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The Hogs of Entropy 0597
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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
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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.)
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! #597 - WRITTEN BY: ASHTRAY HEART - 4/24/99 ]
