Post by Furious Julius Fairweather on Jan 11, 2021 18:37:23 GMT -5
Winston Winfield: “Julius Fairweather. The Weatherman. The Shepherd of Lost Souls. The Most Suave Mother Fucker on Twitter. My boss. My friend. My inspiration. But just who is this tall, dark, handsome, and explicit man? I’m glad you asked, my friends…”
The middle-aged man known as Winston Winfield sits upon an extravagantly hand-carved wooden chair with velvety red cushions. He is wearing a long, dark red robe over his light grey suit, tied around the waist with a black belt. When he finishes his opening monologue, he places a pipe between the thin lips that rest below his pencil moustache, and gives it a few healthy puffs. Upon his lap is an open book, as if he is prepared to read us an adored piece of classic literature. Behind him, a fireplace crackles, providing a warm contrast to the cold January evening outside of his window. Exhaling a large cloud of swirling smoke, Winston places his pipe in the ashtray upon his chairside table, next to his glass of expensive brandy.
Winston Winfield: “The story of “Furious” Julius Fairweather is not one that you may expect, for it is certainly not the story of origin that many of us have become accustomed to. This is not a man who grew up aspiring to be in the wrestling business. He did not grow up on the streets of Detroit with visions of becoming an NCAA All-American, a Golden Gloves Boxing Champion, or an MMA stand-out. Despite the rumors, he was not bitten by a radioactive Samuel L. Jackson, nor was he the victim of gamma radiation after the dropping of an experimental F-Bomb. His parents were not gunned down in an alley, and he was not the last son from a dying world of bad mother fuckers.”
The eloquent looking emcee then gives the camera a knowing smile.
Winston Winfield: “No, my friends. The story of Julius Fairweather...the story I’m about to tell you and the re-enactment you are about to watch...is much more interesting…”
The image of Winston begins to fade away, slowly replaced by a scene of Detroit’s urban streets. We see a child, no more than the age of 10, walking alone upon these streets, his afro both untamed yet impressive. He is dressed in simple clothes acquired from the local thrift shop, which hang off his skinny frame in an unflattering matter. Yet despite the poverty he finds himself in, this child does not seem concerned by the world around him. Instead, he smiles proudly and struts with a purpose. That is, until he passes by an apartment building where five teenage boys loiter on the steps. One of the teens nudges another, nodding his head in the younger boy’s direction. With wicked smiles, the group leaves their spots on the apartment’s steps one-by-one and move to surround the young boy.
Bully Numero Uno: “Well look what we’ve got here! If it isn’t little Julius, the one-and-only son of Mr. Samuel L. Jackson himself!”
The other boys laugh as young Julius tries to ignore them and push his way past to no avail.
Bully The Second: “What’s the matter, Sam Jr.? Don’t want to tell us what a bad little motherfucker you are?”
Bully Part 3: “Shit, if that little fucker is Sam’s kid then I’m Kobe’s little brother!”
The denial of his believed parentage suddenly wipes the carefree smile from young Julius’ face, only to be replaced by an expression of anger and frustration.
Young Julius: “Mr. Sam Jackson is my daddy! My momma tol’ me so! An’ I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger, those who attempt to poison and destroy my momma! An’ you will know I’m Sam’s kid when I lay my vengeance upon-*”
Young Julius is unable to finish his threat however, as the more matured fist of one of the teen boys comes crashing against his nose. Skinny little Julius is easily knocked off his feet, sending a signal to his bullies that seems to scream easy prey. The five boys begin to kick at the child, unconcerned with matters such as compassion or restraint. At that moment, Julius’ story could have ended before it had a chance to begin. Fortunately for the boy, his own apartment building was not far away, and his mother just happened to make her way onto the front step as he was being mercilessly stomped against the sidewalk. Wielding a broom in ways that young Julius had not seen outside of Afro Samurai, his mother swooped upon the bullies with her own version of great vengeance and furious anger.
Momma Fairweather: “Leave that boy alone, motherfuckers! I’ll whip your asses so hard that your great grandbabies be askin’ for reparations! Ya hear?!”
The broom handle cracks against one boy's skull before jabbing into the midsection of another. With an impressive twirl, it then sweeps another of the bully’s legs out from under his body, before swinging up to catch the fourth in the tender eggs nested beneath his basketball shorts. Witnessing the fury of one angry mother, the fifth boy opts to retreat and save his testicles for future use.
Momma Fairweather: “And don’t you forget that motherfuckin’ whoopin’ I just handed your asses! Touch my boy again an’ I’m gonna eat your little testes with a motherfuckin’ smile on my motherfuckin’ face!”
As the teens continue to scramble for safety, Momma Fairweather gives them a bug-eyed glare that could cripple anyone faint of heart. Once they have retreated to a safe distance, she tucks her makeshift weapon under her arm and leans over to pull little Julius to his feet. Once she sees that he is okay, Momma Fairweather then proceeds to smack him across the back of his head.
Momma Fairweather: “Did you go mouthin’ off to them boys about being Sam Jackson’s boy again? What did I tell you about that? Momma had a lot of Hennessy that night, and just because a motherfucker looks like Samuel L. Jackson and might even claim to be Samuel L. Jackson, doesn’t actually mean he’s the real motherfucker!”
Now little Julius knew better than to talk back to his momma, but he believed the story of his parentage in his heart to such a degree that he could not help himself.
Young Julius: “But Mr. Sam is my daddy, momma! He’s just gotta be!”
It earns him another swift smack to the back of his head.
Momma Fairweather: “I’m fixin’ to break your little ass and throw out that motherfuckin’ Pulp Fiction poster if you don’t straighten your shit out, motherfucker! Now we’re gonna find some way to put some muscle on your skinny ass before you get killed out here! An’ there’s gotta be somebody in the big ol’ city that can teach you how to back up all that motherfuckin’ Sam Jackson shit!”
Then, after seeing the sadness upon her only son’s face, Momma Fairweather feels her own frustration begin to fade. She gives him a half-smile and a concerned shake of her head as she pulls a tissue from her pocket and dabs it against the blood coming from his nose.
Momma Fairweather: “Alright now, enough of this. Momma got you a surprise today…”
Young Julius looks up at his momma with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Young Julius: “Does that mean…”
Momma Fairweather: “I done rented that Shaft movie you been wantin’ to see, but I’ve only got the motherfucker for another 20 hours an’ my ass ain’t payin’ no late fees, motherfucker!”
Young Julius: “Momma! You’re the best!”
The boy then gives his mother a quick hug before rushing past her toward the exterior of his apartment building. With her samurai broom in hand, Momma Fairweather can only shake her head and wonder what the future might bring for her only son. The scene then fades away, once again replaced by the image of Winston Winfield as he takes a sip from his glass of brandy. With a satisfied smile, he sets the glass next to his pipe in order to continue his narration of the video reenactment.
Winston Winfield: “So you see, as hard as it may be to believe, even a suave motherfucker like our dear Julius was once a child full of hopes and dreams. And while he may not have been the biological offspring of the great Samuel L. Jackson, young Julius continued to look up to the characters he portrayed as his role models. When his mother found him a wrestling and boxing coach at the local YMCA, he learned to back up his claims of being a bad motherfucker. Eventually, some years later, young Julius would have his opportunity to show just how bad he could really be.”
Once again, the image of Winston fades away and is replaced by that same street in urban Detroit. Only this time it is not a young Julius of no more than ten walking the street, but a teenage Julius who has started to fill out his tall and lean frame with wiry muscle. Despite his added height and mass, Julius is still wearing the exact same clothes as he did on that day of ritual beating years prior. No longer baggy and unflattering, the tee shirt and shorts have become tight and revealing. Instead of the mocking voices of the older boys, he hears the catcalls of women leaning out their apartment windows. The smile and stride of confidence not only remain, but each has grown in their wideness and swagger. Even his afro is less untamed, and miraculously even more glorious than before. It looks as if teen Julius does not have a care in the world, that is until he passes by the same group of unruly bullies he had met those many years ago. Now in their 20’s, it quickly becomes clear that the young men have long forgotten Momma Fairweather’s warning.
Bully Numero Uno: “Look what we got here, boys! If it ain’t Sam Jackson Jr. strutting around like he owns the place!”
Much like they had done when Julius was little, the young men leap off the steps of the apartment building and quickly surround their prey.
Bully the Second: “Where you goin’ in them tight, short shorts, Sammy Jr.?
Bully Part 3: “Shit, if that motherfucker’s Sam’s boy, then I’m LeBron’s little brother!”
Teen Julius hangs his head and shakes it in disappointed fashion. Then, seconds later, he slowly raises his head back up to face his antagonists. His eyes are nearly bulging from their sockets, like distant black planets in a sea of white space. It is a look that gives the young men pause.
Teen Julius: “Some motherfuckers always tryin’ to ice skate uphill…”
Making a rare break from quoting his idol to pay tribute to Wesley Snipes, Julius lets the young men know that he’s serious. Yet if any doubts still remain, his quick series of rabbit-like jabs to the first bully’s face erase them completely. Those first strikes are followed up by a strong uppercut that effectively removes the first bully from play. Two others rush forward to get involved, but having raised himself on choreographed fight scenes, Julius ducks under the first swing, allowing the young man to hit his friend instead. Julius deftly wraps his arms around the waist of the man who took the swing and transitions to a go-behind, before effortlessly slamming him down to the sidewalk with a waist-lock takedown.
With two of the bullies down, he avoids the swing of a third, once again executing a go-behind in order to lock him in a rear-naked chokehold. When the fourth bully moves to aid his friend, Julius uses his victim’s own body as a weapon, shoving him out of the brief chokehold to knock heads with his oncoming savior. He then leaps toward one of the men, picking him off the ground with a double-leg takedown before pouncing on top of him with a flurry of rights and lefts. Yet despite how his efficiency at combat has improved, this proves to be a near-fatal mistake. While holding one of his opponents on the ground, Julius fails to notice one of the thugs pull a knife from his pocket. He does not see the blow coming, thus he has no opportunity to defend himself. He only feels the sharp steel pierce the skin under his tee shirt and dig deep into his succumbing flesh. Fortunately, that is the same moment that Momma Fairweather emerges from her apartment building, having traded in her broom for a hand-held Dirt Devil. She rushes toward the crowd intent on cracking some skulls, but the sight of her son bleeding on the pavement throws her off her game.
Momma Fairweather: “My baby! They done stabbed my baby!”
The realization of what they’ve done seems to sink into the minds of Julius’ attackers, and fearing the consequences of their actions even more than Momma Fairweather’s ability to use cleaning appliances as weapons, they quickly rush away from the scene. She rushes to her son’s side, not bothering to watch the young men flee in a panic, and wraps her arms around him tightly.
Momma Fairweather: “Somebody call an ambulance! They done stabbed my baby boy!”
She puts her hand against Julius’ cheek while holding him up with her other arm, desperately saying anything that comes to her mind in order to keep him focused and alert.
Momma Fairweather: “I know it hurts, baby, but you’re a bad motherfucker. You hear me? You’re the baddest motherfucker in the world and ain’t no little cut gonna keep my furious motherfucker down!”
Slowly the scene fades away, seemingly leaving the fate of the teen boy and his mother unresolved. Yet as a new scene begins to emerge, we see a deep scar embellished on an unrevealed man’s dark skin. The camera begins to pan out, until we see that a fully-grown Julius Fairweather is standing before us, turned to his side and holding up the back of his white dress shirt and black suit jacket. Winston has vanished from the set, leaving Julius standing alone in front of the crackling fireplace.
Julius Fairweather: “That shit hurt.”
Once he is fully in frame, Julius releases his shirt and turns to face the camera fully.
Julius Fairweather: “But it also wasn’t the first time I experienced pain, and it sure as shit wasn’t the last. Cops picked up the kid on a misdemeanor later on, but that motherfucker walked by morning. No knife, no crime. As for me? I realized that I wasn’t the bad motherfucker I wanted to be. Not yet anyway. My ass kept training. Learning to box. Learning to wrestle. Learning to choke motherfuckers out as easy as flipping a motherfucking light switch. And then one day, those motherfuckers stopped steppin’ toward “Furious” Julius Fairweather on a more permanent basis. Ya feel me?”
Julius turns to take the seat previously occupied by Winston Winfield and takes a generous drink from his glass of brandy before continuing.
Julius Fairweather: “Mmm...now that is a tasty beverage! Of course your favorite motherfucker ain’t just here to get all warm and fuzzy off the sauce. I’m here to talk about one Bruce motherfucking McLeod. Now I didn’t just show that touching reenactment for your benefit alone, Bruce. I arranged that motherfucker cause I like to remind my ass where I came from. An’ I didn’t come from shit, motherfucker. I came from the streets. From regular beatings and the occasional motherfucking stabbing. I came from drive-bys while other motherfuckers were stuck in drive-throughs.”
“Now I know you ain’t one of them motherfuckers, Brucie. You’re a goddamn highlander! You’re a street fighter! You’re the kind of man that says ‘fuck the stage, I want the cage’, and I can respect that shit. On the surface, two motherfuckers like us ain’t got a goddamn thing in common, but then you peel back the motherfucking expectations of society and you see that we’re both a pair of bad motherfuckers underneath. The only problem I see with our match is that it’s before the show begins. Normally I’m not the type of guy who minds doing things in the dark, but I feel damn sorry for those motherfuckers at home that are gonna miss out on me and Bruce beatin’ the holy hell out of each other.”
“Don’t you go takin’ this as any kind of mutual respect bullshit though, Brucie. I wanna knock your social-security qualifying ass to the mat and choke you harder than them Big Drip boys choke their motherfucking chickens. An’ unlike your honorable Scottish ass, I’ll do anything it takes to make it happen. This is motherfucking Fallout, motherfucker! I could run your ass down in my Caddy before the show and sign autographs for security in the same motherfucking hour! I don’t give a goddamn! I could use motherfucking brass knuckles if I feel like it! Hell, I could hack off one of your feet and be the first man to make a motherfucker superkick himself!”
Julius has gotten to the point of being fired up that he is giving the camera his patented bug-eyed stare, which we now know was inherited from Momma Fairweather. Then, a wave of calm seems to wash over him, as he leans back in the chair and folds his hands together.
Julius Fairweather: “But I’m not gonna do those things to you, Bruce. And do you know why? Because this is indeed Fallout, a scary motherfucking place for the uninitiated. Unless you were in the Purge, it’s hard to know what to expect. I don’t even know what that sick motherfucker Christian DeMarco might do, but I refuse to let the blind lead the blind. That’s why I’ve decided to be the Shepherd that Fallout will most definitely need. I’ll be the motherfucker to guide the weak through the valley of darkness, the motherfucking beacon shining a light from the shore into the sea of despair. I’m not a hero by any means, but I am a motherfucker that can swagger into the furry bush of mother night with a goddamn smile on my motherfucking face. I can shelter and shield the weak with a combination of charm and fury that ain’t been seen since Muhamad motherfucking Ali. I can do these things, because even this suave motherfucker was once a little boy in a scary place that had to step the fuck up. And when that wasn't enough, I had a Shepherd to keep me from getting lost in the dark.”
“The only question left to answer, Bruce, is will you be one of the weak in need of shelter from the storm? Will you find yourself in need of a fair weather friend? Will you crumble under DeMarco’s motherfucking funhouse of violence and bloodshed, desperately reaching out for this furious motherfucker to take your hand? Or maybe you’ll be one of the strong. Maybe you’ll stand up on those Scottish tree stumps that you call legs and show the big, bad world that Bruce motherfucking McLeod is here to leave his mark. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll figure out a way to beat Julius Fairweather in the dark where he does his best work. I guess we’ll both find out soon enough.”
Julius gives the camera sly smile as he casually picks up the brandy glass to finish off its contents. He then sets it back on the table, rises from his chair, straightens his suit jacket, and slowly walks toward the edge of the frame. Then, he stops and turns back suddenly as if he’s just remembered one important detail.
Julius Fairweather: “Motherfucker! I almost forgot! I’ve gotta do this before any other motherfucker on Fallout gets the chance.
He pauses once more, allowing his bug-eyed stare to reemerge.
Julius Fairweather: “There can be only one, McLeod!”
Straightening his jacket once again and allowing his glare to fade, Julius gives the camera a nod. He then continues to move out of sight, leaving the focus on the empty chair and fireplace for a few moments. Finally, Winston Winfield walks in from the opposite side that Julius left in, picks up his book from the chairside table, and returns to his seat.
Winston Winfield: “I hope you’ve enjoyed this look into the secret origin of “Furious” Julius Fairweather, and that you have come to admire and respect him as much as I do. If not, you’ll have another chance to change your ways when we present our next promotional video. Until then Motherfucking Friends of Fairweather, I remain yours truly, Winston Winfield.”
