With Apologies to Montell Jordan
The loading docks have devolved into chaos, and the facilities department is not amused. Fortunately, Matt Mills – and remember, he went to school for this – is on the scene.
Matt Mills: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here at the MGM Grand loading docks where we’re getting word of some unrest among the facilities crew.
Next to him stands an older man; late 50s by the look of him. He’s dressed in a black fleece pullover with the MGM logo embroidered on the lapel, and bears the expression of a man who is well and truly Sick Of This Shit. Let’s just assume he’s wearing pants, because both men are framed from the waist up.
Behind them, about ten yards away, Melvin Beuregard is currently occupied with a group of facilities employees, all of whom are very animated in their retelling of the events of the last few weeks.
All of them are wearing pants.
Matt Mills: I’m joined by Roger Dawes, one of the shift supervisors here, and a man who has recently filed a grievance with resort management.
Roger Dawes: That’s correct, mister Mills. We’ve had some problems down here lately. Now, don’t get me wrong, most people from your company that we’ve worked with have been wonderful; maybe not the friendliest folk, but they haven’t given us any trouble.
Matt Mills: I sense a “but” coming here, Mr. Dawes.
Roger Dawes: There’s one guy, Mister Grape, or Prince Bananas…
Matt Mills: King Blueberry?
Roger Dawes: That’s the one! That Blueberry fella has been muckin’ things for weeks now. A month back he got into one of our storage rooms. Brought a half-naked mannequin with him. Totally trashed the place. Then two weeks ago he somehow got into one of the storage sheds, and wandered off with a two-wheeler and some bungee cords. We got them back, but it’s important that official company equipment is accounted for.
Roger’s sigh is long and deep, like he’s breathing out his soul. Matt, ever the intrepid reporter, nods slowly, sympathetically. He understands. He knows. And boy howdy does he wish he didn’t.
Roger Dawes: Then after we got the two-wheeler back I had the guys take an inventory of what else was in that storage locker. Come to find out that some of the Christmas decorations have gone missing, and apparently some of the Thanksgiving stuff as well. We’re missing half a of a giant turkey costume. Not the top with the wings and the beak and all that, but the legs. Just the legs.
Matt Mills: Prime-wrestling-dot-com also reported that there were some feather boas missing as well. Have those been recovered?
Roger Dawes: No, not yet. But that’s not the worst of it. Later that night Phil goes to his office, and the keys to one of the forklifts is gone. “Rog’,” he says to me, “I can’t find the…”
THIS IS HOW WE DO IT
The loading dock falls silent. Well, silent except for the voice of Montell Jordan and the fat beats that accompany his mid-90’s hit.
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT AND I FEEL ALL RIGHT
Montell Jordan, his phat beats, the rev of an engine, and the sound of tires squealing on the smooth painted floor of the interior dock. A dawning realization creeps onto Matt Mills’ face, and behind them the same realization seems to have come to Mr. Beauregard. His shoulders visibly slump.
THE PARTY IS HERE ON THE WEST SIDE
Tear-assing across the docks, weaving in and out between cases and crates, is a vehicle born of a Lewis Carroll fever-dream. It’s a forklift, that much is certain, but it’s been upgraded; likely by the sole occupant.
Well, by the sole human occupant..
King Blueberry: SO I REACH FOR MY 40 AND I TURN IT UP!
A pair of giant novelty candy canes have been crudely duct-taped to the forklift’s driver’s cage like makeshift steer horns. The tynes at the front of the vehicle are wearing the lower half of a massive turkey costume, one tyne per leg, so that the cart looks like a giant bird trying to violently scissor anyone and anything that gets in its way. 34 boas, each one individually tied to the rear cage, flow in the wind behind the cart in a dipshit feathery wake. There is also the boombox, which is tied to a mannequin bedecked in red, who is in turn tied to the forklift.
It’s a 100% artisanal, locally-sourced, non-GMO, organically-grown, free-trade, rolling clusterfuck.
King Blueberry: DESIGNATED DRIVER TAKE THE KEYS TO MY TRUCK!
Roger Dawes: That’s our forklift! You’re not OSHA certified!
That’s what he says, but to anyone listening it sounds more like “assar farkiff urna oshawott” given that he’s currently being drowned out by some smooth R&B and a schmuck wearing a blue lucha mask and tee shirt depicting a crude Photoshop image of the Anglo Luchador at an IcyHot buffet.
King Blueberry: I’M KINDA BUZZED AND IT’S ALL BECAUSE… THIS IS HOW WE DO IT!
He cuts the wheel to avoid the wall of facilities employees that have formed in the hopes he’ll stop and Melvin Beauregard is forced to dive out of the way. The King gives the wheel another sharp jerk, and both Dawes and Mills are forced to flee before they’re impaled by a gas-powered burlesque turkey.
King Blueberry: BLUEBERRY DOES IT LIKE NOBODY DOES… THIS IS HOW WE DO IT
The feed from the dock ends.