“This has got to stop!” Morty exploded as he charged into the locker room, where we were all licking our wounds, literally and figuratively. “You—all of you—have got to stick to the script!”
“Tell him that,” Mad Dog growled, pointing at Mike.
Morty turned his rage on Mike. “Cantwell, this is your final warning—“
Before Morty could finish his latest threat, one of the writers, Andy Russell, came rushing into the locker room. “Morty, this is great!” he declared. “We’re going to write it into the storyline!”
Morty looked confused. “That’s nuts—” he started.
“I’m telling you, Morty, the crowd loves it,” he said. “Mike’s the perfect underdog. They’re out there chanting his name. They want him to win. They want him to beat Mad Dog.”
“Ain’t gonna happen,” Mad Dog shouted.
Morty turned to the moron. “You—shut up!” Then he turned back to Andy. “You’re serious?”
Andy nodded. “It could be a ratings winner. In fact, we think Mike should have the belt.”
That got my attention. “Whaaaat?”
Morty had pretty much the same reaction. "The guy's a meathead!"
"They're still chanting his name, Morty," Russell reminded him. "It's a classic David and Goliath story."
Morty shook his head. "Only if David was an idiot and Goliath was past due for a flea dip."
Flea dip for the Mad Dog. I wish I'd thought of that. Note to self: Flea dip gift box for Mad Dog.
J.J. poked me. "I don't think Mike's gonna get that title shot, bro," he said in a low voice. "I don't think he's gonna live that long."
I looked in the direction J.J. had nodded. Our brain-deficient kid brother was trying on the championship belt. The thing was so wide, it looked like Mike wasn't wearing anything else. His trunks were completely concealed by the belt. "The idiot's got to have a death wish," I said in a low voice.
That's when Mad Dog saw him. "Hey, you moron--put that down!" he roared. As he headed toward Mike, my brother made a dash for the door. One of the crewmembers, a guy who couldn't have been more than five-six, a hundred fifty pounds, saw that big ugly giant headed in his direction and got so scared, he pissed on himself.
"Geez, look at that," J.J. said, referring to the size of the puddle in the floor. "He must have a bladder the size of a keg!"
Unfortunately for Mad Dog, he didn't see the puddle--until he slipped in it and crashed onto the concrete so hard, it must have registered on the Richter scale. That fall cost Mike his shot at the belt, at least for the next two months.
Until Mad Dog's casts come off. Yep, he broke his leg, his collarbone, and--rumor has it--his tailbone.