Wave Yo' Hands in the Air If You Feel Fine (We're Gonna Take It Into Overtime)

Chicken City, GA.

When Randi Dick woke up Saturday, March 2nd, in the California King-sized waterbed she won in the divorce settlement, she removed her faux-velvet sleep mask, and grabbed her phone from beneath her pillow.

Six Missed Calls.

One New Voicemail.

She opened her recent calls menu.

All six missed calls were from the same contact.

11:02 p.m. LYING BASTARD P.O.S. (Missed)

11:03 p.m. LYING BASTARD P.O.S. (Missed)

11:05 p.m. LYING BASTARD P.O.S. (Missed)

11:08 p.m. LYING BASTARD P.O.S. (Missed)

11:10 p.m. LYING BASTARD P.O.S. (Missed)

11:11 p.m. LYING BASTARD P.O.S. (Missed)

Randi rolled those blue eyes of hers about as hard, and as slowly, as she possibly could. She ran a hand through her bleach blonde mullet, and sighed dramatically.

"This motherfucker right here..." She bemoaned as she dialed her voicemail, and turned on speakerphone.

YOU HAVE. ONE. NEW MESSAGE.

NEW MESSAGE.

"Baby... Babydoll... It's Fred. Uh... it's 11:11. Make a wish. What did you wish for? I wished for a Space Jam sequel that didn't suck a big ol', gross butt. Listen... I know you don't want to hear from me and, well, I understand that. I fucked up your life. And I don't deserve your sympathy. But God damn it... Here I am in Rhode Island, in a fucking junkyard, my shit's all taped up. My ankles. My wrists. It took me fifty five minutes to position my body in one of them yoga poses to get my phone out of my pocket. A deviant sumbitch named DANIEL stole my car, whooped my ass and left me here to die. These city folk are different up here. I'm not lying this time, baby. I'm not. I swear to God I'm not. And if I don't get out of here... I'm gonna fucking die, baby. If the junkyard dogs don't get me, the meth heads will."

Randi couldn't roll her eyes harder if she tried.

"Heard you got your six month chip, by the way. Proud of you, babydoll. Real proud. Hope the girls are doing good... Anyway... If there's any chance at all that you could... Drive... Fourteen, maybe fifteen hours, up here to Rhode Island and get me out of this place, dead or alive, I'd appreciate it."

Randi felt her lip curl with disgust. Memories of a broken heart, a taste of old blood on the back of her tongue.

"Oh and uh... I love you, Randi. Just in case I never see you again."

TO DELETE THIS MESSAGE, PRESS ONE.

TO SAVE, PRESS SEVEN.

Randi thought for a moment.

But in that brief moment she thought of all the good times, and all the terrible times.

The love and the hate.

All the laughs. All the lies.

The butterfly kisses and the shattered glass.

"He's a god damn boy who cried wolf is what he is," Randi said, throwing her sleep mask back over her eyes. "Let the dogs eat his ass."

She pressed one.

A Junkyard, RI.

Vultures.

Buzzards.

They circled overhead as Fred stared at the sky, hands and ankles still taped together, back lying on the dirt ground of the junkyard.

Fucking birds.

"They wanna steal my meat from my bones," Fred whispered through chapped lips.

Meat bandits, the lot of them.

How did Fred end up here?

Once again, Fred went out and proved he's a winner to everyone, even Reality itself.

And then once again, Reality sent its agent, Dan Van Slade, to ruin Fred's life -- and this time, possibly kill him.

Fred knew that Reality and DVS were in cahoots from the moment Fred collided into Bumper.

Ah, Bumper.

He was a good friend. He was a better fuck buddy.

In the end, though, Fred decided, it was best to hit it and quit it. Fred was damaged goods. But Bumper was a nice young man, who deserved more.

CAW! CAW!

Oh, yeah. Those meat bandits in the sky were hungry. Fred figured at any moment, they'd start flying down to peck the meat off of him.

Fred knew in his heart of hearts, that he was as good as gone. It was only a matter of when, not if.

But what Fred didn't know, was that beyond the moon, and then a hard right later, at...

Moron Mountain Amusement Park

The Nerdlucks were sitting around Mr. Swackhammer's office. Well, it was his office, before the Nerdlucks strapped his ass to a rocket and sent him streaking towards God knows where.

Let me stop you right there, Fred.

No sir. No. No, no, no, no. SPACE JAM? REALLY? We agreed, damn it! I said I'd let you tell your story the way you want to tell it, so long as you didn't lie. And what did you say?

I don't remember.

You said, "I vow to Reality that if you let me tell the story the way I want to, it will be 100% factual." 

Well, if you really believe something, is it still a lie?

Yes. It is. Gaslighting yourself does not alter the way things actually happened, especially if you're gaslighting yourself into thinking that the events which occurred in the hit film, "Space Jam," are canonical to the PRIME universe, and that you're somehow a major player in them.

Depends who you ask.

No it doesn't!

Look here. This is my story. Can I tell my story please? I just wanna tell my FUCKING. STORY.

CAN I FUCKING TELL MY STORY PLEASE?

Alright. Fine. I'll let you tell your story, so long as you agree to make it clear that it's a lie.

What if I say, "The following is based on a true story."

...I don't know, Fred...

C'mon man! It is, kinda. Sure, there'll be some shit going on that isn't true. Space Jam. Alien shit.

BUT!!!

At least part of it is true. That means it's based on a true story.

...fuck you.

Ha! I win!

The following is based on a true story.

Moron Mountain Amusement Park

Ahem.

As we were saying.

It had been nearly three decades since the Nerdlucks had lost the basketball game that determined the fates of the Looney Tunes, Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, Muggsy Bogues, Patrick Ewing, Shawn Bradley, and Larry Johnson.

The Nerdlucks had lost.

And being complete fucking losers for three decades had really taken its toll on their bodies. Already small and frail, they were smaller, frailer, and older than shit, which made them even more smaller, and even more frailer.

They looked like shit, dude.

In the almost three decades between then and now, the Moron Mountain Amusement Park had become a failing enterprise, with record lows in profits every year.

The monitor display, unchanged since the 90s, showed a park that was mostly empty and dirty.

"We need a spark," Pound, the little orange fucker, said. "We need a new attraction! Something... Crazy..."

"CRAZY!" The other Nerdlucks cried.

"Something... Zany!"

"ZANY!"

"Something..."

"Somethin' fresh as fuck, hard as hell, cold as ice, and hotter than warm sex."

"..."

The Nerdlucks slowly turned their heads towards the door.

And there stood Fred Dick.

Jordan on his back.

Jordan on his feet.

"How the heck did you get in here!?" Pound yelled.

Fred Dick shrugged.

"Who gives a shit, know what I mean? I'm here now. That's all that matters."

The Nerdlucks stared at one another, stunned.

"Well... Who are you?"

Fred feigned surprise, "Michael Jordan, obviously."

A VERY pregnant pause.

"You don't... Look... Like Michael Jordan," said Bupkus, the pipsqueak purple fucker.

"Well, you've got a shitty fucking attitude, first of all," Fred said. "Look here. Jordan on my back. Jordan on my feet. AND, I have a seriously poor gambling problem. There's only one person in the world I could possibly be, Nerds. And that's Michael Jordan. Which is why I'm here to make a proposal."

"Listen, Michael" Pound replied, trying to sound reasonable. "If I can be candid... You look all... Shitty now. You got a... Lumpy old, mashed potato body. Probably can't even dunk anymore. And your hair looks like a bunch of cats ate dry wall, and took a mean, tagteam shit--"

"Woah, woah, woah, WOAH," Fred interjected. "What did you just say?"

Blanko, the long necked blue fucker, clarified:

"Your hair looks like a blood shit."

"No, no. About me dunking a damn basketball."

"Yeah," Pound said, dismissively. "There's absolutely zero chance you can dunk."

"Oh yeah?" Fred said, placing his hands on his hips. "Well how about we make a bet, fat ass. How about if I dunk on you, y'all sign this piece of shit amusement park over to me. Then, y'all can go back to being employees to a fat tyrant. Namely, me. Michael Jordan. Instead of sitting around here, fucking everything up, running shit into the damn ground."

Pound turned towards the other Nerdlucks. They convened with one another, whispered and conspired. Finally, they turn towards Dick.

"And if you don't?" Pound asked.

"I don't know," Fred said, shrugging. "I'll let you get a bunch of eggs and throw them at me, or something equally churlish."

"Deal."

Some Soviet Basketball Court on the Moon

The Moon is bouncy as hell. Did you know that about the Moon?

Fred Dick found himself hippity hopping all over that bitch, as though he were some kind of bullfrog.

The basketball court on the Moon was state of the art and abandoned. No doubt it was an abandoned Soviet project. After all, Russians loved two things: basketball and total isolation.

Just ask Ivan.

Fred Dick stood on one end of the court, dribbling the ball.

All 2'4" of Pound stood on the other, beneath the basket.

"You know this only ends one way," Fred said.

"Yeah," Pound replied. "Us egging you until we run out of eggs."

The other Nerdlucks snickered.

"Nah," Fred said, dribbling the ball between his legs even more smoothly than Muggsy Bogues.

"It ends with my motherfucking nuts in your face."

"Rude."

Fred Dick, a right hand dominant dribbler, dribbled down the right side of the court.

Then he looked Pound in the eye. Hard. He wanted to see that DAWG in him.

But when he looked, he didn't see no DAWG.

He saw only weakness.

And Fred knew, right then and there, the prophecy of his motherfucking nuts would unfold as he said it would.

Fred dribbled towards the basket...

...Then, he jumped higher than he ever jumped in his life (48")...

...planted his nuts RIGHT in Pound's face...

and dunked the shit out of that damn basketball.

"Y'all nerds really should've picked somewhere besides the Moon," Fred said, floating down to the moon's surface. "It's like... Perfect dunking conditions."

"Nah," Pound said, looking at the other Nerdlucks. It was all smiles in their camp. "We've been thinking. We'd rather you have Moron Mountain, anyway, Mike. We kinda just wanna say fuck everything, and follow the Grateful Dead around on tour or something. Maybe Phish."

"Oh, right on," Fred says. "That honestly sounds super chill."

"Yeah," Pound says. "What are you going to do with Moron Mountain?"

"I'll probably turn it into Fred Dick's Titty Bar and Casino."

"Who is Fred Dick, Michael?"

Fred's eyes shift around... "He's a friend of mine."

"...Riiiiiiiiiigh-t."

"Anyway," Fred said. "Reckon y'all could drop me off somewhere down in Boston? I've got a uh... Basketball game I need to play in. Gonna be a real bounce house."

"I don't see a problem with it," Blanko said, gesturing towards their ship -- the same one that looks like half of a car, half of a boat, and somehow, half of a spaceship. "Anywhere specific?"

"Nah," Fred said, stepping towards the ship. "Maybe some suburban house down there with a trampoline. So I can get in my jumps, and do some light B&E. Just light B&E. Nothing crazy. Nothing crazy."

As everyone boarded the ship, Bumpkus replied, "You sure have changed, Michael."

"Yeah," Fred said, proudly. "I became a fucking winner. See, I'm on a streak."

It's time to talk that sweet shit.

A suburban neighborhood that looks like all the other suburban neighborhoods you've ever seen.

The only thing remarkable whatsoever about it is the fat ass in a Chicago Bulls jersey is bouncing around on a trampoline, holding what is probably a stolen flat screen t.v.

And you can bet your ass he's trespassing.

"Listen up you FAT FUCK," Fred shouts as he does a sweet front flip on the trampoline.

"Now I know what you're thinking, Beautiful Bobby. You're thinking, here you are, on a nice little streak, and now, it's time to extend that streak. Well Beautiful Bobby, unless you're talking about the streaks in your fucking UNDER-BRITCHES, your streak is coming to an end. And the only thing you're extending, is the legacy of a real winner."

Fred does another sweet front flip.

"Don't you see, Beautiful Bobby? If you sign me up for an ass whooping competition, then an ass is gonna get whooped. It don't matter if it's in a bouncey house..."

Front flip.

"A jailhouse..."

Front flip.

"Or a fucking outhouse."

Front flip.

If you're counting, that's five perfectly executed front flips on the trampoline thus far.

"When I show up there, it's MY motherfucking house. I'm serving up some deep fried ass whooping for supper, and anybody who stops by can have a plate."

Fred tries to do a gainer. He fucks it up, appears to break his neck on the landing. He staggers to his feet, rubs his neck.

"Now I know how your fucking organization works. You got a few vultures, a few buzzards, a few MONSTARS, a few BANDITS you like to fly with, who might decide they'd like to fuck around and find out. So let me address them directly."

Fred clears his throat, takes an aggressive slap-boxing stance.

"Cancer Jiles, you come anywhere near that bouncey house while I'm in there making short work of your beautiful, fat ass friend, and I'll take those T-shades off your face and shove them so far up your ass, your small intestine will be able to safely observe an eclipse."

Front flip. Six.

"And Tony Gamble? You look like Steve from Blue's Clues fucked a ventriloquist's doll and made some kind of off brand, Dipshit Pinocchio. So you can straight up kiss my ass."

Seven.

"And CORAL, my ass ain't gonna need fifteen minutes, son. If that MUH FUCKIN FIVEHEAD orbits anywhere near my motherfucking shit, I'm gonna beat the god damn FUCK out of you."

Eight.

"Speaking of 'orbit,' I just ran into a bunch of aliens that were a lot like you boys. Buncha outer space EGG boys. And I told them just like I'm telling you fellers right fucking now."

A grin streaks across Fred's face.

"You fuck with Fred, and shit goes from T-shades to teabags real quick."

Fred grabs his crotch and jiggles it.

Another front flip. Nine.

"Because if you put Beautiful Bobby in an ass whooping competition with Ol' Fred, this only ends one way."

Another aggressive jiggle.

"With my motherfucking nuts in his face."

Fred does one more front flip.

Ten perfect front flips?

Now that's a fucking streak.

Real winner shit.

And against such perfectly executed bounce technique?

Well, Bobby Dean's streak doesn't stand a chance.

A Highway, RI.

Everybody get up, it's time to slam now.

We got a real jam going down.

Welcome to the Space Jam.

Here's your chance do your dance at the Space Jam, alright!

Fred dances like a stupid fucking idiot in the back of an Uber to the Space Jam Theme. The driver, clearly more of a My Chemical Romance kind of guy, is visibly frustrated with the musical choice... Or Fred dancing in the back.

It's a chance for quiet reflection, but Fred's never been much for quiet.

Or reflection.

"C'MAWN AND SLAYUM, AND WELCOME TO THE JAYUM!! C'MAWN AND SLAYUM, AND WELCOME TO THE JAYUM!!"

Because if Fred were to take the time to reflect quietly, we all know, he would not like what he found.

His phone buzzes. He looks at it.

Six Missed Calls.

One New Voicemail.

He opens his recent calls menu.

All six missed calls are from the same contact.

02:02 p.m. SWEETHEART NUMBER THREE (Missed)

02:03 p.m. SWEETHEART NUMBER THREE (Missed)

02:05 p.m. SWEETHEART NUMBER THREE (Missed)

02:08 p.m. SWEETHEART NUMBER THREE (Missed)

02:10 p.m. SWEETHEART NUMBER THREE (Missed)

02:11 p.m. SWEETHEART NUMBER THREE (Missed)

Fred rolls those green eyes of his about as hard, and as slowly, as he possibly can. He runs a hand through his ginger, red mullet, and sighs dramatically.

"This motherfucker right here..." He bemoans as he dials his voicemail, and turns on speakerphone.

YOU HAVE. ONE. NEW MESSAGE.

NEW MESSAGE.

"I don't know why the hell I even bother with you. You know that? All you do is hurt me. All you do is lie, and cheat. I can't believe I drove fourteen hours up here, wasted my gas money, driving all over Providence to different junk yards, looking for you. Looking for the father of my children and the LOVE OF MY FUCKING LIFE, AND ALL HE EVER DOES IS RUIN MY HEART AND SCREW ME--"

Fred presses one.

Message erased. There are no new messages.

That's better.

"Say, Blood," Fred looks up at the driver. "Tom. That right? That's your name, right?"

"Yeah, Tom," the Driver answers.

"I need you to do me a favor. I need you to not tell a soul about how you found me. Can you promise me that? Can you promise me you won't tell nobody? I can't tell nobody about it and nobody can find out. If they do... I'm probably fucking ruined. Actually, funny story, I'm having to make up a... Pretty convoluted story about how I escaped that fucking junkyard if I'm being honest -- and even then, it still doesn't complete sense."

"No shit," Tom says. "You told me the entire story even after I...freed you from their clutches."

Fred winces.

"Just... Vow to me right now that you won't tell a soul."

"Look dude, I'm not gonna say anything."

"Vow to me."

"Or what?"

"Please..." Fred says, tears in his eyes. "I just danced away all the energy I had left to kill you with. Please, Tom. Please. Just promise me."

"Fine," Tom says. "If you'll shut the fuck up until we get to the Ramada, I won't tell a soul about... Freeing you from their clutches."

"Good," Fred says, placing his phone over his eyes like a sleep mask. "There's some parts of my life I just can't tell a soul."

The Part Fred Dick Can't Tell A Soul

Wanna know what happens when you give your word to Reality, only to break your word?

Wanna know what happens when you make a deal with Reality, only to go against that deal?

Fred Dick needs to understand something.

There are consequences for your actions.

I thought Fred was ready. I thought he was ready to comply with me long enough to say something true and substantive.

Clearly I was mistaken.

This is my fault.

I can accept that.

Nevertheless, a punitive measure must be enacted.

I'm gonna snitch, Fred.

No! No please! You already snitched on me last week about the Bumper. Please... Don't tell them about...

I am. I'm telling them about it.

How did Fred Dick free himself? Well, after harassing his ex wife into driving all the way up from Georgia to rescue him, he realized he could just call an Uber.

So he did.

Twenty-five minutes was what he had to wait. Traffic conditions, other minutiae contributed to the length of time.

But in that twenty-five minutes, the junkyard dogs found him.

So did the meth heads.

Give him credit, folks, he said they would.

Reality... Please man... PLEASE! Just be cool.

And when Tom showed up there...

He found Fred being held down by the junk yard dogs.

Oh, the meth heads?

NO! PLEASE! NO! DON'T SAY ANYTHING ELSE!

They were smoking meth out of a lightbulb and, uh...

Blowing the meth smoke straight into his butthole.

You damn bastard. You told 'em. You really told 'em.

Didn't this happen to you last time you hung out with meth heads.

WHAT DOES IT MATTER DUDE??? SO METH HEADS LIKE TO BLOW SMOKE INSIDE MY BUTT... WHO GIVES A SHIT?

Well. You do.

[user @bloodmodefred has disconnected from Reality]

See folks? When you call a liar out on their bullshit, what do they do? They run away.

They can spend 1500 words on a shitty Space Jam sequel, but when it's time to be honest about methamphetamine smoke being blown into their butts, they disconnect.

Hey Bobby, how about after you two break that bouncy house, find a near by trap house and a meth head or two. They'll get you a win.

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

WAVE YO' HANDS IN THE AIR IF YOU FEEL FINE!

I win, Fred.

Me.

Reality.

And I always do.

See you in Hell, Freddy.

Or, as I like to call it, Space Jam 2: A New Legacy