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Shooter Syn · (04-30-2020)

AHHHHHHHHH… Fuckimothifuckijesuahhson.of.a.bitch. What the fuck, I thought you’d be doing a rain dance and sprinkling fuckin’ herbs on it

You really can be a racist ignorant piece of shit sometimes Shooter

How’s that racist? FUCK, AHH. Fuck, I didn’t even ask why you didn’t have your feathered hat on or horse shit on your face

I don’t know why I even come here

Because we big-um friends Chief Runs-With-Shits

Steve

What?

My. Name. Is. Steve. As you well know

Take a chill pipe Hokatypunktus, and grab some fire water

Reall… you know what, fine, pour me a glass

Make that two, bottle’s in the usual place

A sigh can be heard from the kitchen as Shooter steps to a very worn and threadbare leather chair. The rest of décor is up to date, good wood, good builds, good technology. The chair is obviously sentimental rather than a reflection of his economic station. He sits and reaches over to turn on a lamp. His face is brought into sharp focus, eyes deeply blackened and a nose that is aggressively mis-shaped. From the door shines light, refracting on the moving tumblers as they’re brought through by Steve, he looks gravely at the state of Shooters face before passing him his glass.

Steve: Three times though? I mean… three times? You’ve only been there a week

Syn: {taking a long sip and sinking back in his chair} It’s not like I planned it that way. Bloody Russian got his licks in, then that Idiot Graves bust it again, then Rose gone fucked it again in the Rumble

Steve: I know, I saw it all

Syn: Shit, you get cable in your tipi?

Steve lets the racist remark roll off, a sign of a long friendship or a bittered tolerance to the Cowboy

Steve: I got to drink this up and leave. I should be out there right now, saving lives, instead of fixing your damn face. Hell, In the current climate I’m more of a hero than Calvary or Ruby!

Syn: I’ll drink to that {he raises his crystal tumbler and drains the rest of his drink in one short gulp} You go be a hero Mates-With-Munters, I got a little Shootin’ to do on a certain Yблюдок.

Steve: You sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?

Syn: Nah, I think I’m just used to your gentle touch, and I aint steppin’ foot in no hospital right now

Steve: Yeah, I get that, thanks for the drink. I’ll be seein’ ya

Syn: Hey, pass the bottle through before you leave

From the direction of the kitchen a glass bottle lands with a dull thud between the legs of Shooter

Syn: THAT’S A HUNDRED DOLLAR BOTTLE OF SCOTCH YOU FUCKIN’ HEATHEN

Too late, the sound of a door shutting overtakes the Cowboys angered rebuttal. He shakes his head and sits the bottle on his thigh, before focusing on the camera

Syn: What a week Rose. Dominant in and out of that ring. Nice reaction to my gentle prodding by the way

Shooter points to where his nose once was

Syn: Win after win, attacked by me, covered in blood by Red-X, won the Heavy Metalweight Championship

Shooter reaches off camera and pulls the belt in to shot

Syn: ‘N lost it again {Shooter winks at the camera} Lots of ups and downs in such a short time. ‘Have to ask though… Where exactly’s the “dominant force” you’re meant to be? What? Kicking shit out of two men in a bar? Sellin’ them like they’re your opponents? Oldest cliché in the promo book, and you’re lucky the protections Wrestling contracts give against the Law. Maybe another reason your old man got involved in the business eh?

The belt is slung over his shoulder and he reaches to refill his glass. The glug from the wide brim bottle satisfying to the ear.

Syn: Oh, you been winnin’ those matches, but you been losing them too. This belt {taps the belt with the glass, sending a little of the amber liquid over the metal}, The battle Royal I knocked your ass clean out of. Cheap move dragging me over by the way, but no less than what I expected of you. Still got what I went for… How’s your chest by the way? Ruby got it right, it does take a practiced hand. There’s a troop of horses out there that everyone KNOWS belong to Shooter cause of the brandin’ of my handprint on their hide. How’d you feel being part of my little herd Rose? I now got proof of ownership, but from the day I walked in here I knew your ass was mine.

The second glass is drained with an off-putting *schlick* as the last of the remnants pour down his throat, the “ahh” of satisfaction follows, but whether it’s the Scotch, or the fact he branded Russian Rose, isn’t clear. Maybe a combination of both

Syn: See, I been watching those promo’s Rose. You’re about as subtle as a popped eyeball. All silence when asked about your past, but damn well making sure every video mentions those mafia ties. Trying to implant fear into the heads of the locker room. Neither you nor your brother is as smart as you think you are. When we can see your hand then there ain’t no need for the poker face. I noticed what WAS absent however was any kind of response to what I said at you. Did it hit too close to home? Or were you scared that acknowledging it would make daddy think you were a fucking frightened bitch? No need to answer, I assume you won’t any way. Now, I’m gonna let some of this swelling go down, and watch as you take on your next big opponent. Don’t think for a second I’m done though. You may be seeing me sooner than you think

Shooter smiles, then winces as his nose wrinkles, while the camera fades to black

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