Richard Blonoff
Make America Rassle Again
Deadline is Tuesday, July 21st at 11:59PM CST. Extensions available upon request.
MD 120: Max Steele vs. ???
- Thread starter Richard Blonoff
- Start date
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Richard Blonoff
Make America Rassle Again
Deadline has been extended by 24 hours.
Soviet Scientists are on the verge of creating an Army of fully sentient Ninja Sharks. Like a bloodhound, the only thing Max Steele needed was a hint of Communism, just a mere scent of Vodka or evil was more than enough to set Max off on a journey where he was a rebel who played by his own rules. A loose cannon that bent the rules to his will. A rulebreaker that broke rules for fun. Something something witty and funny, yeah Max Steele is a badass.
"Russian Tea Party"
September 20th - 1973 2200 hours
Captain Max Steele aka Your Mommy's Real Daddy
Azov, U.S.S.R
The infamous Black Hitler and Baby Stalin were arriving slowly to the docks of Azov in Russia. It was only fall, but the Russian weather was cold, and fierce like Elvis without his coke. The two were at the head of a long convoy of trucks towing water tanks filled with Ninja Sharks. The sharks dressed in all black and armed with samurai swords. They were bred for death and destruction of the Navy forces of the world. Rumor had it that a ninja shark could tear through the hull of a Carrier ship in mere minutes.
Baby Stalin and Black Hitler were in the truck at the head of the convoy of flatbed trucks pulling shark tanks filled with literal, super serious Nazi ninja sharks that could kill an Airship Carrier in mere minutes because it's super serious and not joking.
Black Hitler: It is really quiet Comrade, too quiet
Baby Stalin: Comrade you need to watch yourself before da wreck yourself. The only ones who know about this shipment of Ninja Nazi sharks are you, me, and our troops. There is no way that blasted Max Steele could stop us this time!
Black Hitler, the proud woman of color who pushed for not only the advancement of the Aryan Race, but for Communism. Hitler sighed and looked out the window carefully watching the sides of the docks in case the American blooded hero Max Steele were to barge in and ruin their Nazi Shark parade.
But for the moment, Max Steele was no where to be seen, Communist troops began to set up a perimeter to guard against Max Steele. Slowly the first truck started to back into the dock. Everything seemed to go to plan which led to a cocky monologue from Baby Stalin.
Baby Stalin: Ah yes, the evilest of all evil plans will finally be completed. No longer can the United States or England can impose their massive Naval units against us. They'll be defeated and thwarted by the wrath of sharks that are also ninjas and can totally sink carrier ships in mere minutes because of their ninja prowess and shark. And with the Navy crippled and destroyed by our totally OP pimp ass beast Shark Ninjas. In this monologue, I will capture the essence of my evil plans to bring about Communism to the world! Bwhahahaha *poot*
While Baby Stalin was going to speak on dreadfully long, and utterly boring diatribe against Western Capitalism Baby Stalin made a poopy in his diapers. Stalin and Hitler sat in silence and looked at each other before Stalin cleared his throat and commented.
Baby Stalin: Are you going to get that?
Black Hitler: Ew no of course not, why do I have to change your diaper?
Baby Stalin: Do you not remember the time I saved your life from Max--
Before Max could finish the awkwardly forced character insight into the dynamic between a talking baby and black Hitler, Max Steele emerged from the water as if he was fired out of a cannon. In each hand was a large tuna fish, which he used to slap down and knock out the soldiers.
Max Steele: Prepare to feel the STELEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Baby Stalin: No not again! Comrades, release the sharks, now quickly!
Max Steele being a master genius and battlefield wizard, Steele could deduce that the sharks clad with ninja swords and trained since birth in the arts of the ninja were up to no good. Steele using his tuna nunchakus defeated as many of the arm soldiers as he could, but the truck began to unload the sharks. It was too late for Max!
Black Hitler: You can not stop us this time Steele! Nazi Ninja Sharks that can totally rip right through the hull of an aircraft carrier, attack!
Soon, three of the sharks took to the shore, they were using their athletic sense of balance to stand upon their bottom fin and weave their ninja blades in the air. Max had to back up and gain some space between him and the sharks. Soon he backed up against a electric transformer, and a gallon of water. Max came up with an idea only he can perform due to his almost superhumanly durable body.
Max Steele: You know what you jabronis need? Electric shark therapy!
Max then took the gallon of watter and guzzled it into his mouth. Then with a mighty punch, he slammed into the transformer. The energy surged through him, and when the thousand upon thousands of volts in his body, Max spat out the electrified water at the sharks, killing the ninjas instantly.
Black Hitler: Damn you Max Steele you're killing our sharks!
Baby Stalin: Cheese it, Comrade!
Stalin and Hitler than ran to safety, grabbing onto lamp posts before activating the secret ejection pods inside of them. Successfully propelling Stalin and Hitler to safety.
"The Monologue Man"
Right after Meltdown
Captain Max Steele aka The guy who should have beat Constantine
Some stupid country that isn't America
Max Steele was brought to the trainers area knocked out cold. The old, withered man had already been through so much. He has survived wars, and bled for the country. While the delusions in his mind still ravage his mind, Max Steele has fought through to at least give the image he could be a functioning grandfather for his family. But the fight can never end for him, even if he were dropped on his already fragile head by creeps who get by speaking on speeches that just last way too long and drag on for what feels like an eternity.
Jonathan Red: Wake up, Max. Come on old man you need to get up.
Red was standing over Steele at the trainer room while the medical team work on the bruises on the American war hero.
Trainer: It's a miracle this man isn't dead. A man his age shouldn't be jogging, let alone wrestling against former champions like Constantine.
Jonathan Red: But he'll be good to go for next week right? For my plan-- I mean, our family needs him to compete again soon. This means a lot to Steele.
Trainer: Do you not see the trauma that happened to his head, we should just be grateful that their isn't a gash or otherwise I would suggest he retire early.
Max Steele: I ain't got time to bleed.
Slowly Max Steele awoke from the vicious knockout he had suffered from the bag wearing freakshow. If there was anything Max still had after all these years of fighting evil and tyranny, Max had his pride. The man sat up despite the pain and the aches in his body. He turned his head to his son in law and grunted.
Max Steele: You told me I would be fighting Team Russia, where is Team Russia!
Trainer: You didn't tell him?
Max turned and gripped the trainer and shook him and shouted with bloodlust and anger in his eyes.
Max Steele: Tell me what, commie? That the weirdo I just fought is a commie too!? He walked and talked just like one of 'em. Just like the freak I fought at camp Crystal Lake I tell yeah!
Jonathan rushed over to remove the vice grip Max had on the trainer who just pooped himself in fear while Jonathan shouted.
Jonathan Red: Max relax, Max just take a breath! Okay look, that was a random match-up round. You will get your shot against them soon, I promise.[/color]
The trainer shook in fear and tried to speak up. He wanted to tell Max that Team Russia left the company months ago. But after having the dookie scared out of him he wouldn't say anymore. Max started to cool down from Jon's words, but the ire was still strong.
Max Steele: Well I want 'em and I'll fight up the cards until I get both of those Commie loving jabronis in my hands for the fat boy! Who do I got next, Jon? And more importantly, do I need to sit somewhere by myself and brood to beat them?
Jonathan just looked confused and shook his head before looking through the emails from WZCW management.
Jonathan Red: Well, it says here in this attachment that despite the loss, the company is glad to hire war veterans that can contribute to the company in the capacity that you are capable of. After debuting on a show where the matchups were completely randomized, next week you will be facing up against a mystery opponent... wow that's a bit messed up, ain't it?
Max Steele was going to speak but then his nose flared up and looked around.
Max Steele:What's that smell?
The trainer started to tear up and run out of the trainers room shouting
Trainer: Dooooookieeeeee
Max Steele: Dookie?
Jonathan squinted and looked at the sight of the medical trainer that the War Veteran literally scared into losing control of his anus and running down the halls to announce it.
Jonathan Red: Right whatever, okay Max if you wanna get to Team Russia. And I mean if you really want to stick it to them and the Communist sympathizers you need to start building up some wins.
Max Steele:Okay
THE END
"Russian Tea Party"
September 20th - 1973 2200 hours
Captain Max Steele aka Your Mommy's Real Daddy
Azov, U.S.S.R
The infamous Black Hitler and Baby Stalin were arriving slowly to the docks of Azov in Russia. It was only fall, but the Russian weather was cold, and fierce like Elvis without his coke. The two were at the head of a long convoy of trucks towing water tanks filled with Ninja Sharks. The sharks dressed in all black and armed with samurai swords. They were bred for death and destruction of the Navy forces of the world. Rumor had it that a ninja shark could tear through the hull of a Carrier ship in mere minutes.
Baby Stalin and Black Hitler were in the truck at the head of the convoy of flatbed trucks pulling shark tanks filled with literal, super serious Nazi ninja sharks that could kill an Airship Carrier in mere minutes because it's super serious and not joking.
Black Hitler: It is really quiet Comrade, too quiet
Baby Stalin: Comrade you need to watch yourself before da wreck yourself. The only ones who know about this shipment of Ninja Nazi sharks are you, me, and our troops. There is no way that blasted Max Steele could stop us this time!
Black Hitler, the proud woman of color who pushed for not only the advancement of the Aryan Race, but for Communism. Hitler sighed and looked out the window carefully watching the sides of the docks in case the American blooded hero Max Steele were to barge in and ruin their Nazi Shark parade.
But for the moment, Max Steele was no where to be seen, Communist troops began to set up a perimeter to guard against Max Steele. Slowly the first truck started to back into the dock. Everything seemed to go to plan which led to a cocky monologue from Baby Stalin.
Baby Stalin: Ah yes, the evilest of all evil plans will finally be completed. No longer can the United States or England can impose their massive Naval units against us. They'll be defeated and thwarted by the wrath of sharks that are also ninjas and can totally sink carrier ships in mere minutes because of their ninja prowess and shark. And with the Navy crippled and destroyed by our totally OP pimp ass beast Shark Ninjas. In this monologue, I will capture the essence of my evil plans to bring about Communism to the world! Bwhahahaha *poot*
While Baby Stalin was going to speak on dreadfully long, and utterly boring diatribe against Western Capitalism Baby Stalin made a poopy in his diapers. Stalin and Hitler sat in silence and looked at each other before Stalin cleared his throat and commented.
Baby Stalin: Are you going to get that?
Black Hitler: Ew no of course not, why do I have to change your diaper?
Baby Stalin: Do you not remember the time I saved your life from Max--
Before Max could finish the awkwardly forced character insight into the dynamic between a talking baby and black Hitler, Max Steele emerged from the water as if he was fired out of a cannon. In each hand was a large tuna fish, which he used to slap down and knock out the soldiers.
Max Steele: Prepare to feel the STELEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Baby Stalin: No not again! Comrades, release the sharks, now quickly!
Max Steele being a master genius and battlefield wizard, Steele could deduce that the sharks clad with ninja swords and trained since birth in the arts of the ninja were up to no good. Steele using his tuna nunchakus defeated as many of the arm soldiers as he could, but the truck began to unload the sharks. It was too late for Max!
Black Hitler: You can not stop us this time Steele! Nazi Ninja Sharks that can totally rip right through the hull of an aircraft carrier, attack!
Soon, three of the sharks took to the shore, they were using their athletic sense of balance to stand upon their bottom fin and weave their ninja blades in the air. Max had to back up and gain some space between him and the sharks. Soon he backed up against a electric transformer, and a gallon of water. Max came up with an idea only he can perform due to his almost superhumanly durable body.
Max Steele: You know what you jabronis need? Electric shark therapy!
Max then took the gallon of watter and guzzled it into his mouth. Then with a mighty punch, he slammed into the transformer. The energy surged through him, and when the thousand upon thousands of volts in his body, Max spat out the electrified water at the sharks, killing the ninjas instantly.
Black Hitler: Damn you Max Steele you're killing our sharks!
Baby Stalin: Cheese it, Comrade!
Stalin and Hitler than ran to safety, grabbing onto lamp posts before activating the secret ejection pods inside of them. Successfully propelling Stalin and Hitler to safety.
"The Monologue Man"
Right after Meltdown
Captain Max Steele aka The guy who should have beat Constantine
Some stupid country that isn't America
Max Steele was brought to the trainers area knocked out cold. The old, withered man had already been through so much. He has survived wars, and bled for the country. While the delusions in his mind still ravage his mind, Max Steele has fought through to at least give the image he could be a functioning grandfather for his family. But the fight can never end for him, even if he were dropped on his already fragile head by creeps who get by speaking on speeches that just last way too long and drag on for what feels like an eternity.
Jonathan Red: Wake up, Max. Come on old man you need to get up.
Red was standing over Steele at the trainer room while the medical team work on the bruises on the American war hero.
Trainer: It's a miracle this man isn't dead. A man his age shouldn't be jogging, let alone wrestling against former champions like Constantine.
Jonathan Red: But he'll be good to go for next week right? For my plan-- I mean, our family needs him to compete again soon. This means a lot to Steele.
Trainer: Do you not see the trauma that happened to his head, we should just be grateful that their isn't a gash or otherwise I would suggest he retire early.
Max Steele: I ain't got time to bleed.
Slowly Max Steele awoke from the vicious knockout he had suffered from the bag wearing freakshow. If there was anything Max still had after all these years of fighting evil and tyranny, Max had his pride. The man sat up despite the pain and the aches in his body. He turned his head to his son in law and grunted.
Max Steele: You told me I would be fighting Team Russia, where is Team Russia!
Trainer: You didn't tell him?
Max turned and gripped the trainer and shook him and shouted with bloodlust and anger in his eyes.
Max Steele: Tell me what, commie? That the weirdo I just fought is a commie too!? He walked and talked just like one of 'em. Just like the freak I fought at camp Crystal Lake I tell yeah!
Jonathan rushed over to remove the vice grip Max had on the trainer who just pooped himself in fear while Jonathan shouted.
Jonathan Red: Max relax, Max just take a breath! Okay look, that was a random match-up round. You will get your shot against them soon, I promise.[/color]
The trainer shook in fear and tried to speak up. He wanted to tell Max that Team Russia left the company months ago. But after having the dookie scared out of him he wouldn't say anymore. Max started to cool down from Jon's words, but the ire was still strong.
Max Steele: Well I want 'em and I'll fight up the cards until I get both of those Commie loving jabronis in my hands for the fat boy! Who do I got next, Jon? And more importantly, do I need to sit somewhere by myself and brood to beat them?
Jonathan just looked confused and shook his head before looking through the emails from WZCW management.
Jonathan Red: Well, it says here in this attachment that despite the loss, the company is glad to hire war veterans that can contribute to the company in the capacity that you are capable of. After debuting on a show where the matchups were completely randomized, next week you will be facing up against a mystery opponent... wow that's a bit messed up, ain't it?
Max Steele was going to speak but then his nose flared up and looked around.
Max Steele:What's that smell?
The trainer started to tear up and run out of the trainers room shouting
Trainer: Dooooookieeeeee
Max Steele: Dookie?
Jonathan squinted and looked at the sight of the medical trainer that the War Veteran literally scared into losing control of his anus and running down the halls to announce it.
Jonathan Red: Right whatever, okay Max if you wanna get to Team Russia. And I mean if you really want to stick it to them and the Communist sympathizers you need to start building up some wins.
Max Steele:Okay
THE END
Richard Blonoff
Make America Rassle Again
Smoke bellows high into a dead sky. Night is here, but darkness cannot follow. This is the end of the world and it deals only in extremes. Either light constantly reigns supreme and devours your energy, or you are constantly suppressed by an ever-grey atmosphere. It is summer now, and the snows of last winter have passed, though they will return in due course, and while the ice has thawed, there remains a chilly atmosphere. Welcome to Deadhorse, Alaska.
Hostility is rife in this, the worlds true end. One guarantee dominates the skyline and casts a shadow long and hard. It stains the ground, it poisons souls and it has claimed many a man, woman and child: oil. That is the lifeblood of this settlement, its thick black liquid bubbling away to employ most of the towns men and many of the women too. It breathes life into an otherwise unliveable piece of land, but it also keeps it tainted. Like a drug it must be stopped and yet it cant and it wont. Many a man can tell a tale of this putrid substance that would send a chill up and down your spine. Many a man has lost a finger, an eye, a limb, a life.
We are not concerned with many men though, we are concerned with but one and he has been hooked on this drug of oil and lived in eternal addiction for long past remembering. Like the rigs and drills that create shade in the suns permanent summer glow, he is a giant, one with thick, scraggily black hair, though receding. Adding to this is an unkempt, untameable beard, thick and bristly. He seems to wear the uniform of a man past caring workmans boots, a stained white top, what were once pale blue jeans. Then there are the marks. Some men scar themselves with ink and others have had scars done unto them without consent, without artistic design or creative input. This man is one of those.
His left side reads like a mosaic of torture: there are scars upon scars ripping and tearing through his left arm. It is as if he has been slit by a thousand shards time and again, torn asunder over and over. The original tissue which was perforated has long since been replaced with new tissue. It has not been torn in a good long while, but to touch it is to remember and to return to the pain of the moment. In the night it creates a shadowed pattern that illustrates a different soul to the rest of Deadhorse. And then there is the face and the burns.
This is the risk men take coming to Deadhorse. Oil is the business of the day and with it there are hazards. This man knew that and his face has been ignited and set ablaze several times. Yet still he returns and asks for more like a junky in desperate need of that fix. He would rather deaths black liquid took him and burnt him asunder than succumb to his own bottomless pit of vile and evil. Something lurks inside this man, but he hides it underneath this scarred, unmistakable exterior. These burns adorn the same side, the left side; the chosen side of a man named, ironically, Abel, Abel Hunnicutt to be exact.
Hunnicutt finds himself trapped in a metronomic system. In search of that drug, he wakes up early, puts on those jeans, those boots, that top, and rides out onto the rig. He punches in, takes to climbing atop it and drills deep, searching boring into the very soul of the earth. It is hard work, aggressive work, but its worth the reward. As little pools begin to emerge or a new coat of velvety black coats the drill, Abel knows he has what hes searching for: success oil! His reward though is not the same as everyone elses.
Many dream of making it big in that oil industry. Most in Deadhorse simply want to survive through it. Hunnicutt wants to use it. Not all his past pain and suffering is caused by oil. In many ways oil is purity and beauty. Its blackness is pure, untainted by the vileness of humanity. For Abel, his pursuit is in forgetting, repressing and neglecting his inner demons. Many fall prey to addiction and in a bid to forget one such case, he has taken up another. The oil must be drilled and his soul must be cleansed by it. This is the system that he has designed for himself less he unleash something far worse upon the world.
After a long days work into the night, Abel concludes and goes home to eat and sleep and then repeat. He doesnt socialise. He doesnt have friends. He doesnt make calls. He doesnt have any family. There is but one exception to this rule: in a bid to maintain the existence steam must be let off from time to time: on a Friday night he takes an hour to drink a whisky or two at The Big Rig a local bar frequented by some of the toughest men in town. Most leave Abel be. He means no harm and causes no fuss. Occasionally some come looking for trouble and on this night, as fate would have it, trouble came a knocking
Three men enter the bar. The bar is crowded, filled with music half a century old on a crackly old record. Country, of course. The regular frequenter will receive a stern nod from the thick moustached barman. These men draw nothing but blank stares though. They wear flannel coated with fur, untouched, gleaming black boots, gold and shiny belt buckles and the neatest cowboy hats youve ever seen. These are fancy boys indeed and they stagger in, drunk as skunks. Sauntering in, their supposed leader gives a wink to a waitress and licks his lips. She looks disgusted. One of his lackeys snickers; the other gives her a wink.
The trio saddle up to the bar and take a stand next to Abel, who is nursing a small alcoholic beverage. He doesnt even glance at them. Enthusiastically the leader holds up his middle the three fingers, his hand wavering. No reaction from the barman. Again the leader emphasises the three fingers. The barman looks at all three, the two flankers on a scouting mission, looking around the bar in opposite directions. Then he looks back at the leader. He shakes his head.
Leader: Smatter?
Barman: Yer drunk. Too drunk.
Leader: So?
Barman: Yall look like the type to cause trouble.
The leader dramatically puts his hands to his chest as if to say who, me? Then he chuckles, checking with his cohorts, who also laugh on command. They turn but swiftly the leader drives a fist into the bar. The barman is unmoved. Abels attention is finally drawn, his eyes drifting to the fist, little ripples appearing in his beverage tranquillity disturbed.
Leader: If ya want trouble, me an mah boys are prepared to deliver
Hes dead serious, if not slurred in his delivery. One of the lackeys laughs; the other takes a deep snort, a wide grin creeping on his face. They now have Abels full attention. He turns his head to stare at the leader, who in turn realises hes being watched by the man mammoth.
Lackey #1: Careful Bugs, looks like the freaks got a thing for ya.
All three drunkards laugh. Bugs stops and so do his followers. He takes a deep sniff off his finger.
Bugs: That true? Ya got a thing for me, freak?
Abel sizes Bugs up. He cant be anymore than 510. Looks like hes probably rich enough to own Abels whole world even though hed never understand it. Hes gotten too big for his britches. Someones got to cut him down but not Abel. He just needs to drink and bury his addictions under new ones. He takes a hit of his drink and turns away. Bugs doesnt like that.
Bugs: Ya hear me freak? Eh? EH?!?
He pushes Abel. Then he does it again to the head. Hunnicutt bites his lip, closes his eyes and begins to count to ten. 1 2
Lackey #2: Boys getting off on the pain.
3 4
Lackey #1: Maybe hes one of those SMN types
Lackey #2: SNM, ya idjut.
7 8
Bugs: That right boy? Ya one of dem sado-maso-chists? That how ya got these scars, freak?
10. Abel stands up. They take a step back, failing to comprehend his true size. He slowly stands and stares at them. His fists are balled up. The drunkards are scared but ready to pile in like hyenas. The music stops, but the record continues to scratch along. Abel takes a five dollar bill from his jeans and hands it to the barman. He strides past the trio. They watch and begin to cackle.
Bugs: Go on boy, skee-daddle, take one in the rump for ol Bugs an the boys, ya hear?
Abel stops.
Abel: See me outside. Now.
Abel continues his march to the exit. None of the trio move. One of the lackeys gulps. Bugs pushes the two forward to follow. A man in a large brown hat and overcoat enters, watching as Abel exits. He turns to the trio, Bugs pushing the other two still as they dig their heels in. This stranger chuckles and shakes his head before heading over to the bar. He knows what is about to follow. The trio disappear beyond the walls of the bar.
The stranger receives the nod from the barman and has a drink poured for him. Then there comes a crash through the door. Bugs, looking in rough shape, comes flying in. His coated flannel is torn, his shoes scuffed and hat nowhere to be found, a cut adorns his right eye and he seems to have lost a few teeth. Then Abel enters, the same as he left. Slowly he walks to toward the ignorant fool.
Bugs: Im sorry man. Please. Im sorry. Smatter, cant ya hear me, Im sorry!
Certain that damnation awaits, Bugs closes his eyes and clasps his hands together as if to prey to God. Abel just keeps on walking though, right past him, as if he doesnt even exist. After a few moments pass, Bugs realises what has happened and crawls out of the bar as fast as humanly possible. He vanishes into the night while Abel takes his seat back at the bar.
Abel: I changed my mind. Id like another cold one.
As the barman pours Abels request, the record finally changes to another country track. The stranger lets out a belly laugh and Abel looks at him. Suddenly the stranger begins to sing the lyrics:
Stranger: Was a cowboy I knew in south Texas,
His face was burnt deep by the sun,
Part history, part sage, part mesquite,
He was there when Poncho Villa was young
Abel smirks, revealing a dead tooth and raises his glass to the stranger who reciprocates and takes a swig. Putting his glass down, he leans on the bar and begins to take his hat off and speak in a distinctly pronounced and dignified manner:
Stranger: Abel Hunnicutt, my name is Steven Holmes. You may not have heard of me, but my dear man, I know a good deal about you
Hostility is rife in this, the worlds true end. One guarantee dominates the skyline and casts a shadow long and hard. It stains the ground, it poisons souls and it has claimed many a man, woman and child: oil. That is the lifeblood of this settlement, its thick black liquid bubbling away to employ most of the towns men and many of the women too. It breathes life into an otherwise unliveable piece of land, but it also keeps it tainted. Like a drug it must be stopped and yet it cant and it wont. Many a man can tell a tale of this putrid substance that would send a chill up and down your spine. Many a man has lost a finger, an eye, a limb, a life.
We are not concerned with many men though, we are concerned with but one and he has been hooked on this drug of oil and lived in eternal addiction for long past remembering. Like the rigs and drills that create shade in the suns permanent summer glow, he is a giant, one with thick, scraggily black hair, though receding. Adding to this is an unkempt, untameable beard, thick and bristly. He seems to wear the uniform of a man past caring workmans boots, a stained white top, what were once pale blue jeans. Then there are the marks. Some men scar themselves with ink and others have had scars done unto them without consent, without artistic design or creative input. This man is one of those.
His left side reads like a mosaic of torture: there are scars upon scars ripping and tearing through his left arm. It is as if he has been slit by a thousand shards time and again, torn asunder over and over. The original tissue which was perforated has long since been replaced with new tissue. It has not been torn in a good long while, but to touch it is to remember and to return to the pain of the moment. In the night it creates a shadowed pattern that illustrates a different soul to the rest of Deadhorse. And then there is the face and the burns.
This is the risk men take coming to Deadhorse. Oil is the business of the day and with it there are hazards. This man knew that and his face has been ignited and set ablaze several times. Yet still he returns and asks for more like a junky in desperate need of that fix. He would rather deaths black liquid took him and burnt him asunder than succumb to his own bottomless pit of vile and evil. Something lurks inside this man, but he hides it underneath this scarred, unmistakable exterior. These burns adorn the same side, the left side; the chosen side of a man named, ironically, Abel, Abel Hunnicutt to be exact.
Hunnicutt finds himself trapped in a metronomic system. In search of that drug, he wakes up early, puts on those jeans, those boots, that top, and rides out onto the rig. He punches in, takes to climbing atop it and drills deep, searching boring into the very soul of the earth. It is hard work, aggressive work, but its worth the reward. As little pools begin to emerge or a new coat of velvety black coats the drill, Abel knows he has what hes searching for: success oil! His reward though is not the same as everyone elses.
Many dream of making it big in that oil industry. Most in Deadhorse simply want to survive through it. Hunnicutt wants to use it. Not all his past pain and suffering is caused by oil. In many ways oil is purity and beauty. Its blackness is pure, untainted by the vileness of humanity. For Abel, his pursuit is in forgetting, repressing and neglecting his inner demons. Many fall prey to addiction and in a bid to forget one such case, he has taken up another. The oil must be drilled and his soul must be cleansed by it. This is the system that he has designed for himself less he unleash something far worse upon the world.
After a long days work into the night, Abel concludes and goes home to eat and sleep and then repeat. He doesnt socialise. He doesnt have friends. He doesnt make calls. He doesnt have any family. There is but one exception to this rule: in a bid to maintain the existence steam must be let off from time to time: on a Friday night he takes an hour to drink a whisky or two at The Big Rig a local bar frequented by some of the toughest men in town. Most leave Abel be. He means no harm and causes no fuss. Occasionally some come looking for trouble and on this night, as fate would have it, trouble came a knocking
Three men enter the bar. The bar is crowded, filled with music half a century old on a crackly old record. Country, of course. The regular frequenter will receive a stern nod from the thick moustached barman. These men draw nothing but blank stares though. They wear flannel coated with fur, untouched, gleaming black boots, gold and shiny belt buckles and the neatest cowboy hats youve ever seen. These are fancy boys indeed and they stagger in, drunk as skunks. Sauntering in, their supposed leader gives a wink to a waitress and licks his lips. She looks disgusted. One of his lackeys snickers; the other gives her a wink.
The trio saddle up to the bar and take a stand next to Abel, who is nursing a small alcoholic beverage. He doesnt even glance at them. Enthusiastically the leader holds up his middle the three fingers, his hand wavering. No reaction from the barman. Again the leader emphasises the three fingers. The barman looks at all three, the two flankers on a scouting mission, looking around the bar in opposite directions. Then he looks back at the leader. He shakes his head.
Leader: Smatter?
Barman: Yer drunk. Too drunk.
Leader: So?
Barman: Yall look like the type to cause trouble.
The leader dramatically puts his hands to his chest as if to say who, me? Then he chuckles, checking with his cohorts, who also laugh on command. They turn but swiftly the leader drives a fist into the bar. The barman is unmoved. Abels attention is finally drawn, his eyes drifting to the fist, little ripples appearing in his beverage tranquillity disturbed.
Leader: If ya want trouble, me an mah boys are prepared to deliver
Hes dead serious, if not slurred in his delivery. One of the lackeys laughs; the other takes a deep snort, a wide grin creeping on his face. They now have Abels full attention. He turns his head to stare at the leader, who in turn realises hes being watched by the man mammoth.
Lackey #1: Careful Bugs, looks like the freaks got a thing for ya.
All three drunkards laugh. Bugs stops and so do his followers. He takes a deep sniff off his finger.
Bugs: That true? Ya got a thing for me, freak?
Abel sizes Bugs up. He cant be anymore than 510. Looks like hes probably rich enough to own Abels whole world even though hed never understand it. Hes gotten too big for his britches. Someones got to cut him down but not Abel. He just needs to drink and bury his addictions under new ones. He takes a hit of his drink and turns away. Bugs doesnt like that.
Bugs: Ya hear me freak? Eh? EH?!?
He pushes Abel. Then he does it again to the head. Hunnicutt bites his lip, closes his eyes and begins to count to ten. 1 2
Lackey #2: Boys getting off on the pain.
3 4
Lackey #1: Maybe hes one of those SMN types
Lackey #2: SNM, ya idjut.
7 8
Bugs: That right boy? Ya one of dem sado-maso-chists? That how ya got these scars, freak?
10. Abel stands up. They take a step back, failing to comprehend his true size. He slowly stands and stares at them. His fists are balled up. The drunkards are scared but ready to pile in like hyenas. The music stops, but the record continues to scratch along. Abel takes a five dollar bill from his jeans and hands it to the barman. He strides past the trio. They watch and begin to cackle.
Bugs: Go on boy, skee-daddle, take one in the rump for ol Bugs an the boys, ya hear?
Abel stops.
Abel: See me outside. Now.
Abel continues his march to the exit. None of the trio move. One of the lackeys gulps. Bugs pushes the two forward to follow. A man in a large brown hat and overcoat enters, watching as Abel exits. He turns to the trio, Bugs pushing the other two still as they dig their heels in. This stranger chuckles and shakes his head before heading over to the bar. He knows what is about to follow. The trio disappear beyond the walls of the bar.
The stranger receives the nod from the barman and has a drink poured for him. Then there comes a crash through the door. Bugs, looking in rough shape, comes flying in. His coated flannel is torn, his shoes scuffed and hat nowhere to be found, a cut adorns his right eye and he seems to have lost a few teeth. Then Abel enters, the same as he left. Slowly he walks to toward the ignorant fool.
Bugs: Im sorry man. Please. Im sorry. Smatter, cant ya hear me, Im sorry!
Certain that damnation awaits, Bugs closes his eyes and clasps his hands together as if to prey to God. Abel just keeps on walking though, right past him, as if he doesnt even exist. After a few moments pass, Bugs realises what has happened and crawls out of the bar as fast as humanly possible. He vanishes into the night while Abel takes his seat back at the bar.
Abel: I changed my mind. Id like another cold one.
As the barman pours Abels request, the record finally changes to another country track. The stranger lets out a belly laugh and Abel looks at him. Suddenly the stranger begins to sing the lyrics:
Stranger: Was a cowboy I knew in south Texas,
His face was burnt deep by the sun,
Part history, part sage, part mesquite,
He was there when Poncho Villa was young
Abel smirks, revealing a dead tooth and raises his glass to the stranger who reciprocates and takes a swig. Putting his glass down, he leans on the bar and begins to take his hat off and speak in a distinctly pronounced and dignified manner:
Stranger: Abel Hunnicutt, my name is Steven Holmes. You may not have heard of me, but my dear man, I know a good deal about you
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