gotsta keep ‘is focus.
“I’ma gonna make this right,” Gamble said after a few minutes silently passing the socket. “I gots’a big chance nex’ Monday in…”
A tap on Parker’s window interrupted Gamble. Both turned to find Remi Matthews with a jar of Knott Moonshine in each hand. As Parker rolled down the window, smoke rolled out of the Jeep.
“‘ere yous are,” she smiled, passing the jars through the window before leaning in to plant a big kiss on Parker’s face. “Momma says she's closin’ in’a hour. Dad's ‘ere ta help ‘er clean up.”
“So,” Parker laughs, “they gonna lock up, turn’a music up an’ dance all night.”
“Shuddup you,” Remi poked Parker in his chest, “it's cute. I’ma go finish up the tables.”
“Ya don't serve on Wins’days,” Gamble sat forward in the passenger's seat.
“I’ma coverin’ Rebs t’night,” she explained, without thinking, “Bacon's takin’ ‘er ta Nashville t’night ta tell’er the big news,” she continued, oblivious, “they jus’ left.”
Parker slowly dropped his head and leaned against the steering wheel.
It was only a matter of time before the question cross Gamble’s mind, “What's the,” he air quoted, “‘big news’?”
It was right ‘bout then, that there eldest twin, realized jus'what she jus' stepped in.
“Cheatham county called ‘im,” Parker started.
“That ass-hat’s gonna gets a job,” Gamble was red, “fer what he did to Skeeter!”
He slung the passenger door open and slammed it shut. All two-hundred and sixty-five pounds on his six-and-a-half foot frame whistled loud into the speckled night sky; and then, he headed down the hill to the bank.
‘ere she comes, that’s ‘is heart an’ soul, goo ol' Mary Jane, comin'a bellowin’ down’a hill right at ‘im. She'll fine- ‘im too. B’fore he met her, he figured on callin’ ‘er GPS; an’ now, that’d jus’ been braggin’.
Gamble’s faithful bloodhound ran, howling down to the bank and to his side. He sat down on the cold, hard dirt with his legs crossed. She leaned in, panting hard and accepted a few laps he offered her from the jar. She laid down, wrapping around his hips, with her head on his right knee.
“I’ma not gonna let this hurt Momma, MJ,” Gamble talked to his dog as he searched his right pocket for a tightly rolled joint.
Gamble sat there with his dog, watching the fire dance on the surface of the lake and listening to the crowd as it mellowed to silence. He sat there, chiefing on the life blood of his home and, of course, he shared big puffy clouds with Mary Jane. When the crowd was gone and, with the exception of the crackling wooden pallets, the lake was quiet, old-school ballads echoed down to the banks.
“Girl, yer lookin’ fine t’night,” Gamble sang along, “an’ ev’ry guy has gotcha in ‘is sights.”
He continued singing every word of “Angel Eyes” through the end, slowly rocking left, then right and back. It's the first song that Riot and Momma Heidi dance to every time they close Bull's Knott early. It's the song that he stammered and stuttered through the first time, but he used to sing it to Rebi Matthews, sitting right here, every night like this one.
Midway into the next song, just as he realized he had smoked the last of his marijuana, he was tapped between his shoulders.
“Here,” the earlier stern female voice, still cigarette and whiskey rough, but softer, “hit this big fucker here.”
Momma Heidi done purdy much raised all these heathens an’, most o’their bad habits be on ah-count o’all 'ers. She ain't shy to tippin’ back’a jar an’ she gots rollin’ tight fatties to a science.
Gamble took the large handrolled blunt; it was overstuffed, but perfect. Compared to the finest and fattest premium cigar you could imagine, her roll was air-tight green through and through.
“She gotcha wrapped up tight, huh?” Momma Heidi said, sitting down beside Gamble and Mary Jane.
“Nah,” he shook his head, “she gots Bacon now.”
“No,” she attempted, “I was talking about…”
“Nah,” he shook his head again, “I mean, Celeste is’a certain kind’a Sweetness, I jus’ dunno why she let ‘im talk to ‘er that way, but…”
“But, I was talking about your dog,” she dropped the conversatuon into an awkward silence as they continued passing the smoke between one another.
“Why ain'tcha up there dancin’ wit’ Riot?
“He's washing the dishes,” she answered. “Why aren't you telling everyone your big news?”
“Ain't no one cares.”
“I'm sure that's not the case,” she nudged. “Tell me what has you so excited, Boy.”
“I gots a couple big matches comin’ up,” he smiled, “if’n I can win ‘em, I'll be able to help ‘round ‘ere wit’out havin’ to run scout any more.”
“Of course you can win them,” she assured him, “and you shouldn't worry too much about helping around here.”
“They’s both some big matches,” he explained, “an’ both might lead to ev’n bigger matches. See,” she listened to him as they passed the blunt and he got to be excited, “I dunno who I’ma gonna be facin’ yet, but I already kno’ I gots’a Cavalcade Qualifier at’a next Spirit an’ Pride show.”
“What's Cavalcade?”
“Gots no clue,” he shrugged, “but I’ma bettin’, if’n I win it, it'll pay a nice stack.”
“It should also solidify that all of your hard work is paying off,” she led, then asked, “you said a couple of matches.”
“Gots ‘nother shot at’a shot at gettin’a ADub title to,” he told her, “the United States Championship.”
“Well, that's quite exciting,” she encouraged him to continue, “but what is ADub?”
“Action Wrasslin’,” he laughed, “but, really, could’ja imagine me representin’ these whole United States?”
“Sure, I can.”
“I hafta beat a purdy shifty fella’ in order to gets my spot in’a big six-pack match at’a pay-per-view in March,” he explained.
“So,” she figured, “this is another qualifying match, only in Action Wrestling?”
“Ya gots it,” he blew a cloud of smoke down for Mary Jane to sniff from the air, as he passed it back. “Gonna be a learnin’ ‘xperience if’n I win or lose.”
“How so?”
“Large fella, like ol’ Stone Hendrix,” he answered, “only, they call ‘im ‘BIG’ John Frost fer’a reason.”
“So,” she passed the blunt back, “he's a big fucker like you?”
“Bigger than me, Momma” he took the smoke into his lungs, “wit’ lots more ‘xperience an’ I'ma try to learn how he carries ‘imself an’ sets things up. If’n I pay good ‘nuff ‘tention,” he passes back to her, “I’ma really hopin’ to learn howta pace wit’out gettin’ gassed.”
“You big fuckers have always had it rough,” she nodded, smoke escaping through her nostrils.
“Yeah,” he chuckled under his breath, “these smaller guys are fast an’ they seem to run on’a darned ol’ Energizers.”
“So,” she took the smoke back, “what makes him so ‘shifty’?”
“Do ya r’member Marcus Cain…”
“Hell yes, he was fucking brutal,” she nodded, “didn't he escape from Alcatraz?”
“If’n all them stories be true,” he nodded, “a couple o’times.”
They sat quietly, Gamble passed to Momma Heidi and she passed back to him.
“Big John lot like ol’ Marcus Cane,” he continued, passing back to her, “he likes’ta hurt people.”
“So,” she slugged him, “learn to protect yourself.”
“Jus’ like ‘em ADub suits hadda do,” he went on, “went an’ r’trieved this mean ol’ boy wit’a chopper an’ guards armed to’da teeth.”
“No shit?”
“Sure ‘nuff did,” he confirmed. “Gots ‘im straight off this
“He had to fight every day just to survive then,” she heard the concern in her voice and trailed off.
“Yep,” he nodded, lost in the still darkness of the lake before him, “purdy much.”
“If you need schooling in that old-yard style brawling,” she nudged him, “I bet Riot could teach you a thing or two beforehand.”
“P’rolly gonna hafta go on an’ ask ‘im.”
“Win or lose,” she patted his left shoulder, “everyone can see the hard work you are putting in to earn these opportunities.”
“Can't be thinkin’ o’myself wit’ yer freezer an’ pantry goin’ empty,” he hung his head low.
“Silly, Boy,” she shook her head, “don't allow your partner to bait you. Riot raises the cows, pigs and chickens that fill my freezers and Pappy grows the vegetables and spices in the pantry.”
“Both o’us knows it takes more than that to…”
“Salt, pepper, sugar and soda don't cost an arm and a leg, Boy.”
“So, why…”
“He wants you on these banks with him,” she explained. “He is choosing not to be in your corner and you really shouldn't run scout any more. It's a problem for him, not you.”
“But…”
“But, what, Boy?” she asked, but didn't allow him to answer, “Do you think that when the girls are ready next summer that they are going to stick around here?” Again, she keeps him from getting a word in, “No, they are both thinking Rose City most likely. Wrestling has been in Harmony’s waters long before the crop ever was.”
“Then what?”
“That will be for him to decide at that time,” she answered. “Right now, the decision is yours. Go win, Boy.”
While she left behind a good amount of wisdom, he remains a “good ol’ boy from Tennessee” and, with the route currently unsecured, he still has plenty enough of reason that he must win.
In’a end, ain't no one else gotta live wit’cher d’cisions ‘xcept-choo. Ol’ op-or-tunity don't come ‘round too oft’n an’ when it does, livin’ wit’ ev’n tryin’a take off’an’ run wit’ it is bett-uh than regrettin’ not ev’r tryin’ at all. Until next time, ya’all heathens b’have an’ be good to one-uh ‘nother.