“The absolute, motherfuckin’, disrespect…”
Wrigley Field. January. Low 30s. A few paces from the statue of Mr. Cub himself, Ernie Banks, a small crowd of brodudes in their late 20s to early 30s gather, all bundled up against the cold and the snow. A beautiful oil canvas painting of HOFC Legend Michael DeNucci, in profile, with a glimmering halo above his head and his Jacked and Tan arms bent in prayer, sits on a brass easel with a wreath of #97red roses draped around it. To the front of this glorious piece of artwork is the man who spoke at the top of this paragraph: the Northside Nightmare, the Waveland Avenue Warrior, and don’t worry, Warstein, he’s got a hundred other nicknames that are just as stupid as these but at least they’re more creative than “Fuzz” …”Wrigleyville’s Finest” Johnny Dorn.
And he looks pissed…
DORN: Shawn Warstein, how fuckin’ dare you.
He had been pacing but he abruptly stops and lifts his arm, clad in a Cubby blue Canada Goose down hoodie, pointing for emphasis.
DORN: How fuckin’ dare you sit there and besmirch the name of the Patron Saint of BROhood, Michael DeNucci, the very man this tournament is named after, all the while thinkin’ that anybody gives two shits about how well you work a GIF button, or how pussy whipped you are, or whatever other companies in the Hinterlands of Pro Wrestling threw their Cracker Jack titles at you. I got news for you, pal, NOBODY FUCKIN’ CARES. Just like nobody cares that I call Cheap Pops home, but cool that you figured out how to read a Twitter bio despite your shitty Southside education. Or maybe you learned your ABCs out in Joliet? 106 miles to Chicago, full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, and I’m about to make your whole world so fuckin’ dark that you’ll be wearin sunglasses and using a white cane to figure your way outta the Best Arena.
Put that on the fuckin’ board, Hawk Harrelson.
Shitty Trash Talk 101 says you gotta think everyone in this tourney’s hot garbage while you’re hot shit, but you’re so bad at it that Waste Management wouldn’t even pick you up. And you won titles with this basura? Did Mike Best use his brain waves to kill your opponents and your bookermen had no other choice but to put a foam belt on you?
There may be 140 characters in a tweet…you may have done 3900-and-change in that shitty lil’ promo, but all it proves to me is that when it comes to actual character, you don’t fuckin’ have any. BIG SNORE, BRO. What’ve you got for your next trick? Ya boy Noah Jackson gonna hop onto the couch with you, say “cunt” a lot, call you “Dad” and help guide you through promo number two with some BIG BANTER? Real cool of you to try and do it all on your own in the first one, though, sure is a deviation from the norm. Because you may think I’m a nobody, but I’m not an idiot.
A voice yells, “Tell ‘em, Johnny!” from the crowd, and the bros respond with a chorus of cheers. Johnny sneers in response and keeps going.
DORN: Yeah, Warstein, I’ve studied you. I may not be the most experienced fighter in this thing, but if there’s one thing I’m learnin’ it’s not to go into anything unprepared. I’ve got charisma for days, I’m wily as fuck, and bet your ass come Saturday I’ve got a Shot of Malört that’s gonna put you right on your ass. I don’t really care that you’re disappointed about not facing Chicago’s Favorite Son in Mike Best, and know that I’m real salty that I gotta concede that title to him, but it’s fine, IT’S COOL, I’ll make sure I do the Northside proud if he and I get to square up, because GOD knows I’m not gonna give you the chance.
I’m sure your girl’ll be happy, though; you’ll get to go back to her and she can help pick out her cunt hairs from between whatever teeth I leave you with.
The sneer grows wider, and Johnny throws up the double finger guns, pantomiming pulling the trigger.
DORN: POP POP bitch, who’s gonna get their bubble burst now?