Do not try these stunts at home. These stunts should only be performed by a professional redneck.
Warning: Foul language, and crude humor included. Don't lose your lunch. Keep liquids out of your nose.
Sitting motionless on a wheelchair, only the eyes dart from left to right. It wears a hockey mask. Behind the mask is a burned, slashed, and charred face that is probably more hideous than Freddy Krueger. A nightmare, yet no one is sleeping. The air around is gray, not from darkness, but from the stagnant cloud of ash surrounding the charred form. Bloody bandages are wrapped around the arms, legs, head, and back where skin grafts and surgical procedures had been done to repair the inhuman amount of damage sustained. Intravenous fluids are being delivered through a vein in the elbow. A wire taped to the chest signals the only thing breaking the silence, the heart monitor that beeps to the rhythm of the belabored heart beats.
Scott Slade: Welcome fans to what remains of Ultimate Wrestling, the place were the best wrestlers in all of sports fight in the most competitive matches on the planet. I'm here reporting, obviously not live, from a North Korean high security prison facility, so secret it isn't even on the map. By the time you see this footage, if you even get to see these rare moments, there is a good chance that Dictator Rocket Man has already finished with his Final Plan for all of us still here. Inside this cell, you are looking at the remains of one of the bravest, or perhaps the dumbest men I've ever seen in wrestling. Huckleberry may have won his recent tournament match by defeating the sadistic, abusive, and very dangerous, Queen of Evil, Kim Ji-Min. However, he won that match at a great cost as you can see. The entire roster is surely thankful that Huckleberry dispatched the demoness, and so I'm here to pay my respects for what very well could be the last time we see Huckleberry alive. The Appalachian Hillbilly is set to face Kronin to secure a place, and perhaps his life, in the second tier of the Death Sport Tournament. Let's check in now, and see how he is shaping up for his match. Huckleberry? Huck? Can you hear me?
From the deepest nether regions within his small and lithe form, an otherworldly tremor emanates from Huckelberry's void of a mouth. Host Scott Slade pinches his nose to avoid passing out from the stench of the horrendous burp. One of the guards outside slumps over and collapses. The other panics, and begins to slide his unconscious teammate down the hall to get some help.
A blackened hand lifts an electric microphone box up to his neck. An electric monotone voice speaks.
Huckleberry: Hot dig-it-ty. I think we're a-lone now.
Scott looks around, and notices the guards have evacuated the hall outside.
Scott Slade: You're right. There doesn't seem to be anyone around.
Huckleberry: Got-ta light?
Scott Slade: A light? Huck, you hardly look like you should be smoking in your current condition--
Huckleberry slams his fist down on the armrest of his rickety wooden wheelchair. The force of the jarring action shakes the IV cart precariously. Huckleberry braces himself and coughs violently, barely securing himself within his seat. He spits, and a black goo slides down his chest from under the mask.
In an uncharacteristically monotone, calm robot voice, he curses to the best of his ability.
Huckleberry: Yan-kee... swine... in-grate... dag-um... as thick as mah-nure... half as use-ful. You gon-na dee-nah me my last re-quest? I been cold tur-key fer uh month, nan days, fer howrz, and ferty far mints.
Scott Slade: Did you hear that folks at home? It's been 39 days---
Huckleberry: And fer howrz, and far mints.
Scott Slade: (Facing the camera) Yes indeed, and you can see what affect that has had on his mental apptitude heading into his next match with Kronin. Trust me, I've battled my own demons in rehab, and I know how hard it is to concentrate and keep your spirits up. I know from experience how bad withdrawal symptoms can be, and going cold turkey 100% can in some cases be extremely dangerous. It's amazing that he has survived as long as he has. Despite the medical treatment here being top-notch, this isn't exactly a Rehab Center, and I have seen the miserable interrogation conditions many members of the roster have had to endure in this high security prison complex. Here...
The host sticks a cigarette in the mouth hole of the white mask, and lights it up with a Zippo.
Drool seeps down the hillbilly's black and blood stained t-shirt as he wets his dry lips around the nicotine laced death stick. Between puffs, he laboriously speaks one syllable at a time through the electric voice synthesizer.
Huckleberry: Don't wor-ry 'bout me. I have wrass-uld Kron-in be-fore, and I can do it a-gan. He may have re-a-ranged my nose, but as long as I am still breath-un, no-wun kin keep muh down.
Slowly, he swivels the wheelchair around and rolls closer to the wall with his back to Scott and the camera. He reaches over to a bedside table and from underneath he peals out a shiv that was concealed there. Hastily, he begins cutting away at the bandages surround his head and neck, and unraveling it. He casts the mask off.
Scott Slade: Huck? Huckleberry? I don't think that's a good idea. You need to wait for your wounds to heal before you---
After looking at his face in the hand mirror, Huckleberry drops the voice box to the floor, and smashes the mirror into the cement wall, bloodying his hand with fresh wounds. He stands up awkwardly, hunched over, and stares at the glass shards reflecting his broken form back up at him. A monstrous laugh filled with coughs and wheezing echoes down the hall, louder and louder, stretching his failing lungs to their full capacity. The laughter becomes hacking. The hacking becomes a spasmming gasp for air.
The heart monitor halts. A solid tone.
Scott Slade: Oh my god! Is there a doctor?! Somebody get a doctor. I think Huckleberry is having a heart attack! A doctor, please!
Clawing his chest, the poor redneck seizes up, and reels back into his wheelchair. Scott Slade checks Huck's mouth and nose for signs of breathing, and also checks for a pulse.
Scott Slade: I think I still feel a pulse, but he's not breathing. Damnit! Somebody get a doctor! Huckleberry is going to die.... okay, okay. Mouth to mouth it is...
Scott scrunches up his face like a lemon, at the sight of the ruined face of Huckleberry. With two arms, the body grabs Scott in a two-hand headlock and lands a big kiss on his lips.
Huckleberry: Mwwwawaaa! Yeeeeeehaaaww!
Scott Slade: Puah! Puah! Yeeeaauuuck! What the hell was that for?
Huckleberry: Gotcha good there, didn't ay?!
With a slap on the knee, Huckleberry jumps up off his chair and does a little jig. Still, not in the best of shape after the very real injuries he had, he does seem pretty happy that he can move around without too much pain.
The camera pixelates Huckleberry's lower half. Bare below the waist, he has a full moon showing. The ratty cotton shirt barely covers his man-parts in the front.
Scott Slade: Huckleberry, where are your pants?
Huckleberry: My pants? Ah can't wear um. Ye see, I got burned so bad from the C4 exposetives, that I have to keep applyin' this here cream 'round my crotch and crack every few hours. Was gunna spread butter on my biscuits, but the nurse wouldn't let me. So they gave me this magic gel, and it feels all tingly inside. If I knew 'bout this stuff years ago, ay'd be making a killin' sellin' it to muh mountain buddies suffering alone in bed on the cold nights. Sure fire way to get the party started when the wife is as cold as a witch's tiddy in a brass bra.
Hobbling over to the toilet, Huckleberry grabs a brown sponge that was floating inside and starts wiping his face off. Most of the blood, suit, and scars are washing off.
Scott Slade: Now, just wait one second here! Are you telling me, this was one big practical joke on me?
The guards returned sometime during this event, and they are already smiling as they aim cell phone cameras at Scott and Huck.
Huckleberry: Damn straight. Scotty, you should have seen the look on yer face.
Guard: Snapchot. Snapchot.
Huckleberry: Yuh hear that? Don't need a translator for that one. Yeah, I guess we're going to be going viral any time now.
Scott Slade: So you aren't really hurt? Your face isn't really a wreck? Your back? Your legs?
Huckleberry: Alright, alright.... I'll tell ya how bad it really is. Yeah, that Kimchi witch cut up my legs real bad, but with the surgery they say I got lucky, and none of the major muscles or tendons were permanently damaged. My back has been busted since I was four when I was playing with daddy's gopher bombs, so it ain't like I can't deal with the pain I already learned to suffer from in that area. I got some burns and scars. It's just skin, it heals over. Won't be purdy, but it heals. Worst party is this...
Pointing to his head, Huckleberry's furry hair looks like it's all wrapped up in a nest, with a long tail down the back. It's quite patchy and frizzy.
Scott Slade: Almost looks like a coon-skin hat. You know, you might be able to work that into your angle somehow. It worked for Ben Franklin in France. Maybe it can work for Huckleberry in North Korea. The fans already seem to like you for your-- ahem-- shall we say, unorthodox ways?
Huckleberry throws Scott down onto his wheelchair, and continues ripping off bandages around his head, arms, and legs, while using his other hand to sponge off the bloody grime he covered himself with to make his condition look worse than it really is. The camera has to censor nearly the whole screen as the red-ass redneck stands spread eagle.
Huckleberry: If you think I'm gonna work this mess of a mullet into my ring entrance... it looks like Oprah had sex with the Miller Paint man! These squiggly white hairs ain't never gonna grow out. People, used to say, "Tom Berenger, can I have yer autograph?" Now they be sayin', "Looks like Dr. Frankenstein stapled the pubes to the wrong end." Now, if you'll exuuuuse me, I am late for my appointment with Mr. Ben Gay.
Scott Slade pushes Huckleberry out of the way, and reels over to hurl everything he had been holding back into the jon.
#ewrestling #efed #uow #ultimatewrestling #wrestling #comedy #short-story #shortstory #story #writing #fiction #roleplay #rp
Thank you for reading my original writing. This is a fictional satire, and my roleplay submission for Ultimate Wrestling.
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