I have it. It guides me. It enlightens me. And it’s my job to inform you…
Zeb Martin is in danger.
Now the majority of you clueless nincompoops will take that comment at face value and apply it to the obvious: our pending engagement of fisticuffs. You will choose to see it as a warning. A declaration of intent. A verbal pinky promise.
Sure, it’s a warning. It’s my intention. My pinky is extended. The dangers I present to Zeb are VERY real. Some wounds to lick. A first round exit. An overall shitty start to his new year.
But that’s not what I’m talking about.
I’m talking about someone near and dear to his heart. A complete psychopath lurking just beneath his nose. An unsympathetic, backwoods murderer with a taste for blood…
DUN DUN DUN!
‘You’re crazy, Ted’ they’ll say. ‘That sassy, southern teenybopper?’ They’ll mock. ‘Teddy is scared of girls!’ They’ll tease.
Grow up people. It’s 2021. We live in an age of equal rights. Fear doesn’t see gender!
I ask you, has anyone ever watched Dexter? Well I have, all eight seasons to be exact. And Kendra Martin? That girl has all the character traits of a serial killer. She might well be the main villain of the upcoming revival. I mean, just take a long, deep look into those cold eyes of hers.
Oh she’d definitely find herself on Dexter’s table. I doubt naked though, that’d be highly inappropriate. Some lines you just don’t cross…
Oh, you think this is funny? This is one big joke to you? Take a moment, go back, and listen to her very chilling threat. Don’t want to? That’s okay, I’ll give you the cliff notes version: She said she was going to kill me.
No lie. She intends to stick her hunting knife in my belly. She wants to gut Teddy Bear Palmer. That’s sick. Disgusting. Depraved.
And being the selfless man that I am, I am going to save you, Zeb.
I can be your hero, baby…
Let me ask you this: What do you think awaits you back in Dueling Banjos, Georgia when you return a loser? A comforting hug and some good southern eats? Wrong! A fuckin’ hunting knife in your belly! I can live with whoopin’ your ass. What I can’t live with is your blood on my hands.
So I’ve plotted out a foolproof scheme.
Have you ever watched Kingpin? The classic friendship tale of Roy Munson and Ishmael Boorg? Who am I kidding, of course you haven’t. No chance the Martin’s had a VCR, let alone a DVD Player.
So just listen to my words, then stream it on sissy’s MacBook after for reference slash motivation.
Roy is a former bowling superstar, whose career is tragically cut short. He saves and mentors a poor Amish boy, Ishmael, from a shitty life of being, well Amish. He introduces him to the kickass lifestyle of being a bowler. They hustle money, goto Las Vegas, meet some chicks. It’s awesome. And it can be us.
In case you didn’t quite follow, I’m Roy, your Ishmael.
That’s right Zeb. I know it’s all clicking for you now. I think? I hope. Let me just spell it out for you. I, Teddy Palmer, want to be your mentor. I want to save you from the cousin lovin’ ways of the south.
And your sister, of course.
Our journey will begin with me beating the shit out of you. Why? Simple: you need to learn how to get back up after getting knocked down. It’s like the prototypical first lesson of success, so don’t read too much into it.
From there, we travel together. We eat together. We train together. Round by round, I succeed and that success rubs off on you. You’ll learn the world has many beautiful sights to see and lessons to learn well beyond what your shack on the corner of ‘Purdy Mouth Lane’ and ‘Bareback Boulevard’ has to offer.
The ultimate lesson comes with a DeNucci Cup win for moi. We celebrate like there’s no tomorrow. You witness first hand the hardships I face in my journey. We exit the mentorship stage and become equals.
Best friends even…
Or you can take your beating, go home, and try your luck with stabby stabby.
I win regardless. Why not prosper in the long run?
I’m sorry I had to butt fuck your mind.