Who's Your Daddy?

The young boy named Luther Franklin had grown accustomed to his mother being gone. It was normal for her to work a double shift on weekends to pick up the extra tips needed to support her son. It had been that way for years, and while the boy never complained, it was a lonely way to grow up. Thankfully, Momma Franklin would always make sure that Luther had someone to keep him company. From “Jackie Brown” and “The Long Kiss Goodnight” to “Deep Blue Sea” and “Star Wars: Episode One”, Luther’s favorite actor would be on his television screen until his mother returned home. Samuel L. Jackson was not only the world’s baddest motherfucker in the young boy’s eyes, he was also the world’s best babysitter.

On one of those fateful nights, at the young age of nine-years-old, Luther finished off his TV dinner as Mace Windu sat amongst his Jedi Council colleagues. Yet the boy found it hard to focus on the movie, not because of its lack of quality or Sam’s lack of screen time, but because of what day it had been. Father’s Day. Another day of asking his momma about his real father, only for her to deny his requests and tell him that he’d be better off having a Hollywood actor as his role model.

Despite her firm insistence that the conversation was over, Luther could not help but imagine what his father might look like, where he could be, and why he had never bothered to meet his son. In the midst of these fantasies, perhaps as a result of his loneliness or vivid imagination, young Luther would have a strange conversation, one that had become a common occurrence during his mother’s absences.

MACE WINDU: Hold up, Yoda, we’ll finish talking about Anakin’s fate later. Right now, my favorite little motherfucker needs me.

Before Luther’s eyes, Mace Windu rose from his seat amongst the Jedi council and approached the TV screen, a comforting smile on his face despite Yoda’s mumbled protests in the background.

SAMUEL L. JACKSON: What’s up, motherfucker? How’s my biggest fan doing today?

Luther shrugged his shoulders, hesitant to answer as his hero broke character.

YOUNG LUTHER: I dunno…

The man portraying Mace Windu nodded his head, as if he could read the young boy’s mind.

SAMUEL L. JACKSON: You’re thinking about your daddy again, am I right?

YOUNG LUTHER: I guess so…

SAMUEL L. JACKSON: I get you, motherfucker. I only met my daddy twice when I was growing up. That motherfucker thought it was more important to drink himself to death than help my momma raise me. That woman spent more time in the factory than she did at home. I went through the same kinda shit that you’re going through, and look at me now; sitting on the motherfucking Jedi Council. I got through it, and you will too.

Luther shrugged again, still full of doubts.

YOUNG LUTHER: I know. It’s just...why doesn’t he love me like a daddy should?

The actor on his screen smiled again, the kind of smile that Luther imagined a caring father would give.

SAMUEL L. JACKSON: The motherfucker’s problems ain’t your fault, Luther. You’re a damn fine boy, and any man would be proud to have you as their son. Some motherfuckers just can’t get past their own problems to do what’s right by their family. He doesn't deserve your love, and he sure as hell ain’t important enough to make you miss one of the few scenes I’ve got in this goddamn movie. You feel me?

Luther forced a smile, pushed back his feelings, and nodded his head in agreement.

SAMUEL L. JACKSON: That’s my boy. Now what are you gonna watch next?

YOUNG LUTHER: Well...I haven’t watched “Sphere” yet…

SAMUEL L. JACKSON: Oh fuck me! Good luck with that one, motherfucker! Your little ass will be asleep long before that fine momma of yours gets back home!

The actor’s parting comment made Luther giggle as Mace Windu returned to his seat amongst the council to resume their discussion about young Skywalker.

MACE WINDU: Alright, motherfuckers, where were we?




Years had passed since those days of talking to his hero and role model through the television screen, but the adult Luther Franklin was still living his life based on the principles passed on to him by Samuel L. Jackson. When it was time to create his persona for professional wrestling, Samuel’s iconic roles were his muse. Truth be told, it wasn’t much of a stretch for Luther to turn into Julius Fairweather, but more a matter of turning the volume up to eleven. He certainly needed all the suave charm he could muster as he placed a very important phone call to one of Christian DeMarco’s many gophers from the Fallout brand.

JULIUS: Come on, Chanelle, don’t let my friendships with some of Fallout’s fairer sex make you jealous. You know you’re still my number one girl.

He paused to talk a hit off his joint, half-heartedly listening to the response Chanelle was giving him.

JULIUS: Look, after the show this week, I promise to take you out for a night on the town. Wait...where the fuck is the show at this week?

He paused again, releasing a cloud of smoke from his lungs as he eased back in his chair.

JULIUS: Ecuador. That’s right. I’m sure there’s lots of sights I can show you in Ecuador, if you know what I’m sayin’. The thing is, right now I need that favor. You know I’m good for it, momma.

As he leaned back in the chair, he looked at the swirling cloud of smoke that hung near the ceiling of his hotel room.

JULIUS: It’s just one little phone number. Fucking DeMarco ain’t ever gonna know. You just give me those digits and don’t worry your pretty little head.

The young lady on the other end of the call finally said something that was worthy of Julius’ attention, as he sat up in his chair to jot down a ten digit number on the hotel stationary.

JULIUS: That’s my girl. Trust me, you won’t be sorry.

He didn’t even wait to hear her response or bother to give her a proper farewell, as he ended the call and began to push the numbers he’d been given. Julius then took another deep drag from his joint and closed his eyes, as if he were summoning the inner strength needed to go through with his plan. Finally, as the smoke rolled over his lips, he found the courage to press send. Holding the phone up to his ear, he straightened in his chair and internally reviewed everything he wanted to say. After several tense moments, he heard an all-too-familiar voice on the other end of the call.

JULIUS: Yeah...is this...is this Mr. Samuel L. Jackson?

A brief pause followed, but Julius’ concentration did not break.

JULIUS: Right, you don’t know me...well...I guess you kind of do. My name is Luther Franklin, but I go by Julius Fairweather. Christian DeMarco from Project: Honor has had you stand in for me in a couple of promotional pieces…

If Julius had been concerned about Mr. Jackson hanging up on him, those fears were alleviated when he responded positively to the name of Julius Fairweather.

JULIUS: No, this isn’t a business call or anything. I just haven’t had the chance to meet you and I wanted to tell you what a huge fan I am…

As he listened to the response, his heart racing with excitement, Julius’ eyes grew wide and a bright smile formed on his face.

JULIUS: No shit? Mr. Samuel L. Jackson is a fan of mine? Motherfucker, you just made my goddamn day. Nah, fuck that. You just made my millennium, motherfucker!

Julius absent-mindedly snuffed out his joint in the nearby ashtray, totally immersed in the conversation.

JULIUS: Hell yes, I’d love to meet up with you the next time DeMarco brings you in! Maybe...we don’t tell him that I called though. There’s this hot little momma in his office that’ll be in a world of shit if he finds out she gave me your number.

Julius paused again, soaking in every word that his hero imparted. It was such a magical moment, one of the biggest in his life, that he almost forgot the entire reason for his call. Once again allowing his expression to turn serious, Julius began to broach that very subject.

JULIUS: Look, I don’t want to make this weird or anything, but does my name ring any bells to you? I mean my real name, Luther Franklin. No? Maybe the name Gertrude Franklin...from Detroit…

He began to fidget in his chair, silently hoping he wasn’t ruining the momentous occasion.

JULIUS: I guess...what I’m really trying to ask you is...are you my daddy?

Julius fell silent as his entire body became motionless. If his skin were of a lighter tone, it’s possible that he would have gone white as a sheet.

JULIUS: Hello? Mr. Jackson?

No response came from the other end of the call. No confirmation. No denial. Not even a motherfucker. With a slight tremble in his hand, Julius pulled the phone away from his ear and sat it on the arm of his chair.




It took some time for Julius to recover from those brief yet emotionally charged moments in his hotel room, but when the next day rolled around, he found the strength to push them aside. With his flight booked to Ecuador, he walked through the airport with one of Project: Honor’s cameras focused upon him.

“I never knew my daddy. Never even met the motherfucker. He was long gone before my momma even knew she was carrying the world’s baddest fetus. Most times, I don’t dwell on that shit. I figure it’s his motherfucking loss. The thing is, this time of year, it always creeps up on my ass. Kinda like an unexpected Handicap Match out of the fermented mind of Christian DeMarco. Maybe it’s because Father’s Day is right around the corner, and it makes me think about all the shit that motherfucker missed; all the sacrifices my momma made just to make up for his deadbeat ass not being around.”

“I ain’t here to cry about that shit though; not about my daddy and sure as hell not about the Handicap Match. Pyro and Havoc may be more than one man can handle, but that ain’t about to stop me from getting in that motherfucking ring and taking care of business. They might be thinking it’s an easy night at the office, but I promise that they’ll leave the motherfucking ring feeling like they were the ones that were handicapped. Yeah, Alice Knight is gonna be as absent as my daddy was when I was growing up, but I ain’t ever alone. I’ve got thousands of Motherfucking Friends of Fairweather watching my ass, and just as sure as Pyro and Havoc are gonna know they were in a fight, those MFF’s are gonna know that they’ve seen me at my best.”

“This is normally the part where I start talking trash, but if I’m being completely honest with myself and all of you, it’s getting harder and harder for me to bash that motherfucker, Pyro. I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve gone to war, and neither of us have been able to get a decisive win over the other one. I guess when you have that many fights with a motherfucker, you either kill each other, or you find some kind of common ground in the process. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still crazier than a limp-dicked virgin in a whorehouse, and I hate that motherfucker’s guts, but I can’t help but respect him. So I ain’t gonna bash Pyro on the road to our next fight. He knows I hate him and I know he hates me. That’s where we stand and it’ll probably never change, but I’ve learned to respect what he can do when that bell rings, and I’ll do my best to be prepared for it.”

“On the other hand, I don’t owe Havoc one motherfucking ounce of respect. So when I think about that painted-up clown standing across the ring from me, all bets are off. I know the motherfucker has impressed a lot of folks since showing up, but it takes a lot more than being king of the kiddie pool to impress me. You’re in the deep end now, motherfucker, and somebody forgot to tell you that there’s sharks in the pool. I know my personal hero got eaten by the shark in “Deep Blue Sea”, but in our Handicap Match, the bad motherfucker is the shark. Keep that in mind, Havoc, and consider me your personal motherfucking megalodon. I happen to be hungry for blood and yours will do just as well as anyone else’s.”

“Speaking of that movie, there’s a couple of lines that keep coming to mind. Sam Jackson’s character said, “So you think water moves fast? You should see ice. It moves like it has a mind. Like it knows it killed the world once and got a taste for murder.” That’s what you get to look forward to, Havoc. In all of our battles, Pyro was the fire and I was the motherfucking ice. It may be a challenge to murder both of you motherfuckers when I’m standing on my own, but if I move fast enough and I’m ruthless enough, I might just get the job done. Am I the underdog? Of course I am, but if I’ve got the chance to put out Pyro’s fire and show the world that Havoc isn’t as scary as he pretends to be, it’s worth defying the odds. Especially if I’m the only motherfucker getting the glory for it.”

“Life ain’t always fair. It’s not fair that I didn’t get to choose who my daddy is, and it ain’t fair that I’m in a Handicap Match on Fallout. Only I ain’t gonna cry or bitch about it. Instead I’m gonna take all my anger and frustration out on my two opponents, and if I do my job right, they’ll be able to answer an age-old question. Pyro and Havoc, who’s your daddy? Julius motherfucking Fairweather, that’s who.”

Julius continues on his way through the airport as the cameraman abandons his pursuit, correctly guessing that Julius has said everything on his mind.




Many miles away, within a one-bedroom apartment across the street from Julius’ home in Detroit, a trio of men have their thoughts as focused on Julius Fairweather as the Project: Honor camera had been. Seated around a small kitchen table, this self-proclaimed Fairweather Revenge Squad continue to plot against their former employer.

RAS A’ LING: I still say venomous asps in his mailbox would be most effective.

NIGEL HALF-WEATHER: Motherfucker, where the hell are we gonna get exotic snakes?

RAS: You only asked for ideas, not solutions.

NIGEL: ...fortune cookie motherfucker…

THADDEUS HERONYMOUS CRAFT: I still think a car bomb in his gold Caddy would be fitting…

NIGEL: And have you ever made a motherfucking bomb?

THC: Well...no…

NIGEL: That’s what I fucking thought. It’s a damn good thing you motherfuckers have me, otherwise you’d be up shit creek without a paddle!

THC: Oh? So you’ve got a better idea? Let’s hear it!

The dwarven member of the trio gives his co-conspirators a sinister smile…

NIGEL: I swore that Julius would rue the day he threw us out, and now I have just the thing to end him once and for all.

Nigel slides a hand inside of his jacket and then produces a simple piece of paper, which he places at the center of the table.

NIGEL: Julius...or should I say Luther...has one fatal weakness, and I’m the one who has it.

Ras and THC lean forward, examining the picture that Nigel has placed between them.

NIGEL: I found his real daddy…