CRACK!

The ball explodes off the bat of Ellis' older brother Daniel and soars through the air, a zinging line drive that damn near takes the head off the fat, balding, bearded man playing shortstop. A riotous applause overtakes one side of the field behind the diamond, where the families of Daniel’s team gathered. Loudest of all being the members of Daniel’s family that showed up; his wife and 9 month old child, Ellis, Richie, and their mother.

Ellis, can of cheap booze in hand, lounges in a lawn chair seated next to Richie, who still hasn’t given up on the crossdressing look. The floral sundress being the only piece of women’s clothing he owns means he’s worn it every day for the past two weeks and shows no signs of switching it up any time soon. His face is still painted in that classic Juggalo fashion as well, much to the dismay of everyone related to him.

“Didn’t know you were courtin’ a ,” says a voice from behind Ellis, approaching the pair. Snickering, he takes a sip of his swill before looking over his shoulder at the source of the voice, his eyes widening as his eyes meet the source: a tall, well-built African-American man flanked by two others. With a scowl spread across his face, and his fingers wrapped around the handle of a Louisville Slugger, the man motions for Ellis to stand up, which he reluctantly does.

“I ain’t no ,” Richie exclaims, horrified by the remark, “and I’m his brother ya sicko.”

“Aight, so ya brotha’s a ,” the man responds, chuckling.

“Ya got a reason fer comin’ ‘round, boy?” Ellis says, spitting on the ground at the man’s feet. The man’s eyes go wide and he pulls the bat back, ready to swing. The commotion brings with it an audience however, and he returns the bat to his side upon seeing a bleacher full of eye witnesses at the very least.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Ellis remarks, laughing.

“You got a whole lotta nerve, laughin’ at me,” the man says, grabbing Ellis’ shirt and shoving him backwards a couple of inches.

“I got a lotta nerve?” Ellis asks. “Nah man, you got a lotta nerve marchin’ up ta me at my brother’s baseball game and threatnin’ me. Don’t ya know who runs this fuckin’ town?”

“Boys! Boys!” Ellis’ mother exclaims, exploding out of her chair and waddling over to the pair, separating them. “What is tha problem here?”

“Don’t act all innocent lady, I know what ya all about.” The man spits on the ground.

She squints her eyes, face turning red.

“You know what I’m all about, huh? I think yer lyin’, boy.”

“Oh yeah?”

“If you knew me in tha slightest, ya’d think twice ‘bout disrespectin’ me.”

“Pfft, I ain’t scared of some old cracka and her inbred boys.”

“Son of a bitch!” Ellis exclaims, before throwing a sucker punch that takes the man off his feet. He collapses on top of the man, throwing punch after punch while Richie explodes at the man nearest him, jamming his manicured nails into his face, clawing up his cheeks and eyes. Their mother stands, still wide eyed, urging them to stop. Neither son seems to hear her, however. The black man still on his feet grabs Ellis by the neck and pulls him up to his feet before tackling him and laying in a series of punches.

The one in charge, broken nose and all, gets back to his feet and cracks his neck.

“Keep a better hold on ya boys,” he says with chuckle, before extending his hand out towards their mother. She looks down at his hand and back at him, almost in time to see his other hand flying through the air before it clocks her in the chin. She falls backwards, collapsing to the ground like a ton of bricks.

“Shouldn’t have done that Ellis.”

The man waltzes over to where his man has Ellis pinned to the ground. The man restraining Ellis shoves his forearm into the back of Ellis’ neck, pinning his head to the ground. The leader raises his bat and lines up his swing, ready to crack Ellis right in the skull.

He pulls back.

The man on the ground points with his free arm, hoping to get his boss’ attention, to no avail. The man with the bat realizes all too late what’s going on when the bear in human skin known as Daniel Bolton collides with him, tackling him to the ground and sending the bat flying through the air where it lands on the ground, fifteen feet away.

Daniel drops bombs down on the man’s face, rearranging all his facial features until his face is little more than a mess of blood and swollen, purplish-red flesh. The man’s eyes puffy and swollen shut. Two of his teeth lay in the grass beside him.

That’s about the time the police show up. A swarm of uniformed officers of Whitley County’s finest converge on the field, breaking up all the altercations, and slap the cuffs on all six men involved in the scuffle, before throwing in them in the paddy wagon and driving off to the county jail.

---

Christopher Isles, ladies and gentlemen. If y’all cared enough about tha guy, then ya already heard what he’s had ta say about little ol’ me, and I bet yer all like me right now, scratchin’ yer heads an’ wonderin’ just what tha hell kinda shit’s wrong with his brain, right? What kinda bullshit mental disorder is he claimin’ he’s got? Fuckin’ ADD, ADHD, OCD, Whatever-Tha-Fuck-D or some other fake disease people claim ta get sympathy outta gullible fucks. I think ya got me confused, Chris. I ain’t some gullible fuck so if you come at me with yer typical braindead bullshit I ain’t gonna pat ya on the head and tell ya yer so brave or some shit. That ain’t who I am.

Then again, ya got no fuckin’ idea who I am, right? Ain’t that the whole grand message of this shit?

Problem fer you is I know exactly what kinda poor excuse for a man you are. Fer example, yer a lyin’ sonuvabitch. Talkin’ like ya don’t talk about people who don’t talk about ya when just a couple weeks ago ya could hardly hold back tha waterworks when that flake Abaddon didn’t see fit ta talk about ya. Get tha fuck outta here with that shit, boy. Just like tha rest of the pitiful state ‘a California, ya crave all tha attention ya can get and ya like ta flip tha fuck out when someone doesn’t think yer worth payin’ any attention to.

That’s just fuckin’ pathetic, boy. Completely and uttery fuckin’ pathetic.

Just like talkin’ down ta yer betters. You and yer boy sit there, puff out yer chests like big men and look down on The Dimallisher of all people? The former X-Treme Champion, former Tag Champion, while you’ve done what exactly, Chris?

That’s right, jack shit. Ya can focus on the former, and joke about how he lost it, but the fact ‘a the matter is he actually won it, somethin’ you ain’t done and won’t eva do, so shut yer fuckin’ mouth. Right, ya can’t. That whole desperately needin’ attention thing ya got goin’ on.

And since he values gettin’ attention over sayin’ shit that makes any kinda sense, he dropped this little gem ‘a stupid bullshit while holdin’ up a picture ‘a some actor he’s claimin’ is me or some bullshit.

Christopher Isles Said:I'd say that's you, but I won't stoop that low. Hell, I'm not as desperate Peter anyhow. Aside from that, I can no longer look at this guy the same way anymore. It's such an effeminate haircut on a hillbilly of a man. And that tiara only makes it that much better. Makes me wonder if I should start calling him Elly from now on.

That’s somethin’ he actually said. He’s sayin’ it ain’t me but then it is me and I’m laughin’ harder than he did when he came up with it, thinkin’ it was actually funny. Nah man, it’s only hilarious because yer a fuckin’ and can’t even keep a train of thought goin’ for longer than a couple ‘a seconds at a time. See what I mean when I bet he’s gonna claim he has somethin’ like ADD or whatever? Because he’s tha type ‘a guy ta make excuses like that.

Because he sure as hell can’t just come out and say he’s a fuckin’ , right? It’d ruin his whole imagined superiority to the actually Dimallisher, who I repeat, has done much more in this business than he ever will if he came out and said that. So what’s tha excuse Chris? ADD? Come on, just say it. I know yer dyin’ ta take that dumbass remark back already.

But hey, he’s goin’ deeper and deeper off that good ol’ contradiction slippery slope. Talkin’ ‘bout how appearances don’t matter and shit. Wanna know what else don’t matter much when it comes ta wrestlin’, boy? My personal life. And yet he wants ta bring that up, run my name through tha mud over some shit like that and act like he’s tha one focused. He’s got that ADD, right? He can’t focus on shit, let alone this match. He’s too busy jumpin’ around from not-as-clever-as-he-thinks-it-is insult ta insult, makin’ jokes and talkin’ ‘bout literally anythin’ else under tha sun, like how I’m a follower fer not bein’ another oh so tough lone wolf and havin’ people ta watch my back because he knows if he started talkin’ about anythin’ that actually mattered he’d realize just how fucked he really is. He can puff out his chest all he wants and claim that some redneck ain’t gonna stop him from achievin’ his goals and he’s sorta right.

Some redneck ain’t gonna do that.

This redneck’s gonna do that.

Hell, I can’t even take all the credit for that either. His own fuckin’ incompetence is gonna bury him further than I ever could. Congratulations, Chris. Somethin’ yer better than me at other than whorin’ fer attention: sinking yer own career.