Things had been quiet on the James plot up in the mountains of West Virginia. Since he'd not been wrestling so much, he'd been less likely to come home from some booking which led to some crazy adventure which led to the Hillbilly Jesus having too much money for his own good and a lot of stirred up aggression.

Hell, the last few months had been mostly quiet, Frank had gone back to the generations old family business, the production of corn whiskey, and he'd put most of his focus on the proof of his product and the day to day urgencies of living off of the land in the mountain wilderness.

That was until last week's edition of Heritage TV.

For whatever reason ye olde Mastadon of the Mountains had found himself in a fistfight with the Chinese former sumo sensation, Jan Gin Xiao. Now, Jan could pontificate all he liked about the reasoning of said fight, but Frank Dylan James didn't have the understanding required to pronounce the word 'pontificate,' let alone spend any time doing it.

The fact of the matter is that Jan was taking too long in the buffet-line, and Frank had been eyeballing a certain square of cheese that just happened to be the last thing that Jan had picked up before being accosted by the Rambunctious Redneck. 

With all of that said, it's no wonder that ol' Frank found himself out on the back forty, his hair matted with sweat and the rest of his giant frame glistening and slick from a long days work. He was shirtless and shoeless and one of the straps of his overalls hung broken and the denim looked to have not seen the wash in the better part of a week.

Frank bent over, again, and he grabbed a great big sack of something, lifted it up over his head, and threw it right back down onto the ground with force. One thing that a lot of people had found out the hard way was that to go along with a tolerance for whiskey that was completely off the charts, but his size and his life in the mountains and sheer dumb luck had left him retard strong and big enough to bodyslam an ox.

That's right, a by God real true to life ox.

He bent over again, lifted the giant bag of something again, and then turned to face the camera with wild eyes and a crazy beard.

"Lissen here ya big dumb baaaaaaysterd!" he snorted. "I done go'd and filled this here bag with as much ​sheeeeeeeeeeeyit​ as'n ah could find!"

Frank smiled his broken-toothed grin.

"I figger if'n ah practice pickin' this up an slammin' it back ta th' groun, it won't be nuffin' to pick a big Oh. Rie. Innal.sack'a shit lahk you up an bodyslam yer big slanty-eyed ass in th' middle'a that rasslin-rang an git me some points fer this hurr Heritage Leagamajigger!"

He bodyslams the bag of shit one more time.

"Then, ah can be the MASTER'A RASSLIN' an git me that big, shiny cup on that there trophy, an' ah c'n fill it full'a West Virginny's FINEST corn whiskey!

Another pause.

"Now what'choo baysterds thank about that?"

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