Post by Deleted on Nov 3, 2019 2:33:58 GMT -5
The shot opens to a multicolored background with wood paneling to accent the walls. From it plays Johnny Cash’s rendition of “Big Iron” summoning the strutting jack daddy of Trinity Wrestling, the incomparable Sam Laramie. His all denim getup matches nothing but his matching cow pattern ten-gallon hat and bolo tie. His jiving only matches his intense vogue’ing into frame.
“Some days, ya just gotta shake what ya mama gave ya. But hey, welcome to the rancho del Laramie, and here, we treat everyone like family. Because you are family at Sam’s Fry Bucket. Traditional from heart to heart… and we know our way around a bird. You’ll swear it was grand mama in the kitchen fanning herself by a big ole vat of oil. That’s the Laramie promise.”
The shot cuts away to a chicken doing an “Oh no!” face. It then hard cuts back to Sam in the studio set, except he now has a comically sized cleaver and is chasing a man in a chicken suit.
“We get our meat… fresh on Tuesdays and serve them on Tuesdays… and you’ll the special—now get on back here, chicken!
They have a Scooby – Doo© chases sequence where even the chicken gets a glamorous albeit chaotic close up. There’s an ill-placed sound effect of what supposed to be a “Ba-Gawk!” as Sammy is leaning on the counter. He recovers from the stitch in his side when the chicken is seen sneaking off screen.
“We don’t mess around when it… when it comes to our chicken. From the oil to those secret-recipe spices, you can always expect more when you come to Sam’s Fry Bucket. And while we may not be open on a Sunday… there will always be sandwiches on the menu.”
He winks. The camera then pans over to the chicken who’s still sneaking on its tiptoes. Only then do we see Sam give chase again. A final graphic for the restaurant closes the baffling yet comical ad.
Sam: Hey daddy, you were great out there.
Curtis: Thank you, sir. Do I get paid now… or?
Sam: Ya flag down Jennie. She’s got cash and all. Over at the pay windah, young man.
Curtis: Ok. Say, do we really need the chicken suit? I can make chicken sounds… like, good ones.
He pulls the kid to his side for a reluctant lecture.
Sam: I built this place from the ground up, Curtis. Remember what you told me last summer?
Curtis: I mean, I was like 16, Mr. Laramie. And you never said anything about no chicken suit.
Sam: Maybe so. But you also got to go to prom last spring. Didn’t ya?
Curtis: Yes, sir.
Sam: Trust the process young’an. These times pass. And you’ll see, it’ll all get better.
Sam sends the young man home with a check to cash at Western Union. Although his spunk, admittedly, was something the old timer needed to see. He liked spunk. Kids with the moxie to speak up and try new things. All his staring garners the attention of Jennie, their producer and a third cousin on his daddy’s side. Her cowgirl red blazer and jade bolo pendant gave Sammy a jump.
Jenny: You like him still? Or do I gotta find us a new Roscoe Rooster?
Sam: Jennie, ya gonna be the death of me, woman.
Jenny: It’s just you look tired.
Sam: Nah, I’m good.
Jenny: Not sleep tired… us everything okay?
He tries to escape her grasp by heading to the catering section. He picks a combo of two thighs and drumstick from a communal chafing dish. Jennie rides up next to him with a sharp point into his flabby shoulder. Sam nearly deflates on contact.
Jenny: Are you really worried about the restaurant, Sammy? Or is that wrestling gig getting you down?
Sam: Girl, I’m not down. I’m stuck in the moment.
Jenny: Star struck? Or is it stage fright, knowing you’ll have to compete with the likes of Addy or Thomas Snow? I know you’re off right now. We all are, Sam.
Sam: I’m not “off” Jennie. I’m at the biggest crossroads of my entire life. A new career making thrice what I did last year slinging country-fried drumsticks like sultan. Small town at heart, but big city strutting like any alley cat on a hot date. I’m Sammy Laramie, don’cha know, and I don’t take “no” for answer… unless, of course, we’re talking—
Jenny: Right…
Sam: But when you asked me that same question last week. What’d I tell ya, mama?
Jenny: You said that you were ready for whatever the ring is going throw at you.
Sam finds solace in a director’s chair—one bearing Jennie’s married name of Goshen—while one of the PA’s assists with his makeup. In only a few short minutes, he transforms from Sam Laramie, chicken overlord, into “Big Daddy” Sam with puffed silver and gold curls permed just right. He then steps in front of a curtain where a number of local reporters await. His wrestling gear sets them off into tangents.
Sam: Look here, boys n’ girls, the heart and soul of West Virginia might be fading away with the loss of coalmines. But we’re getting stronger, and more importantly, everyone’s getting closer. Bonds of brotherhood—sisterhood too—unity that makes you feel for the soul of the land I grew from since I was only a weenie sprout. Keep that in mind when you address those sons and daughters of the hills.
Reporter: We’re not always convinced when someone makes the leap from regular life into the wrestling ring. How are you handling the transition, Sam?
Sam: Good to see you too, Ned. How’s them triplets?
Ned: They’re great.
Sam: And how’s Bethany?
Ned: Everybody’s good… but what about your transition?
Sam: Right, got me all runny like mac n’ cheese. The transition has been a team effort. Jennie is my rock, but there’s more than her behind my success thus far. Ya see, it takes a team to get past the barriers. There’s an image problem, of course, cause I got dimples where it don’t smile. Little more cauliflower than smooth butter—of ya know what I mean.
Ned: What has been the most challenging aspect?
Sam: Now let’s not hog the room, Ned. But for you old buddy, I’ll talk. My fitness wasn’t lacking so much as my knees. Now a purest would say I’m giving away trade secrets before the big fight. Truth is, if ya don’t think my biscuit butt has aches and arthritis, then ya ain’t paying attention. I’ll be 58 in January, daddy, and the trunk ain’t gonna any better than it did in ’93. Hell… we running outta spare parts.
Reporter 2: And what would those be, Mr. Laramie?
Sam: enchante… and for you my dear, you can call me Sammy.
Reporter 2: That’s fine… but you said spare parts—
Sam: A little ribbing baby girl. Sorry if I’m tap dancing too much for ya. We’ll do like Ms. Bowerman said in the third grade: “Don’t mince your words, Sammy. Tell it like it is. And remember… be nobody but you.” I’d say it stuck… since like, we put it on my poster after all.
Ned: She was a character all right.
Sam: Bless her heart, living out them golden years in Fort Lauderdale.
Reporter 2: May I ask what you need to be successful in Trinity Wrestling? This is a top-of-the-line promotion whose quality shows has the internet buzzing every week—
Sam: Buzzing like bees, miss…
He motions for her to speak while dabbing his glistening forehead. All those production lights have him melting like a lump of antebellum butter.
Daisy: Daisy Fairchild, but Daisy is fine too.
Sam: There we go… more honey means more flies, baby girl. And since you look fresh outta J-school, I’ll assume you know the difference between a man’s stories and his metaphors.
Daisy: Similes, actually.
Sam: Say wha’ now?
Daisy: You propose them with “like” or “as” to make them funnier. And it works, of course. But you use those more than complex metaphorical language.
She looks around seeing that entire presser has gone dead silent. Sam even seems slightly diffused, until he sends a mighty bolt of personality into his personalized lectern, spitting fire from the dais in southern Baptist tradition.
Sam: She’s right. And all you boys had to check your phones and style logs. This little hummingbird knows what she’s talking about. So let me divert us one last time, y’all. Miss Daisy, can you drive us home from that Piggly Wiggly?
Daisy: I don’t know about… no, you’re right. A final question for you, Mr. Laramie. We see new talent in companies like Trinity burn out before they began. The old saying of “flash in the pan” types of excitement. What can these fans expect of you, and will it be for long?
Sam: You harping about my age, honey?
Daisy: No, sir… I only meant that you the usual model a modern company looks to employ for a long stint. Will age and style affect your longevity in this young but thriving promotion—that’s more of what I mean… without offense, correct?
Sam: My future is my own. And, we don’t wanna give away everything my opposition can use against me. Y’all just going to need to watch the show and find out what Big Daddy Sam is all about. I’ll catch you kids later.
He walks into a door leading a room offsite. Two PA’s show up to help him undress from that clunky outfit into something more comfortable: A Mountaineers T-shirt, mangy gym shorts and bright orange Crocs. The taller more robust woman is his hairdresser with the ungodly job of untangling his sweaty length of graying blonde horsehair.
Sam: Yeow! Watch them tangles, Debbie.
Debbie: I will when you stop fidgeting and playing with ya phone, sweet pea.
Sam: You know how to shake it. But oh mama, do you know how ta to stick it too. Damn, girl!
Debbie: Oh you behave.
Those two old friends jabber back and forth while his clothier spends her time neatly putting things into massive laundry bags. Sam pays her no mind while ripping jokes back and forth with his beautician. The sight he bares when that curious reporter returns for a couple more questions. Neither bat an eye to her and that yellow legal pad she seems to prefer over a cellphone recording.
Daisy: Mr. Laramie, your manager said I could—
Sam: Jennie let ya in… Welp, go ahead and get comfy. You see this hair. Most people wouldn’t believe I spend over three hours a week getting it right.
Debbie: You mean I Do.
Sam: Right, right. But anyways, let’s here what you got on that mind of yers.
Daisy flips through her notes before raising an inquiring pen.
Daisy: What do you believe is your real weakness?
Sam looks to his stylist, waving her off for a private chat with this little firebrand.
Sam: I’m an open book.
Daisy: Great, so can I—
Sam: Except you have no idea how to read it. Now little miss do-good, I’m a patient man. I’m a father, and it comes by nature, but this is different. You are trying to expose me in that little book of yours. I know where this goes. But do you, Daisy? Because I’m not sure you do.
Daisy: It’s a sports article.
Sam: Look kid, with all due respect, you can’t possibly think it’s that simple. See, someone put you one assignment to get the scoop on my camp. I’m but one wrestler amongst the storm. One piece to a giant puzzle nobody needs to finish. When you ask things that are detrimental to my style, and more so, our ability to succeed in Trinity… like what are really doing?
Daisy: People eat this kind of content up. It’s sure to get tons of clicks. Also, wresting fans deserve—
Sam: Big Daddy is aware of what his people want. They need leadership and an example to follow. This company suffers from the fact that nobody is pushing the pace. Nobody wanting to go a bridge too far and get pie on his or her face. But that’s what it takes to push the meter in the right direction. I am ready to be that benchmark. The same way I did twenty-three years ago after exiting a state penitentiary, Daisy, and even that is nothing these last few minutes. We build and rebuild until the day we fade. Until then, I’m gonna ride the end of a lightning bolt—ya feel me?
Daisy: Crystal clear.
Sam: Look, when I have my debut against Jock Wilson, there’s going to be ring-rust. No one can return to form without some time to rebuild. I learn that the hard way all those years ago. Before the first bite of my first batch of fried chicken. All I know is wrestling after chicken. Although I’m beginning to see that the loose and showy style of Jock Wilson is going to be a welcomed sight in the Trinity ring. And Ms. Daisy, if you want to talk shop ya daddy, let me know. That ring waits for nobody—not even the pope or Reggie Wayne can be perfect without a warmup. Jock won’t get me at 100%, and for that I have to say sorry to Mr…
Daisy: Are you sure you need to be civil? Why not take advantage?
Sam: Daisy, girl, you are one dedicated thinker. It’s something to admire in most cases. Today, however, it only prevents me from being real. So let’s leave my premier match under the rug, all right. Jock Wilson will be ready. The only thing left is to know him better. Jock is an example of someone from an older era. He’s trapped in an older decade, only continuing stuff from the old times. Well I am fresh out of the over. Not the newest or even close second… but at least I come into this fresh.
Daisy: So you’re confident?
Sam Absolutely, my dear. Big Daddy knows how to handle himself in the ring. So let’s get the most important question on your little minds: Food.
- cut to black
“Some days, ya just gotta shake what ya mama gave ya. But hey, welcome to the rancho del Laramie, and here, we treat everyone like family. Because you are family at Sam’s Fry Bucket. Traditional from heart to heart… and we know our way around a bird. You’ll swear it was grand mama in the kitchen fanning herself by a big ole vat of oil. That’s the Laramie promise.”
The shot cuts away to a chicken doing an “Oh no!” face. It then hard cuts back to Sam in the studio set, except he now has a comically sized cleaver and is chasing a man in a chicken suit.
“We get our meat… fresh on Tuesdays and serve them on Tuesdays… and you’ll the special—now get on back here, chicken!
They have a Scooby – Doo© chases sequence where even the chicken gets a glamorous albeit chaotic close up. There’s an ill-placed sound effect of what supposed to be a “Ba-Gawk!” as Sammy is leaning on the counter. He recovers from the stitch in his side when the chicken is seen sneaking off screen.
“We don’t mess around when it… when it comes to our chicken. From the oil to those secret-recipe spices, you can always expect more when you come to Sam’s Fry Bucket. And while we may not be open on a Sunday… there will always be sandwiches on the menu.”
He winks. The camera then pans over to the chicken who’s still sneaking on its tiptoes. Only then do we see Sam give chase again. A final graphic for the restaurant closes the baffling yet comical ad.
Sam: Hey daddy, you were great out there.
Curtis: Thank you, sir. Do I get paid now… or?
Sam: Ya flag down Jennie. She’s got cash and all. Over at the pay windah, young man.
Curtis: Ok. Say, do we really need the chicken suit? I can make chicken sounds… like, good ones.
He pulls the kid to his side for a reluctant lecture.
Sam: I built this place from the ground up, Curtis. Remember what you told me last summer?
Curtis: I mean, I was like 16, Mr. Laramie. And you never said anything about no chicken suit.
Sam: Maybe so. But you also got to go to prom last spring. Didn’t ya?
Curtis: Yes, sir.
Sam: Trust the process young’an. These times pass. And you’ll see, it’ll all get better.
Sam sends the young man home with a check to cash at Western Union. Although his spunk, admittedly, was something the old timer needed to see. He liked spunk. Kids with the moxie to speak up and try new things. All his staring garners the attention of Jennie, their producer and a third cousin on his daddy’s side. Her cowgirl red blazer and jade bolo pendant gave Sammy a jump.
Jenny: You like him still? Or do I gotta find us a new Roscoe Rooster?
Sam: Jennie, ya gonna be the death of me, woman.
Jenny: It’s just you look tired.
Sam: Nah, I’m good.
Jenny: Not sleep tired… us everything okay?
He tries to escape her grasp by heading to the catering section. He picks a combo of two thighs and drumstick from a communal chafing dish. Jennie rides up next to him with a sharp point into his flabby shoulder. Sam nearly deflates on contact.
Jenny: Are you really worried about the restaurant, Sammy? Or is that wrestling gig getting you down?
Sam: Girl, I’m not down. I’m stuck in the moment.
Jenny: Star struck? Or is it stage fright, knowing you’ll have to compete with the likes of Addy or Thomas Snow? I know you’re off right now. We all are, Sam.
Sam: I’m not “off” Jennie. I’m at the biggest crossroads of my entire life. A new career making thrice what I did last year slinging country-fried drumsticks like sultan. Small town at heart, but big city strutting like any alley cat on a hot date. I’m Sammy Laramie, don’cha know, and I don’t take “no” for answer… unless, of course, we’re talking—
Jenny: Right…
Sam: But when you asked me that same question last week. What’d I tell ya, mama?
Jenny: You said that you were ready for whatever the ring is going throw at you.
Sam finds solace in a director’s chair—one bearing Jennie’s married name of Goshen—while one of the PA’s assists with his makeup. In only a few short minutes, he transforms from Sam Laramie, chicken overlord, into “Big Daddy” Sam with puffed silver and gold curls permed just right. He then steps in front of a curtain where a number of local reporters await. His wrestling gear sets them off into tangents.
Sam: Look here, boys n’ girls, the heart and soul of West Virginia might be fading away with the loss of coalmines. But we’re getting stronger, and more importantly, everyone’s getting closer. Bonds of brotherhood—sisterhood too—unity that makes you feel for the soul of the land I grew from since I was only a weenie sprout. Keep that in mind when you address those sons and daughters of the hills.
Reporter: We’re not always convinced when someone makes the leap from regular life into the wrestling ring. How are you handling the transition, Sam?
Sam: Good to see you too, Ned. How’s them triplets?
Ned: They’re great.
Sam: And how’s Bethany?
Ned: Everybody’s good… but what about your transition?
Sam: Right, got me all runny like mac n’ cheese. The transition has been a team effort. Jennie is my rock, but there’s more than her behind my success thus far. Ya see, it takes a team to get past the barriers. There’s an image problem, of course, cause I got dimples where it don’t smile. Little more cauliflower than smooth butter—of ya know what I mean.
Ned: What has been the most challenging aspect?
Sam: Now let’s not hog the room, Ned. But for you old buddy, I’ll talk. My fitness wasn’t lacking so much as my knees. Now a purest would say I’m giving away trade secrets before the big fight. Truth is, if ya don’t think my biscuit butt has aches and arthritis, then ya ain’t paying attention. I’ll be 58 in January, daddy, and the trunk ain’t gonna any better than it did in ’93. Hell… we running outta spare parts.
Reporter 2: And what would those be, Mr. Laramie?
Sam: enchante… and for you my dear, you can call me Sammy.
Reporter 2: That’s fine… but you said spare parts—
Sam: A little ribbing baby girl. Sorry if I’m tap dancing too much for ya. We’ll do like Ms. Bowerman said in the third grade: “Don’t mince your words, Sammy. Tell it like it is. And remember… be nobody but you.” I’d say it stuck… since like, we put it on my poster after all.
Ned: She was a character all right.
Sam: Bless her heart, living out them golden years in Fort Lauderdale.
Reporter 2: May I ask what you need to be successful in Trinity Wrestling? This is a top-of-the-line promotion whose quality shows has the internet buzzing every week—
Sam: Buzzing like bees, miss…
He motions for her to speak while dabbing his glistening forehead. All those production lights have him melting like a lump of antebellum butter.
Daisy: Daisy Fairchild, but Daisy is fine too.
Sam: There we go… more honey means more flies, baby girl. And since you look fresh outta J-school, I’ll assume you know the difference between a man’s stories and his metaphors.
Daisy: Similes, actually.
Sam: Say wha’ now?
Daisy: You propose them with “like” or “as” to make them funnier. And it works, of course. But you use those more than complex metaphorical language.
She looks around seeing that entire presser has gone dead silent. Sam even seems slightly diffused, until he sends a mighty bolt of personality into his personalized lectern, spitting fire from the dais in southern Baptist tradition.
Sam: She’s right. And all you boys had to check your phones and style logs. This little hummingbird knows what she’s talking about. So let me divert us one last time, y’all. Miss Daisy, can you drive us home from that Piggly Wiggly?
Daisy: I don’t know about… no, you’re right. A final question for you, Mr. Laramie. We see new talent in companies like Trinity burn out before they began. The old saying of “flash in the pan” types of excitement. What can these fans expect of you, and will it be for long?
Sam: You harping about my age, honey?
Daisy: No, sir… I only meant that you the usual model a modern company looks to employ for a long stint. Will age and style affect your longevity in this young but thriving promotion—that’s more of what I mean… without offense, correct?
Sam: My future is my own. And, we don’t wanna give away everything my opposition can use against me. Y’all just going to need to watch the show and find out what Big Daddy Sam is all about. I’ll catch you kids later.
He walks into a door leading a room offsite. Two PA’s show up to help him undress from that clunky outfit into something more comfortable: A Mountaineers T-shirt, mangy gym shorts and bright orange Crocs. The taller more robust woman is his hairdresser with the ungodly job of untangling his sweaty length of graying blonde horsehair.
Sam: Yeow! Watch them tangles, Debbie.
Debbie: I will when you stop fidgeting and playing with ya phone, sweet pea.
Sam: You know how to shake it. But oh mama, do you know how ta to stick it too. Damn, girl!
Debbie: Oh you behave.
Those two old friends jabber back and forth while his clothier spends her time neatly putting things into massive laundry bags. Sam pays her no mind while ripping jokes back and forth with his beautician. The sight he bares when that curious reporter returns for a couple more questions. Neither bat an eye to her and that yellow legal pad she seems to prefer over a cellphone recording.
Daisy: Mr. Laramie, your manager said I could—
Sam: Jennie let ya in… Welp, go ahead and get comfy. You see this hair. Most people wouldn’t believe I spend over three hours a week getting it right.
Debbie: You mean I Do.
Sam: Right, right. But anyways, let’s here what you got on that mind of yers.
Daisy flips through her notes before raising an inquiring pen.
Daisy: What do you believe is your real weakness?
Sam looks to his stylist, waving her off for a private chat with this little firebrand.
Sam: I’m an open book.
Daisy: Great, so can I—
Sam: Except you have no idea how to read it. Now little miss do-good, I’m a patient man. I’m a father, and it comes by nature, but this is different. You are trying to expose me in that little book of yours. I know where this goes. But do you, Daisy? Because I’m not sure you do.
Daisy: It’s a sports article.
Sam: Look kid, with all due respect, you can’t possibly think it’s that simple. See, someone put you one assignment to get the scoop on my camp. I’m but one wrestler amongst the storm. One piece to a giant puzzle nobody needs to finish. When you ask things that are detrimental to my style, and more so, our ability to succeed in Trinity… like what are really doing?
Daisy: People eat this kind of content up. It’s sure to get tons of clicks. Also, wresting fans deserve—
Sam: Big Daddy is aware of what his people want. They need leadership and an example to follow. This company suffers from the fact that nobody is pushing the pace. Nobody wanting to go a bridge too far and get pie on his or her face. But that’s what it takes to push the meter in the right direction. I am ready to be that benchmark. The same way I did twenty-three years ago after exiting a state penitentiary, Daisy, and even that is nothing these last few minutes. We build and rebuild until the day we fade. Until then, I’m gonna ride the end of a lightning bolt—ya feel me?
Daisy: Crystal clear.
Sam: Look, when I have my debut against Jock Wilson, there’s going to be ring-rust. No one can return to form without some time to rebuild. I learn that the hard way all those years ago. Before the first bite of my first batch of fried chicken. All I know is wrestling after chicken. Although I’m beginning to see that the loose and showy style of Jock Wilson is going to be a welcomed sight in the Trinity ring. And Ms. Daisy, if you want to talk shop ya daddy, let me know. That ring waits for nobody—not even the pope or Reggie Wayne can be perfect without a warmup. Jock won’t get me at 100%, and for that I have to say sorry to Mr…
Daisy: Are you sure you need to be civil? Why not take advantage?
Sam: Daisy, girl, you are one dedicated thinker. It’s something to admire in most cases. Today, however, it only prevents me from being real. So let’s leave my premier match under the rug, all right. Jock Wilson will be ready. The only thing left is to know him better. Jock is an example of someone from an older era. He’s trapped in an older decade, only continuing stuff from the old times. Well I am fresh out of the over. Not the newest or even close second… but at least I come into this fresh.
Daisy: So you’re confident?
Sam Absolutely, my dear. Big Daddy knows how to handle himself in the ring. So let’s get the most important question on your little minds: Food.
- cut to black