Taste of Your Own Medicine

[Biron]

(OORP NOTE: Immediately after RELOADED NINETEEN)

(FADEIN: To a wild-eyed ‘Birmingham Stallion’ JACK BRYANT, still clad in his gear - black ring tights with white silhouettes of charging broncos on both legs tucked into Thunder Brown Tombstone cowboy boots with resoled bottoms for wrestling, standing inside a dressing room that looks like it’s been tossed by a DEA Task Force.)

BRYANT: “Now, that’s mah kind’a party! Ah just had ta’ drop in. See ... Ah heard you talkin’ ah’bout lovin’ tha’ taste a’ metal, tongue punchin’ tha’ World strap, n’ Ah thought ta’ mahself (pauses) ol’ Jack Harmen oughta have himself a bit a’ dessert. (rubs his Josey Wales-esque beard) How’d that canvas taste, son? Did it remind ya’ of a good fight? From where Ah was sittin’, looked more like an ass whuppin’ ta’ me. Ah’d apologize fer breakin’ up yer little coronation-slash-pity party, but Ah honestly don’t give a GODD(BLEEP!). Seein’ you layin’ there, unconscious, surrounded by a sea a’ red balloons (cracks a short grin) made me realize how good you look in red, Jack-o. Somethin’ yer gonna’ need ta’ get real used ta’. Ah’ll coat Route Twenty with yer blood if that’s what needs ta’ be done. That’s what you’d do … Ah’m not gonna’ lecture you on how ya’ won tha’ strap, Harmen; Ah’m not gonna’ tear inta’ you fer bein’ a backjumpin’ coward. (shakes head) That’s not mah business. But, what Ah can tell you, Champ, is that from here on out, from Boston ta’ Oklahoma City, ta’ St. Louis, ta’ Chicago, that Ah’m comin’ after ya’. Ah’ll HUNT you ta’ tha’ ENDS A’ THA’ EARTH … n’ after Ah pry that World Title outta yer COLD, DEAD HANDS, Ah’m gonna’ do everybody a favor n’ boot you OVER THA’ EDGE.”

(FTB)