You know where we are. Sittin’ on the porch, hound dog sprawled on the bottom step, curl of smoke in the air, scuffed boots propped on the railing, and some old school rock music spilling out an open window.

“And Sammy T proves, once and for all, that his true colors are just shades of yeller.”

Cure fake clapping. The hound lifts his head, huffs, and rolls over.

“Nice job Sammy. Not only are you a back jumper, but you’re not even man enough to use your fists and feet, you’re so chicken shit afraid of what I can do to you, you had to grab a fire extinguisher and sneak up behind me like a little thief.”

“Nice.”

Note the sarcasm.

“The sad part is. It took me letting you do it before you dared make a move. Face to face you ran your mouth like a little bitch, threw in a million and one sexual references, then stood there ranting like a two year old when I laughed in your face.”

Now cure some more laughter.

“But turn my back. Walk away, oh you can manage plenty then, can’t you Sammy? Ever think about why I was standing there? Ever think about why I chose to walk when you were heading my way? Wanted ta see if you suffered from Kevin Cage syndrome…gotta say, I was kinda wishing you’d have been just a smidge more original.”

More laughter.

“Oh well, least it wasn’t a kendo stick, that would have been way too cliché.”

He reaches down, scratches the dogs ears now and chuckles.

“See this is the part where I’m supposed to get all upset and threaten you. That’s what you were after, right? Bring me down to your level, trade some insults, bait me into some wild brawl in the back where no one gets to see exactly what it is I do to you? Hate ta break it to ya Sammy, but that ain’t happenin’.”

More chuckling.

“Nope, not happenin’ at all. What Imma do to you is the ‘rasslin’ equivalent of slut shammin’ and when I’m done, ‘bout the only thing you’ll be able ta pick up is a piece of yer mama’s frield chicken. Too bad ya won’t have any teeth left ta chew it.”

Black

Static

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