Post by The Collective on Jun 13, 2017 3:42:28 GMT
Frankie and Geno were confused at first, but clarity came at the end of Tony’s speed walk rant as he said the name of their HQ, Catena. After that word they were on Tony’s heels, curious themselves to see if their faithful hideout was under flame. Tony’s speed walk turned into a run, causing him to knock over hobos and kick aside shopping carts on his way to his street. Just as he reached the corner on this abandoned evening he saw the reflection of a carnival of red and blue lights in the pharmacy window across the street. A head peek around the corner confirmed his suspicions as a slew of cop cars laid out in front of the burning Catena lounge.
“No fire trucks….it’s still fres…” Just hearing his voice choking up made him pause. While Tony wanted nothing more than to just break down and sob his head off, he wasn’t about to do that in front of Frankie and Geno. Never had he cried in front of his gang and he wasn’t about to start now. Instead he grit his teeth, screamed closed mouth, and proceeded to pound away on the brick wall next to him. Professional combos let loose on the unforgivable brick, which didn’t seem to phase Tony. However ten seconds in little blood splotches started to form on the white brick, and that’s what brought Geno to grab one arm, and Frankie to grab the other.
“Enough Tony. Don’t hurt yourself.” Geno was right, Tony was doing them no good bashing his money makers to bits. It’s just he didn’t know any other way to react in the moment other than immediate violence on an inanimate object. So in a situation where he couldn’t let out his anger, Tony starting projecting what he would like to see done.
“I want every single one of these 7th Street motherfuckas dead. Every last one. These motherfuckas started a war and I’m gonna fuckin’ finish it.” Every word was a loud whisper forced through teeth grit enough to crack a walnut.
Being the occasional voice of reason, Frankie offered up his two cents. “So how are three guys gonna take on over sixty guys with a ton of firepowah?”
It was evident Tony was done with the talking as he pointed at Frankie twice. As impatient as he was he gave Tony an opportunity to try to figure him out. “I got no friggin’ idea….I ain’t got no backups, unless you wanna give a bunch of Cuban hookahs guns?”
Tony’s empathic pointing came again, this time with wide eyes and a nod. Frankie did a double take, blinking hard and shaking his head as he tried to process the demand. “For real? You wanna have hookahs fig…”
“No dumbass he wants you to use the hookahs as lures.”
Tony gave a sarcastic clap to Geno’s words of wisdom, even getting the faintest of smirks from Tony. It faded quickly however as Tony stared at Frankie, accompanied with the hard stare of Geno. He had no choice but to give in to Tony’s demands.
“Alright Tony fine, I’ll get the hookahs. I suggest you smoke a j or two.”
A middle finger from Tony pretty much told him the narrative of the night as he walked away. Tony’s gonna get piss drunk. Since he’s an angry drunk, he’s probably going to pick a fight. Which will in turn land his ass, and possibly Geno’s ass in jail. While Frankie wanted to get into one of his usual cursing arguments with Tony, he decided to forgo that tonight in lieu of what happened. Instead he walked off towards the pier, ready to meet up with his Cuban mamacitas.
A shaky cell phone visual pops on the screen, showing an off-kilter Frankie Starlight walking down the street. An already annoyed Frankie looks over to the ‘cameraman’, noticing all the shakiness of the phone as the hobo filming him hobble walks down the street by his side.
“I friggin’ swear, you drop that phone and I’m droppin’ you on your fuckin’ head Bart. Watch your filthy freakin’ hands.”
“You want me to wash my hands?”
“I do but not now just film me and don’t drop the phone you smelly fuck! That reminds me, I gotta Purell the fuck out of that phone.” While Frankie is clearly annoyed at the abysmal visual he’s sending in, he decides to just roll with it. “Fuck it, at least they got my voice, that’s all they need.”
Living in the same place, especially a small city like Red Hook all your life can cause you to form acquaintances all over town. This one came in the form of Bart, a local, yet somewhat dependable hobo who was good for carrying out small tasks. The bad part? He’s outgoing. “No problem sir, you look great!”
Like a snake striking from a coiled position, Frankie jetted his head at Bart. The motion nearly caused him to drop the phone as he fumbled for it. “DON’T FUCKIN’ SPEAK ANOTHER FUCKIN’ WORD STREET RAT!!!”
As quickly as his dirty fingers would allow him Bart flips the phone into the filming position and listens to the gangster with a meek nod. Frankie’s face is flush, that fire still in him from earlier. “Oh yeah. Filmin’ a promo. Shit. I know that pansy ass tweaker Finn Whelan is probably siittin’ theh, sippin’ on his spiced chai latte, rollin’ his eyes at all my F bombs.” Frankie puckers his face and hollows his cheeks with a squint. “Look at this expletive slinging neanderthal. He can’t form a sentence without cussing.” From a snobby hipster voice Frankie goes back to his seaside New York accent. “Look heah Jack Skelton, I’m fuckin’ pissed right now because I’m dealin’ with some real shit. I shoulda cut this promo earlier in the week when I had time and wasn’t pissed, but those plans went out the windah. So now I’m here, FUCKIN’ PISSED, trying to get this requiahment taken care of so I can go back to livin’ my fucked up life.”
A quick hand brushes through the loose long brown locks of Frankie, pushing it out of his angry face. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply for ten seconds, then opens them up and looks at the cell phone.
“Someone told me once that I should try countin’ to ten if I’m angry. Okay it ain’t a Xanax but I feel a little bettah. Finn, I apologize for earlier, punk rock cokeheads don’t drink chai latte, they drink black coffee. I would know, you look like you’d be a client of mine.” A flashing smile from Frankie before looking back to the sidewalk. “But I’m not one to knock people for their lifestyles. Lord knows mine is as fucked up as they come. I just...well I’m seriously baffled by something…”
A perplexed look pops on Frankie’s face before looking over to the cell phone. “How in the fuck are you an elite level professional wresslah? I know I’m a skinny guy, but fuck it looks like one solid kick to the ribs would shattah yah like a porcelain doll!! Like for real how did a guy with no muscle tone whatsoever get signed to Phoenix? I mean I get them signin’ supermodel lookin’ skinny girls with big fake tits. But what does a man skinniah than Scott Weiland at his junkiest prime hold appeal wise to wrestling fans? Women think yah too damn effeminate and probably think yah a dyke. Men think they can kick yah ass and probably think yah a dyke. Either way you come across as a dyke people can’t take seriously.”
Frankie shrugs his shoulders and holds his hands up. “Tough luck pal. Now I know I’m leaving out the junkie punk rock chicks who totally would jump on yah needle wrecked peckah and ride your bones until they break. And I know I’m leavin’ out the fat comic book lovin’ basement dwellahs who marvel over your ‘technical work rate and tenacity’. You know why I’m leavin’ that shit out? Because those are the crutches a holocaust survivor lookin’ mothafuckah like you will lean on. The saving graces you got to keep yourself from going insane or puttin’ a bullet in ya head. I get it.”
A sinister smile slips through as the visual straightens out, not nearly as shaky. “Everyone needs to tell themselves something to get anywhere in life. I’m over heah tellin’ myself I’ll be a champion in pro wrestling when I’m greener than She Hulk’s clit. You’re over there tellin’ yaself the same thing. Except the difference is you got experience on me. You’ve took bumps for hot dogs and coupons. You’ve been paid in church can drives. You’ve driven to venues only to find it’s an abandoned building where thugs jump out and mug you at gunpoint. You’ve had that long hard road, I haven’t, and good lord I’m glad I haven’t. I would’ve given up a couple months into it and gone off to hustlin’. I’d admiah that dedication if you weren’t such a sickly lookin’ jamoke.”
“Now I know ya gotta be fumin’ right now. I got ya steamin’ huh?” Frankie’s signature smile with a double raise of his eyebrow. “I know I’m gonna hear it from you.” Right back to the Finn face and voice he goes. “How dare you ask me what I’ve done to be in Phoenix? I’m a real professional wrestler, you’re not!” Immediately he fixes his face and goes back to Frankie. “I just FUCKIN’ KNOW I’m gonna have to heah yah shit. And yah right Finn, I’m not much of a professional wresslah. But what I am is a fightah. And come June 20th, I’m going to take the fight to ya Scott Whelan. I’m going to throw so many damn kicks in your face that I’m gonna throw ya off ya game. Any game plan you have for me will be null and void once you feel my wing tipped size 10 clap across your chin. You may have an encyclopedia of wrestling holds at your disposal but I have foot and eye coordination that can’t be matched. Which brings me to the other thing you’re gonna point out about me ….”
A solid pat on both shoulders affirms where he’s heading. “I got two bad arms, which is why I rely so heavily on my feet. I fully realize I’m laying all my cards out on the table. I got two bad arms. I’m a rookie. I have a leg based offense. Even with all that against me, I have what it takes to beat you Finn. You can put on a good match with a broom handle, so I have no fear we’re gonna tear the house down. But you haven’t met a competitor like me before. I know you like to toot your own horn about how underrated you are, but I’m the real underdog heah, and will be in just about every match I go in because of my lack of experience. I have a big opportunity to pick off a contendah around heah. I failed with ya buddy Elena Manson, I’m not gonna fail with you Scott Whelan.”
The slight shaking stops as Frankie stops, then looks up the illuminated sign casting red light on his face. “We’re here. Give me back the fuckin’ phone Bart.”
Bart hands back the phone to which Frankie snatches it, then no look tosses a twenty dollar bill out of his shorts pocket. The poor hobo scrambles for the money as the camera is still on, swaying back and forth across the wooden dock floor.
“Mamacitas, daddy is home!”
A huge amount of female cheering is heard, which brings Frankie to realize he’s still filming. He yanks the phone upright and taps the ‘STOP’ button with panic in his eyes, abruptly ending this awkward promo.
OOC: Word Count 2000
“No fire trucks….it’s still fres…” Just hearing his voice choking up made him pause. While Tony wanted nothing more than to just break down and sob his head off, he wasn’t about to do that in front of Frankie and Geno. Never had he cried in front of his gang and he wasn’t about to start now. Instead he grit his teeth, screamed closed mouth, and proceeded to pound away on the brick wall next to him. Professional combos let loose on the unforgivable brick, which didn’t seem to phase Tony. However ten seconds in little blood splotches started to form on the white brick, and that’s what brought Geno to grab one arm, and Frankie to grab the other.
“Enough Tony. Don’t hurt yourself.” Geno was right, Tony was doing them no good bashing his money makers to bits. It’s just he didn’t know any other way to react in the moment other than immediate violence on an inanimate object. So in a situation where he couldn’t let out his anger, Tony starting projecting what he would like to see done.
“I want every single one of these 7th Street motherfuckas dead. Every last one. These motherfuckas started a war and I’m gonna fuckin’ finish it.” Every word was a loud whisper forced through teeth grit enough to crack a walnut.
Being the occasional voice of reason, Frankie offered up his two cents. “So how are three guys gonna take on over sixty guys with a ton of firepowah?”
It was evident Tony was done with the talking as he pointed at Frankie twice. As impatient as he was he gave Tony an opportunity to try to figure him out. “I got no friggin’ idea….I ain’t got no backups, unless you wanna give a bunch of Cuban hookahs guns?”
Tony’s empathic pointing came again, this time with wide eyes and a nod. Frankie did a double take, blinking hard and shaking his head as he tried to process the demand. “For real? You wanna have hookahs fig…”
“No dumbass he wants you to use the hookahs as lures.”
Tony gave a sarcastic clap to Geno’s words of wisdom, even getting the faintest of smirks from Tony. It faded quickly however as Tony stared at Frankie, accompanied with the hard stare of Geno. He had no choice but to give in to Tony’s demands.
“Alright Tony fine, I’ll get the hookahs. I suggest you smoke a j or two.”
A middle finger from Tony pretty much told him the narrative of the night as he walked away. Tony’s gonna get piss drunk. Since he’s an angry drunk, he’s probably going to pick a fight. Which will in turn land his ass, and possibly Geno’s ass in jail. While Frankie wanted to get into one of his usual cursing arguments with Tony, he decided to forgo that tonight in lieu of what happened. Instead he walked off towards the pier, ready to meet up with his Cuban mamacitas.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER…..
A shaky cell phone visual pops on the screen, showing an off-kilter Frankie Starlight walking down the street. An already annoyed Frankie looks over to the ‘cameraman’, noticing all the shakiness of the phone as the hobo filming him hobble walks down the street by his side.
“I friggin’ swear, you drop that phone and I’m droppin’ you on your fuckin’ head Bart. Watch your filthy freakin’ hands.”
“You want me to wash my hands?”
“I do but not now just film me and don’t drop the phone you smelly fuck! That reminds me, I gotta Purell the fuck out of that phone.” While Frankie is clearly annoyed at the abysmal visual he’s sending in, he decides to just roll with it. “Fuck it, at least they got my voice, that’s all they need.”
Living in the same place, especially a small city like Red Hook all your life can cause you to form acquaintances all over town. This one came in the form of Bart, a local, yet somewhat dependable hobo who was good for carrying out small tasks. The bad part? He’s outgoing. “No problem sir, you look great!”
Like a snake striking from a coiled position, Frankie jetted his head at Bart. The motion nearly caused him to drop the phone as he fumbled for it. “DON’T FUCKIN’ SPEAK ANOTHER FUCKIN’ WORD STREET RAT!!!”
As quickly as his dirty fingers would allow him Bart flips the phone into the filming position and listens to the gangster with a meek nod. Frankie’s face is flush, that fire still in him from earlier. “Oh yeah. Filmin’ a promo. Shit. I know that pansy ass tweaker Finn Whelan is probably siittin’ theh, sippin’ on his spiced chai latte, rollin’ his eyes at all my F bombs.” Frankie puckers his face and hollows his cheeks with a squint. “Look at this expletive slinging neanderthal. He can’t form a sentence without cussing.” From a snobby hipster voice Frankie goes back to his seaside New York accent. “Look heah Jack Skelton, I’m fuckin’ pissed right now because I’m dealin’ with some real shit. I shoulda cut this promo earlier in the week when I had time and wasn’t pissed, but those plans went out the windah. So now I’m here, FUCKIN’ PISSED, trying to get this requiahment taken care of so I can go back to livin’ my fucked up life.”
A quick hand brushes through the loose long brown locks of Frankie, pushing it out of his angry face. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply for ten seconds, then opens them up and looks at the cell phone.
“Someone told me once that I should try countin’ to ten if I’m angry. Okay it ain’t a Xanax but I feel a little bettah. Finn, I apologize for earlier, punk rock cokeheads don’t drink chai latte, they drink black coffee. I would know, you look like you’d be a client of mine.” A flashing smile from Frankie before looking back to the sidewalk. “But I’m not one to knock people for their lifestyles. Lord knows mine is as fucked up as they come. I just...well I’m seriously baffled by something…”
A perplexed look pops on Frankie’s face before looking over to the cell phone. “How in the fuck are you an elite level professional wresslah? I know I’m a skinny guy, but fuck it looks like one solid kick to the ribs would shattah yah like a porcelain doll!! Like for real how did a guy with no muscle tone whatsoever get signed to Phoenix? I mean I get them signin’ supermodel lookin’ skinny girls with big fake tits. But what does a man skinniah than Scott Weiland at his junkiest prime hold appeal wise to wrestling fans? Women think yah too damn effeminate and probably think yah a dyke. Men think they can kick yah ass and probably think yah a dyke. Either way you come across as a dyke people can’t take seriously.”
Frankie shrugs his shoulders and holds his hands up. “Tough luck pal. Now I know I’m leaving out the junkie punk rock chicks who totally would jump on yah needle wrecked peckah and ride your bones until they break. And I know I’m leavin’ out the fat comic book lovin’ basement dwellahs who marvel over your ‘technical work rate and tenacity’. You know why I’m leavin’ that shit out? Because those are the crutches a holocaust survivor lookin’ mothafuckah like you will lean on. The saving graces you got to keep yourself from going insane or puttin’ a bullet in ya head. I get it.”
A sinister smile slips through as the visual straightens out, not nearly as shaky. “Everyone needs to tell themselves something to get anywhere in life. I’m over heah tellin’ myself I’ll be a champion in pro wrestling when I’m greener than She Hulk’s clit. You’re over there tellin’ yaself the same thing. Except the difference is you got experience on me. You’ve took bumps for hot dogs and coupons. You’ve been paid in church can drives. You’ve driven to venues only to find it’s an abandoned building where thugs jump out and mug you at gunpoint. You’ve had that long hard road, I haven’t, and good lord I’m glad I haven’t. I would’ve given up a couple months into it and gone off to hustlin’. I’d admiah that dedication if you weren’t such a sickly lookin’ jamoke.”
“Now I know ya gotta be fumin’ right now. I got ya steamin’ huh?” Frankie’s signature smile with a double raise of his eyebrow. “I know I’m gonna hear it from you.” Right back to the Finn face and voice he goes. “How dare you ask me what I’ve done to be in Phoenix? I’m a real professional wrestler, you’re not!” Immediately he fixes his face and goes back to Frankie. “I just FUCKIN’ KNOW I’m gonna have to heah yah shit. And yah right Finn, I’m not much of a professional wresslah. But what I am is a fightah. And come June 20th, I’m going to take the fight to ya Scott Whelan. I’m going to throw so many damn kicks in your face that I’m gonna throw ya off ya game. Any game plan you have for me will be null and void once you feel my wing tipped size 10 clap across your chin. You may have an encyclopedia of wrestling holds at your disposal but I have foot and eye coordination that can’t be matched. Which brings me to the other thing you’re gonna point out about me ….”
A solid pat on both shoulders affirms where he’s heading. “I got two bad arms, which is why I rely so heavily on my feet. I fully realize I’m laying all my cards out on the table. I got two bad arms. I’m a rookie. I have a leg based offense. Even with all that against me, I have what it takes to beat you Finn. You can put on a good match with a broom handle, so I have no fear we’re gonna tear the house down. But you haven’t met a competitor like me before. I know you like to toot your own horn about how underrated you are, but I’m the real underdog heah, and will be in just about every match I go in because of my lack of experience. I have a big opportunity to pick off a contendah around heah. I failed with ya buddy Elena Manson, I’m not gonna fail with you Scott Whelan.”
The slight shaking stops as Frankie stops, then looks up the illuminated sign casting red light on his face. “We’re here. Give me back the fuckin’ phone Bart.”
Bart hands back the phone to which Frankie snatches it, then no look tosses a twenty dollar bill out of his shorts pocket. The poor hobo scrambles for the money as the camera is still on, swaying back and forth across the wooden dock floor.
“Mamacitas, daddy is home!”
A huge amount of female cheering is heard, which brings Frankie to realize he’s still filming. He yanks the phone upright and taps the ‘STOP’ button with panic in his eyes, abruptly ending this awkward promo.
OOC: Word Count 2000