Lil' Guy an' da Crawfish (West Playoffs, Round 2)

[The Guy]

*Dunno if we're able to roleplay yet or not. Oh well, whatever, I'm bored.*

[Scene]A solitary NFW backdrop behind a monitor that plays round 1 highlights. Currently playing is the savage beating Scott Riktor put on Guy Boudreaux. The video feed is cut to an end when Guy is able to surprise the fans and Riktor alike with a roll up win for the upset victory. A beaten and battered Guy Boudreaux walks in front of the monitor. His body has a clear limp, showing that the road to recovery will indeed be a long one. Clearly not a good sign when round 2 was quickly approaching and Guy had the misfortune of being paired against the top seed in Tom Adler.[/Scene]

Guy Boudreaux: Look at mi, deaux I look like de winna? Mi body dun ache an' mi head feel like she be on fiah. Guy Boudreaux ain't de winna, ain't no one de winna after dat match, na son.

[There is a brief pause as Guy spits out a wad of blood from his mouth. Wiping the corner of his lip clean, his tired eyes move back to the camera.]

Guy Boudreaux: Guy Boudreaux knows he dun got lucky with dat match. Dat foo' Rikta had mi played. But fo sum reason it be Guy who dun got de pinfall. Now Guy don't know jus' what happen, but Guy deaux know dat he now must face de Tom Aidla. An Aidla, Guy dunna tell ya now, just cause he a tired an soi don't be a meanin' dat he gunna lay down fo' ya. Guy don't deaux dat. Guy is a fighta, just like his papa was and his papa befo' him.

In de south, deep in de heart of Louisiana, dey tell de tale of de Crawfish. De crawfish is a small, but it never be backin' down from no figha. If ya mess with de mudbug, ya gunna get de claw. It don't matta nun if de is twice de size of de crawfish or ten times as strong. De crawfish won't run an' de crawfish won't hide. He'll lif his claws an' he stand ready ta geaux. Aidla, Guy is like de crawfish. Boudreaux don't care if he a hurtin' or not, de Boudreaux is gunna figha ya. Even if ol' Guy gotta be dragged down de ramp, he gunna be der. And jus' like de Rikta, ya betta watch ya back, cause against de Ragin' Cajun, ya never know what ya gunna get.

[Scene]Turning away, Guy does his best to march off the set. His face wrenches with pain from ever step, but the Ragin' Cajun does his best to ignore it. His University of Louisiana Lafayette jersey may be tattered and torn, but the logo of his Alta Mata still shined through. With just the blank monitor and NFW background left, the scene faded to black.[/Scene]

 

[TWhitefield]

Fadein: Adler sits watching a tape of Guy Boudreaux with a rather perplexed look on his face

Ya know... I've wrestled matches in fifteen different countries. I'm fluent in twenty different languages. And I STILL needed to filter this tape through Shatner's Universal Hairpiece three times to understand a word of it. But, I finally got a working thranslation on it.

You're a scrapper. I get that. Beaten up or not, you're not gonna lay down for anybody. I get that too. But then, I'm not entirely sure where you got the idea that I expected you to. Just the opposite, in fact.

Like I told Alias and Alamassy, I don't care where you're ranked in this thing, rest assured, I'm watching. I don't take anything for granted. Like Chris Berman says, that's why we play the game.

But, just so you know, you're clever use of imagery wasn't lost on me. Because, while you may not know this, I spent the first six years of my life living in the country. Probably would have been longer except my parents had the unfortunate occasion to become hood ornaments for somebody more soused than a Mardis Gras tourist looking for a two dollar whore.

At any rate, I remember the days of my seemingly long lost youth trapsing through the woods and streams near our home. I remember flipping over those large flatrocks in the creek looking for salamanders and, as you like to call 'em, crawdads. Crawdads, a lot like this one...

Adler reaches off to the side and grabs a small fish bowl with a couple of crayfish in the bottom

This one crawdad here, it looks like it's seen better days. In fact, it looks like hell. Guess that one's Scott Ricktor.

Adler reaches into the bowl and grabs the victorious crayfish

This one must be you. It's still ready for a fight, even though, as you can see, it's missing a few appendages. And, I bet, if I took this thing for granted...

Just then the crayfish clamps down on Adler's index finger with it's claw

OUCH! Little bastard got me. Hurts like hell.

Adler holds up his hand, the crayfish still attatched... blood starting to trickle down the finger and along his hand

Just like when I was a kid. So, yeah, I get you're little metaphore, Guy. Allow me to leave you with one of my own.

Adler stands up and shakes his bleeding hand in a fast downward thrust, flinging the crawfish to the floor. Suddenly, Adler lifts his foot and CRUSHES the crayfish beneath the heel of his shoe. Adler reaches down, takes off his shoe.. the crayfish crushed... still sticking to the bottom. He sits the shoe on his desk, the sole facing the camera for anybody to see

Any questions?

Fadeout​

 

[The Guy]

[Scene]As any would imagine, Guy Boudreaux is graciously making use of the New Frontier downtime to recover from his brutal match against Scott Riktor. Sitting back, relaxing, Guy has a bottle of Southern Comfort at his side as he sits in a steel folding chair. His arm drapes at his side, flickering the top of the open bottle. His eyes are closed as recalls the words and actions of his next opponent, Tom Adler. Guy suddenly winces, as if in pain, and slowly his eyes open. He takes a moment to look at the camera, bringing the bottle of Southern Comfort to his lips for a quick sip.[/Scene]

Guy Boudreaux: It dun saprise Guy ta know dat ya done dis an' ya done dat. Ya strike mi as one of dem bois dat do anythang. Ya moss likely de captain of de foosball team, dated de cheerleada', and got dem straight A's. Guy gots na doubts dat ya a smart guy.

[Nursing the bottle, Guy takes a long swing this time before lowering the bottle back down.]

Guy Boudreaux: As ya can 'magine, ol' Guy was neva de captain of anythang. He ain't never dated de cheerleada', an he ain't dat bright. An maybe ya will crush mi, I dunno. On paypa, dis shouldn't be a close match. Nah, Guy should be killed like de last time.

But ya asked if ol' Guy had any questions. Well ya, I kinda do. Have ya ever had ta look 'round an see everyone pass ya by, not even noticin' ya? Have ya worked hard only ta be told nuttin'? Have ya ever been knocked down, pushed ova, and stepped on? Have ya?

Guy, he has.

[Another swig from the Southern Comfort.]

Guy Boudreaux: But ol' Guy, he knows. He knows dat he controls his fate. He gunna have ta bring dey fight ta ya jus' like did ta de Rikta. So ya hit mi with all ya got. Ya stomp on mi, ya kick mi while I down, ya do what ya have ta. But I ain't nah Almasie, playin' dat videa game. I ain't nah Alias, with dat one eye. I Guy Boudreaux, de Ragin' Cajun. No World Champeions ta mi name. No owna of de companies. Just an ol' swamp rat dat don't know when ta drown in de hurricane.

[Scene]With a somber expression, Guy stares dead into the camera, taking one last sip from his bottle. The camera fades to black.[/Scene]

 

[TWhitefield]

So, tell me, Guy. What, exactly, is the moral of this little story? That I shouldn't take you for granted? That you've been overlooked your entire life and maybe, just maybe, you're not gonna take it any more? That the last time... WAS the last time?

If that's the motivational speech you have cued up on that 8-track in your car to give you somethat that bottle of liquid courage can't, so be it. But, like I said before, Guy, I don't assume anything other than you're in this match because you deserve to be.

And, you're right. I was the quarterback. I was the All-American. I was the one who graduated high school at age twelve and college at sixteen, only to go back two years later just so I'd be ALLOWED to do all those things.

But, nobody handed 'em to me, Guy. I earned every thing I've ever gotten in my life. And, I did it by assuming every person who crossed my path had the will and the wherewithall to take it all away from me. Just like I assume you not only want to win this match, but are perfectly capable of doing so if I don't wrestle you as though you can.

Rest assured, it's a mistake that I simply don't intend to make.

 

[The Guy]

[Scene]There is the all too standard NFW black background. Standing in front of the background is a rather perplexed and confused Guy Boudreaux. Seriously, he looked like this guy -> Blinking once, and only once, Guy started to speak in his native Cajun French accent.[/Scene]

Guy Boudreaux: Ya know, ol' Guy jus' been a jokin' bout dat foosball an' cheerleada stuff. Really, jus' pullin' it out mi ass. But by de sounds of de thangs, Guy imagines ya must have some mighty pain when ya sit down cause it seems ta Guy dat when life shoved de silva spoon down ya mouth, it started ta come out ya ass. Which makes sense ta ol' Guy, seein' as how what should be comin' out ya mouth is comin' out ya ass an' what should be comin' out ya ass seems ta be comin' out ya mouth.

But since Guy seems ta be on de roll here, let mi see if I still got it. On top of de good grades and all dem brains, ya super strong too, huh? Like ya once lifted de ca' overa ya head once ta save a babi. Yeah, ol' Guy says ya prolly be ten, no twenty times as strong as dem fellas ya see on de TV.

And ya have a two foot pecka too? Sumdin dat make de oders in de locka room turn dey heads in shame, huh? Why ol' Guy is willin' ta bet ya could please de three, no five girls at once, ae?

Ya know, at first de Guy jus' wanna bet ya couse ya was mi opponent an' de boss man said I hadda. But now ol' Guy wanna beat ya ass cause ya an annoyin' prick. Ol' Mista Perfects gunna find out real quick dat thangs ain't so perfect in de bayou. An Guy plans ta personally remove dat spoon from ya ass an' beat ya ta death wid it.

[Scene]Fade to the Out[/Scene]

 

[TWhitefield]

Ya know, this is what I get for attempting to have an intelligent, civil conversation with a guy who has about as much intellect as the crustacean I scraped off of my boot earlier. So, since being polite to you doesn't seem to get through that skull of yours, let me break this down for you in the simplest terms possible.

Guy, I'm better than you. Always have been, always will be. And, I didn't get that way by having the best of everything thrown at my feet. But then, I suspect you know that. Since anybody who's followed my career for more than about twenty seconds knows my parents were killed when I was six and I was raised by a grandfather living on a retired mill hunky's pension. And not even you could be that dense.

No, Guy, I got what I have because I went out there and busted my ass to get it. I got those grades because I sat there reading by flashlight until three in the morning because I knew full well it was the only way I was gonna get out of that **** hole of a town we were living in. And there's not a day that goes by that I don't recognize that it's by the grace of somebody better than us that I've been able to do it.

And, if that bothers you, then I guess it just sucks to be you then. Because I don't appologize for one damn bit of it.

And when this match of ours is over? You can take your cajun ass back to Louisianna and pull yourself up milk crate next to the fire barrel and whine and cry along with all the rest of the people down there who were just plain too stupid go get the hell out of the way of something that is destined to turn your entire miserable life upside down.

 

[The Guy]

Thank ya! Ol' Guy was gittin' tired of ya Mista Nice Guy schidt. Deaux ol' Guy will miss de chance ta have de peach tea an' ginga snaps wit ya. But Guy did what Guy had ta do, an' dat be gettin' sumdin out ya. Cause up ta now, shy of steppin' on de crawfish, ya ain't dun nuttin' but nuttin'. Glad ta see ya got a bit ol' ego ta go with dem awards ya dun rung up. Guy would be a prancin' round with his awards save fo' de fact dat ol' Guy, he ain't got nun. Ya see, Guy here be a new at dis razzlin' ding. Dis mi first pamotion. I guess ya could say Guy dun did good fo' dey rookie an all. But Guy ain't finished, not yet ya.

I gotta admit deaux Aidla, we dun got mo' in common den ol' Guy first thought. We both dun come up fo' de nuttin'. We both dun had ta fight fo' what we dun got. But Guy still say ya got mo' handed ta ya den ya realize. Ya may not seen de straight-line, but dat because ya only tink in de straight line. No, Guy, he see tings a lil' diffent. See ya had dat in ya, de ability ta make de big times. Ya worked hard, ya. Guy ain't denyin' dat. But Guy gunna find it a wee bit hard ta believe ya be studin' all dem hours, payin' ya dues, datin' dem cheedleadas, makin' de practices, makin' de games, studin' till de wee hours of mornin'. Maybe ol' Guy be a bit bad at de math, but Guy can't un be dat bad. Cause it dun add up. Ya got ta be bad at summin. Ya got ta have de weakness. Even' ol' Supaman had de weakness with dat glowin' rock.

But ya always so sure, so ya tell Guy what ya weakness be. Ya tell ol' Guy ya glownin' rock. Den ya smile at de camera fo' de people. Foo' de people. But ya don't be a foo'in Guy. Guy know ya full of dat ****. An Guy be a plannin' ta beat it on out ya.

Smile, be calm, get mad, frown, and be fo' of ya self. But come de match, ya jus' be a ready fo' Guy. An dun ya jus' be a sayin' ya ready. Nah, Guy want ya ta be ready. He want ya ta believe ya ready, ta mean it. Cause right now ol' Guy be a tinkin' ya jus' sayin' ya ready, but ya ain't tinkin' ya ready. Ya know? I dunno, maybe ya don't know. But Guy know. Guy smarta de dey swamp fox.

 

[TWhitefield]

Like I told those who came... and went before ya, Guy. I've got better things to do with my time then stand in front of some blinking red light putting my thought of the moment down on tape for some geek sitting around eating cheetos in his underwear to masterbate to.

I figure by this stage of the game I really don't need to come out here and tell you or anybody else what I can or WILL do once I get in that ring. After fifteen years or so, a dozen world straps and more regional titles I suspect there's enough footage of me laying around in somebody's dusty old vault for you or anybody I'm likely to face to get their fill of. If not? I've got a library at home you're welcome to borrow from. Three bucks a day, five day rental and I don't take credit cards. My T-shirt doesn't say Netflix on it.

If you're short on cash, I can give ya the critic's review of 'em for free right now. And I'll even throw in that ego stroke you've been wanting. The fact of the matter is, Guy, that I've been as succussful as I've been... for as LONG as I've been... not because I'm the most physically gifted athelete ever put on the face of the planet... no.. there have been men who were bigger... stronger... faster... something elser than me before. No... here is where my strength lies...

Adler points to his head

There's not a man in this industry that I can't outthink. And, if you're looking for my Kryptonite? It's hidden right there in plain sight. My biggest weakness of the years isn't my arrogance, contrary to popular opinion. My biggest weakness is giving guys like you more credit than they deserve.

And, if you're smart enough to figure out why that's a weakness for me, then I haven't given you too much credit at all.

So, you chew on that for a while. I've got a cheerleader to do.

Oh, and by the way? Tape number three forty seven. Tom Adler versus Superman for the Fortress of Solitude Championship.

Superman's a pu***.

 

[The Guy]

Boi, ya makin' ol' Guy laugh. Ya tinkin' ya dun work hard fo' all ya got an ya ain't been handed nuttin'? How many of dem twelve yea olds ya know dat finish de high school? Why ol' Guy didn't even finish de high school till he be a twenty. Ya got ya college sense in ya before ya got get de moonshine in ya. Dat ain't normal. Dat ain't hard work. Dat gift boi, weither ya like it or not. Ya gots a gift in ya head an' it allow ya ta do sum great tings.

Dat why ol' Guy is lookin' faward ta de match. Cause it gunna pin ya smarts against mi smarts. Oh, Guy ain't got dat big ol' fancy brain like ya no doubt gots, but Guy gots lots of dem street smarts. Guy be, like dey say, resourcefa. Ya dun seen it befo' if ya seen ol' Guy razzle. But ya can be a watchin' dem tapes and studin' de Guy like ya did all dem text books. Ain't gunna do ya na good. Guy is like de swamp rat, he's a situational. I don't be a pullin' out dat stuff fo' sho'. No, ol' Guy do it when he a need ta. When ya not pectin' it. Dat how he gunna catch ya off guard.

Ya tink ya given mi too much credit? Nah, ya jus be a blowin' dat smoke out ya ass 'gain. Cause while ya be a sayin' dat stuff, I still don't be a tinkin' ya really believe what ya say. Ya say dat be ya weakness, but ol' Guy be a tinkin' ya weakness is dey fact dat ya always be a tinkin' ya ready. Ya ain't ready. Ya can't be a ready 'gainst a foe like mi. I be a throwin' all but de kitchen sink at ya. Ol' Guy say it time an time 'gain. He a tricky lil' swamp rat. An' ya never know what he be a doin' next.

But good fa ya dat ya ain't got betta dings ta do den talk with ol' Guy, cause Guy ain't. I jus' been a sittin' in de pirogue with de Thibodeaux, talkin' and tryin' ta catch us sum dinna.

 

[TWhitefield]

Oh, don't misunderstand what I said, Guy. I may be a lot of things, but NORMAL isn't one of 'em.

And, whether it's your intent to blow smoke up my ass or not, I won't even deny that I am probably the single most gifted athelete you are ever likely to face.

I don't have a problem blowin' my own horn, Guy. I really don't need you to do it for me. Fact is, I could step into the ring cold with ninety percent of my opponents and have 'em summed up in the first two minutes. Now, whether you're part of that ninety percent, or the other ten percent really doesn't matter. Because all one hundred percent get the same exact attention.

And that is what seperates me from the rest of the also rans who have tried for fifteen years to knock me offa my spot on the ladder is that I actually DO put the work in. I said it before, Guy, I'll say it again. There isn't ANYTHING in this sport that I don't see, one way or the other. And that requires more time and effort then, quite frankly, just about ANYBODY else is willing to put into it.

And, the reason why is simple. I'm the best at what I do out here, and I intend to stay that way. Period. And, part of staying the best, is beating the best.

Unlike certain people wrestling for this company, I don't handpick my slate of opponents from a pool of jobbers and wannabe's just so I can keep a strap around my waste a little longer. And, in case you're wondering, I'm talking about a few of the so-called top rung guys over in the east.

I don't wrestle jobbers.

The fact that I have no real say in WHO I face in this doesn't change the objective, or the need.

Fortunately, for you, my objective here really has nothing to do with you.

Unfortunately for you, that's not going to stop you from becoming a victim of it.

 

[The Guy]

[Scene] Guy Boudreaux sits comfortably in a plush arm chair with a thick book in his lap. He has on a large red coat and a Santa hat atop his head. At the side of the chair and not far from arm length, is his trusted bottle of Southern Comfort.[/Scene]

Guy Boudreaux: Since dis be de Christmas time, ol' Guy thought he dun do sumtin nice fo' Ailda. He gunna read him de Night Before Christmas. Mi ma an' pa dun read dis ta mi when I was just wee high ta a crawfish's knee, sa I hope ya enjoy.

[Guy looks down at the book, proping it up so that he could read.]

'Twas the night before Christmas
At de Ailda home
An' all t'ru de house
Dey don't a t'ing pass
Not even a mouse
Hung on de walls
All line up in de reaux
Where pictures of Ailda
Who's Mama was a heaux.

Den Mama in de bedroom
With de man next door
With ol' Ailda watch fo' de floor.
Den out on de by-you
Dey got such a clatter
Make soun' link old Boudreaux
Done fall off his ladder.

Ol' Ailda run like a rabbit
To got to de do'
Trip over the drunk biycha
An' fall on de flo'.
As he look out de do'
In de light o' de moon
He t'ink "Manh, you crazy
Or got ol' too soon."

Cuz dere on de by-you
W'en he stretch his' neck stiff
Dere's eight alligator
A pullin' de skiff.
An' a little fat drover
Wit' a long pole-ing stick
Ailda know r'at away
Got to be ole St. Nick.

Mo' fas'er and fas'er
De 'gator dey came
He whistle an' holler
An' call dem by name:
"Ha Gaston!
Ha, Tiboy!
Ha, Pierre an' Alcee'
Gee, Ninette!
Gee Suzette!
Celeste and Renee!"

"To de top o' de porch
To de top o' de wall
Make crawl, alligator
An' be sho' you don' fall."

Like Tante Flo's cat
T'ru de treetop he fly
W'en de big ol' houn' dorg
Come a run hisse'f by
Like dat up de porch
Dem ole 'gator clim!
Wit' de skiff full o' toy
An' St. Nicklus behin'.
Den on top de porch roof
It soun' like de hail
W'en all dem big 'gator
Done sot down dey tail.

Den down de chimney
Ailda yell with a bam
An' St. Nicklus fall
An' sit on de fira.
"Sacre!" he axclaim
"Ma pant got a hole
I done sot ma'se'f
On dem red hot coal."

He got on his foots
An' jump like a card
Out to de flo'
Where he lan' wit' a SPLAT!

He was dress in musk-rat
From his head to his foot
An' his clothes is all dirty
Wit' ashes an' soot.
A sack full o' playt'ing
He t'row on his back
He look like a burglar
An' dass fo' a fack.

His eyes how dey shine
His dimple how merry!
Maybe he been drink
De wine from blackberry.
His cheek was like a rose
His nose like a cherry
On secon' t'ought maybe
He lap up de sherry.

Wit' snow-white chin whisker
An' quiverin' belly
He shook w'en he laugh
Like de stomberry jelly!
But a wink in his eye
An' a shook o' his head
Make my confi-dence dat
I don' got to be scared.

He don' do no talkin'
Gone straight to his work
Hung on de wall was ol' Ailda sock
De biggest ol' St.Nick dun eva saw
An' with de marry and cheer
St. Nick turn ta Ailda
An' took a **** in de stockin'

He put bot' his han'
Dere on top o' his head
Cas' an eye on de chimney
An' den he done said:
"Wit' all o' dat fire
An' dem burnin' hot flame
Me I ain' goin' back
By de way dat I came."

So he run out de do'
An' he clim' to de roof
He ain' no fool, him
For to make one more goof.
He jump in his skiff
An' crack his big whip.
De 'gator move down
An' don' make one slip.

An' I hear him shout loud
As a splashin' he go
"Merry Christmas to all
And **** ta de Ailda'!"

[Guy, with a big goofy grin, shuts the book closed and turns back toward the front.]

Guy Boudreaux: Now as ya can see, ol' St. Nick be a Boudreaux fan, indeed. Sa his ta hopin' ya get de Christmas ya deserve, an' dat hopin' dat **** dun stink half as bad as ya.

*Though slightly modified, I did not write the majority of the Cajun Night Before Christmas. Therefore this roleplay shouldn't count in the match. I just posted it for good spirited fun for the holidays.*

 

[TWhitefield]

Of course Saint Nick is a Boudreaux fan.

Who else could a guy who spends three hundred and sixty four days a year running around with midgets in long underwear and the other day getting his jollies riding around looking at the backsides of things with horns root for?

It had to be either you or the management of the CSWA. And nobody likes them.

;-)