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