[--------------------------------------------------------------------------] ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #597 `888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8 888 888 888 888 888 "Mean Jimmy Gets Drunk" 888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8 888 888 888 888 888 " by Ashtray Heart 888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 4/24/99 o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8 [--------------------------------------------------------------------------] NOTE: I dug this thing up dredging through the family word processing archives. I did not write it. (Scene opens on Mean Jimmy Dynamite in bed the night after his apocalyptic drinking binge. He rolls over, falls asleep, and begins to dream. The setting switches to MJD standing outside a small stone villa facing a wide, grassy field in Italy. Clouds roll through a bright blue sky, and a church bell rings in the distance. A older man bearing a striking resemblance to MJD emerges from the hut, dressed in the finest Renaissance fashions.) MJD: Who... Who are you? You look familiar somehow. Paolo: Greetings. I am Paolo Dattaglia, patriarch of the Dattaglia family of Sicily. I am also your great-great-great-great- -great-grandfather, and I have come to you with information of grave importance. MJD: Oh, shit. I must be really, REALLY drunk. Paolo: You're... How do you express it? You're "hammered", I believe is the phrase. Nonetheless, the information I am about to pass on is of vital importance to you. The honor of the Dattaglia family in its entirety is at stake! MJD: What honor? The Dattaglias are the scum of the earth! Paolo: Precisely my point! Listen: In ancient Italy, there were three types of bastards. There were the ordinary bastards, common riffraff. They would try to cheat you at the market, or report you to the landlord when you were in your cups. Then there were the dirty bastards, the real pieces of horse shit. They would fuck your wife while you were away on business, seduce your daughter and ruin her good name, steal your horse and all your money, and poison your crops. But above them all sat the Sicilian bastards, the worst of the worst. It was said that all Sicilians were born from Barbary apes, and fathered by Satan himself. If the Sicilian bastard believed that his honor had been offended, he would travel to the gates of Hell itself to avenge the slight. Time was nothing to the Sicilian. If he had to wait twenty years to avenge the family honor, he would do so gladly. You are familiar with the term "vendetta"? It was coined in Napoli to describe Sicilian revenge. First, the Sicilian would ruin you. He would bankrupt your business, destroy your farm and leave you penniless, with no one to turn to. then, methodically, he would begin to murder your family. Perhaps he would begin with your parents, or perhaps your young children. And slowly but surely, your loved ones would die one by one. and finally, when there was nothing left to take away, they would come for you. And even if the injured party died before the vendetta was complete, there was still no relief. The Sicilian's family would continue where their fallen member had left off. It was widely accepted that to end a Sicilian blood feud, God himself would have to descend from the heavens with an army of angels to wipe the accursed province of Sicily off the face of the earth. And if even the youngest infant or most aged grandfather managed to survive, God himself would have reason to fear. And all across the land, no name was more feared and hated than that of the Dattaglias! Murder was a common thing in Sicily, but the Dattaglias had raised it to an art form. It was not uncommon for a Dattaglia to creep into your bedroom while you slept and stick a dagger into your pillow to be found when you awakened. The message conveyed was "Your blood is mine to spill, whenever and wherever I choose." Even today, the whore and drunkards of Napoli remember the tale of Sigismundo Giallo, an unfortunate wine merchant who offended the honor of Vincenzo Dattaglia, then the patriarch of the Dattaglias. The fool fled to Roma, hoping to lose himself among the city's many inhabitants. For five long years, Sigismundo waited for the inevitable bloodshed to come. Finally, Sigismundo felt the wrath of the Dattaglias. Walking home from the market, he was grabbed by four unknown assailants, all bearing the characteristic dark complexion of Sicilians. They rushed him to a nearby cliff and let him dangle over the clashing sea below for five full minutes. Sigismundo begged, pleaded and struggled, but was held firmly in place. After what must have been an eternity for the poor bastard, he was pulled back to the ground. The head Sicilian whispered five words in his ear and then promptly disappeared. That night Sigismundo Giallo returned to his villa and hung himself. MJD: What did the Sicilian say to him? Paolo: "Next time we let go." And as evil as Vincenzo Dattaglia was, I put him to shame with my butchery. While I still lived, I would kill entire families for slights as inconsequential as failing to remove one's hat in the presence of my mistress. I once sliced a man's tongue out for insulting my cousin, and I stabbed the bishop to death at the height of Easter Sunday mass after he sermonized against the homicidal feuds of the Dattaglia family. Do you begin to understand no what I am saying to you? MJD: You want me... to join the Mafia? Paolo: Idiot! You haven't heard a word of mine! Perhaps your great-grandfather can explain better than I... (A man dressed only in overalls and boots steps out of the villa. He's covered from head to toe in coal dust, but the Dattaglia family resemblance is still obvious.) Pete: Howdy, Jim. I'm yer great-grandpappy. M' name's Pete Dattaglia, but most folks called me "Pickaxe" Dattaglia, on account'a I killed some fellers with a pickaxe a while back. Ah guess there's a story goes along with that. Y'see, ah worked up in the coal mines of West Virginny. Not regular like, ah was up there as a scab. Back in them days, the unions were getting a whole lot of people all fired up, and the bosses needed some cheap labor to get at that coal. An' back then, there weren't nobody cheaper than the Eye-talians, and m'pappy n' me was fresh off the boat. Well, th' reglar workers didn't much care for folk breakin' up their strike, and sometimes things got a mite tense. Ah still remember it, jest like it were yesterday. Ah'm walkin' back home after m' twelve hour shift in the tunnels, an' these three mountain men jump outa the bushes right in front of me. Now, m'english wasn't as good back then as it is now, but ah could tell these fellers was spoilin' fer a fight. So what does ah do? Ah take th' trusty pickaxe ah got slung over m'shoulder an' WHAM! ah bury that sucker right in th'first one's head. Blood and brains splash all over the durn place, and the other two figger they'll high-tail it back to the strikers' camp. But ah know if they make it back, they'll round up a posse n' ah'll be done fer. So ah chase the other two boogers down n' give 'em th' ole whack-whack with m'trusty pickaxe. Weeeell, once the bosses hear about this, ah find m'self in a whole career. From that point on, m'official job was as a company strikebreaker. And did ah bust some heads? Ah hope to say! I'd burn down camps, I'd lynch rabblerousers, th' whole deal. And if we ever caught one of those Wobbly fellers alive? Well, it just would have been better for them if we hadn't, that's all ah'm gonna say. Ah must've killed forty, forty-five men during the troubles up there. But once the whole thing was over, ah figgered out real damn quick that mine country weren't no place for a feller like me. So, ah bought me a ticket to Baltimore, and ah never looked back. Got me a good job as a copper, too. Suited m'nature, it did. MJD: First you guys want me to join the Mafia, now you're saying you want me to be a cop? I don't get it. Pete: Sonny, yer about the DUMBEST son of a bitch ah ever met, n' that's sayin' a lot. Maybe yer pappy can clear it up for ye. (We see a swarthy man dressed in combat fatigues step out of the villa.) MJD: DAD? Is that you, dad? Mike: Yes, son, it's me. Sergeant Mike Dattaglia of the United States Armed Forces. MJD: But... But I thought you were DEAD! Mike: Of course I'm dead, you stupid little shit! So are these other two guys! This is a fucking DREAM, moron! Jesus Christ! What's wrong with you, you idiot? MJD: It really IS you, Dad! Mike: No shit. Now pay attention this time, or I'll knock the shit out of your ears. As you know, I proudly served my country in Vietnam. A lot of the other guys didn't want to be there, but not me. The first time I shot a gook in cold blood, I knew that I was made for that stuff. I had a confirmed kill rate of well over 200 VC, and I had 432 gook thumbs to prove it. I'd rape, loot and pillage, and Uncle Sam paid for it all. I'll never forget those wonderful days in My Lai and Saigon... Where did they go? Ah, memories. Dead bodies piling up like cordwood, the gasoline stink of napalm, and plenty of good cheap weed. It was Hell on earth, and I never felt so at home. Now: Do you see what all four of us have in common? MJD: Ummm... We're all bastards? Paolo: EXACTLY! Finally, you understand the common thread of our family. Since the beginning of time, the Dattaglias have been the nastiest sons of bitches ever to walk the face of the earth. The blood of a thousand bastards runs through your veins, Jimmy. Centuries of Darwinism has turned you into the meanest motherfucker known to man. Yet you turn your back on us! You refuse to pay us respect! MJD: What the hell are you talking about? Paolo: "Mean Jimmy Dynamite". Who is he? Some heartless coward, hiding behind a false name? Did you choose such a name to please the mindless cattle who watch you fight? WHY? Why do you deny your heritage? Stand up for yourself! Stand up for the honor of the Dattaglias! Wrestle under your true name, and let the fools who wrestle against you know what sort of monster has been unleashed! Be yourself, Jimmy! (The scene begins to become blurry, and MJD suddenly awakens, sitting bolt upright in his bed. He rushes to his toilet and pukes his ever-living guts out. After he finishes emptying the contents of his stomach, he sits upright and turns to face us.) MJD: Dear God, I have SEEN THE LIGHT! What kind of gutless pussy wrestles under a fake name? I feel like a complete fucking idiot! "Mean Jimmy Dynamite", what a stupid goddamn name! From now on, I'm going my real name, Mean Jimmy Dattaglia! That's right, I'm keeping the "Mean" part. You know why? Because I'm a MEAN MOTHERFUCKER! It's who I am. It's what I do. Every cell in my body is soaked to the core in low down, no good, spit-in-your-eye MEAN! And it's only going to get worse. From now on, I'm going to work twice as hard to insult, injure and possibly even KILL my opponents, in or out of the ring! And maybe this is the residual booze in my system talking, but it strikes me that the Puppycrusher is perhaps the WORST name for a finisher since the PornoStarPlex! From this day on, my finisher will be known as the Vendetta in honor of my bastard Sicilian ancestors! (MJD begins vomiting again. He pauses for a second and turns to the cameras.) MJD: What the fuck is wrong with you? Turn that fucking thing OFF! (Camera shuts off abruptly.) [--------------------------------------------------------------------------] [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! #597 - WRITTEN BY: ASHTRAY HEART - 4/24/99 ]