Hi! Here’s the thing: Wrestling has been bad lately, almost cosmically so. It’s exhausting, the sheer weight of what we and everybody else on our side of professional wrestling have to dig through and interpret, knowing that, were things right, wrestling wouldn’t be happening right now. Instead, every show we watch or choose not to watch, for our jobs or for pleasure, is a moral quandary, and taking that in along with labor issues and the continuing fallout of the #SpeakingOut movement is enough to make you want to scream.
With that in mind, I’m writing fan fiction this week. Specifically fan fiction about The Sopranos, which is a 20 year old show that seemingly the entire Internet is watching right now. I watched it for the first time last month and loved it about as much as I love Star Trek or wrestling, meaning I think about it all of the time, and often in ways that are less than productive. One of the thoughts I had about The Sopranos recently is that it’s a shame there wasn’t an episode where Tony Soprano tried to bond with his son by taking him to a WWF show. So that’s what this is.
It feels really weird to introduce a work of fan fiction, but it’s necessary in this instance because The Sopranos is, among other things, a show about toxic masculinity. There’s a scene in this story where Paulie and Christopher talk about wrestling merchandise. It contains homophobic language germane to the show. It continues intermittently from there. Otherwise, please do as they do at AO3 and drop a bunch of kudos on this story.
Tony Soprano sits at the breakfast bar of his kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee while he reads the paper. His wife, Carmela, is washing dishes and talking about … something, Tony doesn’t know. He’s distracted by an advertisement in the sports pages, his eyes lit up like a boy with an ice cream sundae. Carmela notices.
Carmela: Tony? Tony, were you listening to me at all?
Tony: Yeah. I mean, yeah. I was just distracted is all. You know, the paper?
Their son, A.J., trundles down the stairs. As usual, he looks sad. Tony looks over his shoulder and sees this, but he doesn’t have the right language for the sadness of others, so he pushes that aside.
A.J.: Hey Dad. Hey Mom.
Carmela: Good morning, A.J.
Tony: I was just reading the paper here, thinking about how when I was your age, my old man, he used to take me to the matches.
A.J.: The matches?
Tony: Yeah, you know? The matches? Wrestling? Your grandfather was a busy man, always worked nights, but when wrestling was in town, when Bruno Sammartino was in the main event, he’d take me to the Garden or wherever and just…bond, I guess. Over the competition. Men punching and kicking each other. Bleeding. Steel cages. You know what I mean.
Carmela: I don’t like it, Tony.
Tony: And that’s okay, because you’re not going. But me and A.J., we’ve got a date tonight.
A.J.: We do?
Tony: Yeah, we do. Eight o’clock. Continental Airlines Arena. World Wrestling Federation. Ever hear of it?
Tony shows A.J. the ad in the paper. Steve Austin, the Rock, and D-Generation X glower above the details.
A.J.: I’ve heard of it, Dad, it’s just—
Carmela: I’m telling you I don’t like it, Tony.
Tony: It’s a father-son bonding thing, Carmela! I don’t expect you to get it!
Carmela: Oh, I get it perfectly! It’s barbaric!
Tony: Barbaric? What? The blood? There’s more blood on the evening news, Carm.
Carmela: Be that as it may, I was talking to Rosalie Aprile yesterday, and she told me that some kid in Michigan broke his neck trying out those stunts, and I don’t want A.J.—
A.J.: It doesn’t matter, I know it’s all fake anyhow.
A.J.: Yeah. Predetermined? It’s not real.
Tony: Not real? So what you’re telling me in my own house is that Bruno Sammartino—one of the greatest Italians who ever lived—was a phony world champion? That we should throw out his accomplishments and forget that we were ever proud of him, same as Christopher Columbus?
A.J.: I don’t even know who Bruno Sammartino is!
Tony: Carmela, the kid doesn’t even know his own heritage!
A.J.: When was I supposed to learn about wrestling?
A.J.: But Dad!
Tony: What, you got a date tonight or something?
Tony: It’s cancelled. Besides, they’ve got broads at this wrestling thing.
Tony: What? It’s healthy!
In the back of Satriale’s Pork Store, Christopher Moltisanti, Paulie Walnuts, and Silvio Dante are picking at their lunches, shooting the shit. Paulie is his usual animated self, but what he’s talking about is unusual—it’s professional wrestling. Chris, something of a closeted fan of the sport, listens more attentively than he usually does when Paulie’s on a bender about ancient history. Sil, for his part, looks uninterested.
Paulie: When Bruno climbed that cage? Marone! The only thing that makes me more proud to be Italian is Columbus Day. There ought to be a statue of that man.
Christopher: Columbus? There’s lots of statues of him.
Paulie: Bruno Sammartino!
Sil: I dunno, Paulie. A statue of a wrestler?
Paulie: Why not? They got Joe Lewis’ big fuckin’ fist hanging in Detroit, why not put a statue of the Living Legend in New York?
Sil: He’s from Pittsburgh or something.
Paulie: Ah, fuck Pittsburgh! New York is where the man made his name. The Garden! What do you have against him?
Sil: He’s just not my favorite, I guess.
Paulie: Who’s better than Bruno?
Sil: I always liked Dominic DeNucci.
Paulie: DeNucci? He always lost!
Sil: He’s a bit more realistic is all.
Sil: Yeah, realistic. Bruno, he’s good, but he holds onto the world championship for years, virtually undefeated? Nobody is better than him? Calls into question the legitimacy of the whole operation.
Christopher: What Sil’s trying to say is that it’s fake, Paulie.
Sil: That’s not it exactly, but if you look at the guys in the ring, they’re always stomping their feet when they’re throwing punches. One time, I saw one of them cut their own forehead with a razor.
Christopher: They call it “blading.”
Sil: Sick shit, Paulie, but when you think about it—
Paulie: I don’t need to think about it!
Tony enters the room, bialy in hand.
Paulie: Ton’, skip, you oughta hear what they’re saying about Bruno Sammartino.
Tony: Wrestling? Jesus, I already got an earful about how barbaric it is from Carm, and then A.J. tells me it’s fake.
Paulie: Him too?
Tony: He says it’s predetermined. Like the NBA Finals or some shit.
Paulie: We live in dark times, Ton’. Imagine questioning Bruno Sammartino.
Sil: All I said is that I prefer Dominic DeNucci.
Tony: DeNucci? The bum?
Sil: He was a tag team champion!
Paulie: Yeah, with Bruno.
Christopher: Ah, the new stuff blows away the old stuff anyway.
Tony: Oh yeah?
Christopher: Best thing on television. Adriana bitches about it, she thinks I’m into this broad Sable, but I watch Raw every Monday.
Tony: Every Monday?
Christopher: Unless I’ve got something to do.
Tony: You think A.J. would like it?
Christopher: I dunno, T. A.J.’s a little more sensitive than us when it comes to violence.
Tony: What the fuck are you talking about? You ever try to listen to the music he’s into? Coal Chamber or some shit? It’s an assault!
Christopher: Music’s different. They try to pin that school shooting shit on Marilyn Manson but I don’t see how. Underneath all that distortion is just a bunch of guys moaning about how they don’t get laid enough, and it’s not like sad virgins to get all violent on account of mass media.
Tony: Probably because he’s got the kids call confused, getting his ribs taken out so he can suck his own dick.
Paulie: He’d love it, T.
Tony: That’s good, because I’m taking him to the show at the Meadowlands tonight.
Paulie: They got this guy, Cold Stone.
Christopher: Stone Cold.
Christopher: It’s “Stone Cold.”
Paulie: What did I say?
Christopher: You said “Cold Stone.” It’s the other way around. Reverse it.
Paulie: Like I’s was saying, this guy, Cold Stone? Every week he beats the shit out of his boss.
Christopher: I love that part.
Tony: Oh, you do?
Tony looks hard at Christopher, trying to determine if there’s something more to his love of the Austin/McMahon angle he’s seen none of than just enjoying it.
Sil: It’ll be good, T. Spend some time with your son. Have a good night.
Tony: Thanks, Sil. I think I will.
Tony gets up and leaves. The three men left in the room look at each other.
Christopher: So we’re going tonight, right?
Paulie: Wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Christopher: We can make it a work thing, Sil. You wouldn’t believe how much they sell t-shirts for. We knock over a truck of that? We’re talking a Pokémon score here.
Sil: You and Paulie handle it. I’m just not the right demographic for this shit anymore.
Paulie: Demographic? You trying to imply something, Sil?
Sil: Nah. You’re just…young at heart.
Paulie: Heh. Tell that to my doctor.
The Meadowlands Arena. Tony Soprano and A.J. have front row seats, a gift from the arena management group on account of their relationship with his sanitation business. The arena is packed, thousands of people carrying signs and screaming.
Tony: This is great, eh A.J.?
A.J.: I’m surprised how many people are here. Don’t they know?
Tony: Don’t start with that again. Between you thinking wrestling’s fake and Artie yakking his head off about that jamook Hulk Hogan, it’s a miracle I was able to finish my dinner.
A.J.: But you just got two hot dogs from the vendor—
Tony: You have to have a dog when you’re at the arena, A.J. Indulge a little.
Tony offers one of the hot dogs to his son. A.J. pushes it away.
Tony: Fine. Two for me, then.
Elsewhere in the arena, Paulie and Christopher prowl the concourse.
Paulie: Where are the broads?
Paulie: The women, Chrissy. The matches, they used to be crawling with women.
Christopher: It’s a man’s game now. The 18-34 demo. Very valuable.
Paulie: The fuck does any of that have to do with wrestling?
Christopher: Fuck if I know, it’s just what people talk about on the Internet.
Paulie: Fuck the fucking Internet, Chrissy—in my day, you could barely hear yourself think the women were screaming so loud.
Christopher: Forget that.
Christopher pats Paulie and points across the concourse. There’s a WWF souvenir stand loaded with shirts, foam fingers, action figures, and other baubles bearing images of wrestlers.
Christopher: That’s what we’re after.
They walk over to it, where they’re immediately tended to by a clerk.
Clerk: Can I help you with anything?
Christopher: Just looking.
Paulie: Get a load of that shirt, Chrissy. APA: Always Pounding Ass.
Paulie: This is your great score? A crate of shirts for a couple of fanooks?
Christopher: I wouldn’t call them fanooks, exactly.
Paulie: Then why are they always pounding ass?
Christopher: You know, women have asses you can pound, too, Paulie.
Paulie: It’s unnatural! Either you’re a fanook or you’re a fanook-in-training.
Christopher: Fine, so we won’t take the APA shirts. Steve Austin? DX? Guaranteed money.
Paulie: DX? You mean the football jerseys that say “Suck It?” And what are those guys sucking?
Christopher: Each other’s fucking cocks for all I care, Paulie. Do you want the score or do you want the score?
In the arena itself, booming pyro signals that the show is about to begin. Paulie looks at the APA shirt and looks towards the arena.
Paulie: I’ll consider it.
Christopher: You have to consider it?
Paulie: This ain’t the wrestling I know, Chrissy. Word about this kind of thing gets to the wrong person? They’ll be pounding your face into the pavement, believe me.
Tony and A.J. stare in awe at the indoor fireworks display, rockets and bombs going off on the entryway. While he tries not to show it, the WWF’s pyrotechnics have A.J. all the way into the idea of the show, which begins right away with the swelling, oppressive chords of Vince McMahon’s theme music, “No Chance.” The New Jersey crowd immediately begins chanting “ASSHOLE!” at McMahon, who power walks to the ring by himself. In the upper bowl of the arena, Christopher and Paulie assess the chairman of the WWF.
Paulie: What’s with the way he walks?
Christopher: Who, Vince?
Paulie: Who else? He walks like a Frankenstein with a switch up his ass.
Christopher: Frankenstein’s monster?
Christopher: You mean the monster, right?
Paulie: The big, green fuck.
Christopher: Then say “Frankenstein’s monster.”
Paulie: You think I’m talking about his great-grandson over here? The fuck’s the matter with you, Chrissy?
Christopher: I just fucked it up in school was all. You don’t forget those kinds of things.
Paulie: My school days are long behind me, kid.
Christopher: No kidding.
McMahon enters the ring, looking out over a crowd that is hungry for his blood. He takes the microphone from the ring announcer and waits for the crowd to quiet down. They do not. He looks like he’s content to wait all night.
Tony: He forget his speech or something?
Vince: I’d like to welcome you all to Monday Night Raw, but since this is how you’ve chosen to greet me, I won’t.
Christopher: Fuckin’ prick.
Vince: First, I’d just like to say that I am not the word you’re all chanting right now, and that the fact that you find it acceptable to do so on a globally broadcast entertainment juggernaut speaks to the low moral fiber of the people of New Jersey, which comes as no surprise since you’ve chosen to live in a swamp.
Vince: I have a few announcements I’d like to get out of the way, beginning with this: Stone Cold Steve Austin will not be in attendance tonight.
The crowd boos at this, few harder than Paulie Walnuts.
Paulie: This is bullshit! Chrissy, let’s get out of here—
Christopher: Sit down, Paulie. Stone Cold will be here.
Paulie: But you heard the man—if the boss says Cold Stone isn’t here, Cold Stone isn’t here.
Christopher: It’s all bullshit, Paulie. They’ve probably got big chains on the arena doors or some shit, and Stone Cold will cut them with a big bolt cutter or something.
Christopher: Yeah. Like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd, without the crossdressing.
Paulie: Now that would be a sight.
Vince: Second, tonight’s Raw will feature not one, but two main events. That’s right, tonight, in this very ring, The Rock will defend his WWF Championship against that deformed freak Mankind!
The crowd roar for this.
Vince: In this match, there will be a special guest referee … your’s truly, Vincent Kennedy McMahon, Chairman of the World Wrestling Federation.
A.J.: Dad, is that fair?
Tony: I dunno, A.J. I mean, he’s the owner of the company, so he’s going to make the best decision for it, you know?
A.J.: But he called Mankind “a deformed freak.” So that means he’s going to pick The Rock?
Tony: Maybe. You know I don’t watch this shit.
A.J.: How is that competitive though?
Tony: Well not every competition is fair, A.J. Some men are born to win, some men are born to lose. You sure ask a lot of fucking questions for someone who thinks this is predetermined.
Vince: And the New Age Outlaws will put their WWF Tag Team Championships online against Kane and the Undertaker. That match begins now.
McMahon, looking pleased with himself, leaves the ring as the New Age Outlaws’ theme music hits and Road Dogg Jesse James goes into his “Oh you didn’t know?” monologue. With each passing cussword, A.J. Soprano finds himself more and more captivated. Tony, squirming in his seat a little, hopes that Carmela isn’t watching.
Road Dogg: Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages—D-Generation X proudly brings to you it’s WWF Tag Team Champions of the World … the Road Dogg Jessie James, the Bad Ass Billy Gun, the New Age Outlaws!
Billy Gunn: And if you’re not down with that, we’ve got two words for ya…
Gunn holds the mic up to the crowd while he and Road Dogg deliver their customary crotch chops.
Audience: SUCK IT!
Tony: Ho! The mouth on these people.
A.J.: This is awesome!
The New Age Outlaws’ entrance has nothing on the spectacle of Kane and the Undertaker, the Brothers of Destruction, who enter to the familiar tolling of the Undertaker’s bell and the lights going out. Thousands of people in the Continental Airlines Arena lift up lighters as the two walk through the fog and purple lighting towards the ring. Paulie Walnuts is not one of them.
Paulie: They ain’t right, Chrissy. They ain’t natural.
Christopher: Kane and the Undertaker? What’s wrong with them?
Paulie: Marone! Look at them, kid. The Undertaker’s a big zombie and the guy in red walks around like Frankenstein’s fuckin’ monster! I’m telling you it’s not right.
The match happens the way you’d expect. Lots of punching and kicking, four men plodding around. Everybody in the arena, A.J. included, is going nuts for it, but Tony’s not so sure.
Tony: I don’t get this.
A.J.: Bad Ass Billy Gunn just punched the Undertaker in the dick!
Tony: I don’t care if it was Bad Ass Billy Gunn, I don’t care if it was Big Mouth Billy Bass—you know there used to be a science to this shit? Two men actually fighting for something?
A.J.: Punching and kicking is fighting.
Tony: No, I mean … spiritually or whatever. Like, you know, grappling. Wrestling.
A.J.: Like the wrestling club in high school?
Tony: Kind of. More punches and kicks, but kind of.
A.J.: So they got rid of all the gay stuff and left us with this.
Tony: Hey! Your mother don’t like that kind of talk and neither do I.
A.J.: You talk like that all the time!
Tony: Difference between you and me being that I’m a adult, A.J. Maybe you can talk about what’s gay and what’s not gay when you know a thing or two about what is and isn’t gay. Like when you’re 45. Maybe. It’s like I let you cuss a little and all the sudden you’re making judgments on my childhood.
This serious conversation is interrupted as a gaggle of wrestlers, Vince McMahon’s cronies in the Corporation, swarm the ring to attack both teams.
Tony: A fuck finish? C’mon, it’s just the tag belts!
A.J.: What’s a fuck finish?
Both teams, exhausted from their match, get pummeled, but are bailed out by the aggro meathead chord progressions of the Acolyte Protection Agency, Bradshaw and Farrooq. Paulie Walnuts stands in disbelief at the two of them.
Paulie: Those are the fanooks?
Christopher: They look like no fannoks I’ve ever seen.
Paulie: What’s their deal?
Christopher: I dunno, Paulie, two guys who like to drink, play cards, and beat motherfuckers up for money.
Paulie: They’re in protection?
Christopher: Whoever they’ve got writing these things has it all wrong, but yeah, that’s essentially it.
Christopher: “Farrooq” sound like a county in Ireland to you?
Paulie turns to the ring in time to see Bradshaw hit a Clothesline From Hell, paired with a Farrooq Dominator.
Paulie: Ho! I’ve seen enough. I’m gonna get me a shirt, Chrissy.
Christopher: Just one?
Paulie: I’m thinkin’ more like all of them.
Christopher: Hold on. I’ll join you.
It’s main event time, WWF Championship on the line. “Crash,” the inventively named song that begins with an automobile accident, begins to play, bringing out Mankind. The fans go crazy for Mick Foley, which leaves Tony a little perplexed as he watches the man hobble down to the ring.
Tony: The people cheer for this facia bruta?
A.J.: He’s a man of the people, Dad. He’s like us.
Tony: Yeah, the only us between me and him is when I was stuffing someone like him into the lockers or flushing the toilets on their face.
A.J.: You’re just like Mr. McMahon, Dad.
Tony: What, a proud, legitimate businessman?
A.J.: Yeah, legitimate.
Tony: Still with this wrestling is fake shit? The man may be Irish, but he deserves a little respect.
A.J., watches as Mankind walks around the ring slapping hands with everybody at ringside.
A.J.: Do you think he’ll high five me?
Tony: Sure. Why not? Guy like him could use a touch of class. Put your hand out.
A.J. does so, but he an Tony are seated by the ring stairs, so when Mankind comes their way he takes the stairs instead of completing his circuit.
Tony: Hey, what the fuck, Mankind? Come down here and slap five with my son! You slap everyone else’s hand but not my kid?
A.J.: It’s okay, Dad.
Tony: No it’s not, and if I see that freak in the parking lot after the show—
A.J.: There’s lots of parking lots.
Tony: You think I don’t know someone who knows about parking lots?
A.J.: Val Venis was going to high five me but you wouldn’t let him.
Tony: He’s a pornographer, A.J. You don’t know where his hands have been.
A.J.: Probably on some girl.
Tony: Hey! What do you know about pornography?
A.J.: I just hear the guys talking about it at school.
Tony: You swear?
A.J.: I swear.
Tony: Because if you know more about pornography than those boys at school tell you and your mother finds out?
A.J.: She’ll take away my computer.
Tony: And Mario Kart.
A.J.: That’s hypocritical!
Tony: Its hypothetical. So unless you want me running a blacklight on your bedsheets like they do on the evening news—
Tony: You’re damn right it is. Now I’m gonna get that freak to high five you, or I’m gonna make sure there are consequences. You’re a Soprano, A.J. Have a little respect.
The Rock’s theme music starts, and he’s accompanied to the ring by Vince McMahon, the special guest referee, and his corporate cronies, Pat Patterson and Gerald Brisco. The Rock doesn’t give a damn about the fans, obviously, so he and McMahon go straight to the ring steps to get this underway.
Tony: Hey McMahon! Vince! Your employee there, the one in the tattered shirt? He didn’t slap five with my boy! Real nice people you employ.
Vince McMahon, not knowing who is yelling at him, wordlessly scowls at Tony and gets in the ring.
Tony: This motherfucking motherfucker. I swear—
The Rock/Mankind match goes how you think it would—The Rock cheats his ass off while McMahon looks the other way, and every time Mankind gets an advantage, McMahon is quick to interject, allowing The Rock to take back over. A.J. is completely involved in the match, his dad trying to calm down so he can enjoy it with him, but he knows that if McMahon or Mankind come his way he’s going to have to teach them some manners. Finally, Mankind catches The Rock with his patented double arm DDT, but he’s exhausted and can’t make the cover on a knocked out Rock. With Vince McMahon alone in the ring, that’s the cue for the glass to shatter and “Stone Cold” Steve Austin’s music to hit, which it does, to a reaction that’s louder than an explosion.
A.J.: There he is! Stone Cold!
Tony: Jesus Christ, listen to these people. You’d think he was the Pope!
Austin saunters to the ring with a chair in hand, fear on McMahon’s face. He tries to wake The Rock, but to no avail—Austin enters through the ropes, takes one look at Vince, and cracks him between the eyes with the chair. This is when The Rock gets up, and he gets a chair shot to the dome as well. With everybody out, Austin drags Mankind onto The Rock, takes up Vince’s arm, counts to three, and calls for the bell. The crowd roars for this, but Patterson is in ring announcer Howard Finkel’s ear.
Finkel: I’m being told by WWF Official Pat Patterson that due to the interference of “Stone Cold” Steve Austin, the winner of this match as a result of a disqualification, and STILL the World Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Champion, The Rock!
Tony: Heh, that’s a bad break for Mankind.
A.J.: But it’s not fair! That one guy cheated for The Rock the whole time.
Tony: That “guy” is the owner of the company, how many times do I gotta tell you? And while I might wanna ring his neck for the way he looked at me earlier, this business is about respecting the boss.
As if to counter Tony, Austin takes the mic.
Austin: So what we’ve just been told is that Mankind isn’t the World Champion. That’s too damn bad, but it doesn’t change a damn thing. What “Stone Cold” Steve Austin came here to do tonight was to drink beer and open up a can of whoop-ass on Vince and The Rock’s sorry asses, but since Mankind’s waking up from his nap, maybe I should give him a present. If you wanna see Mankind shove that filthy sock down Vince McMahon’s throat, gimme a hell yeah.
Crowd: HELL YEAH!
Austin: And if you want me to Stone Cold Stun this Brahma Bull piece of trash straight to hell, gimme another hell yeah.
Crowd: HELL YEAH!
Austin: Well I guess that’s the bottom line.
Mankind, to his feet now, pulls Mr. Socko out of his pants.
Tony: Ah, geez, what the fuck? A cock sock?
A.J.: What’s a cock sock?
Tony: Nothin’, stop asking so many questions.
McMahon and Rock get to their feet as well. Austin lies in wait, flips off The Rock, and gives him a Stunner. McMahon, doing a slow twirl Mankind’s way, tastes Mr. Socko. When Mankind finishes, McMahon is retching on the mat. Austin takes to the turnbuckles, calling for a beer. He catches several from the air, throws a few to Mankind, and the two have a beer bash. Austin climbs the turnbuckles near Tony and A.J., smashes his cans together, and gets beer on Tony’s jacket.
Tony: Hey, what the fuck!
The show over, Steve Austin and Mankind leave the ring and head backstage. McMahon and Rock get up slowly.
Tony: McMahon! McMahon you prick!
The two get out of the ring, The Rock without much notice, McMahon by walking past Tony.
Tony: Look at me when I’m talking to you, McMahon.
Vince: Or you’ll what?
Tony: Or I’ll what?
Vince: Is that all you people in New Jersey can do? Repeat yourself?
Tony: You motherfucker—
Quicker than Vince can account for, Tony grabs him by his referee shirt and punches him square in the nose.
Tony: You motherfucker!
Security rushes to the scene, pulling Tony off of Vince and out of the arena, but not before he spits on McMahon.
Tony: This was a new coat! Now I gotta explain why it smells like Budweiser!
Tony, of course, faced no repercussions for his actions—one of the cops at the arena owed him a favor. He, A.J., Paulie, and Christopher are hanging out post-show at a diner, Heart’s “Magic Man” playing on the jukebox on the table.
Tony: This place, I tell you—
Paulie: Best fuckin’ onion rings in the state.
A.J.: That’s what you say every time we come here.
A waitress sets down a basket of onion rings. Tony grabs one.
Tony: That’s because it’s true.
Christopher: I can’t believe you punched Vince McMahon, Ton’. Guy’s a major player.
Tony: In what? In wrestling?
Christopher: It’s the biggest thing on TV.
Tony: And I popped him one, so what’s that say about me?
Paulie: A.J., how’d you like the show?
A.J.: It was okay, I guess.
Paulie: Okay? That’s it?
Tony: C’mon, you had a great time!
Paulie: Yeah, kid. Give me something more.
A.J.: I can give you two words?
Paulie: And what would those be?
A.J.: Suck it!
Paulie, Tony, and Christopher: HO!
Later that evening, at the Bada Bing, Christopher and Paulie haul in their last box of merchandise from the truck they jacked. Sil looks at it, somewhat amused.
Sil: The fuck’s all this? Foam fingers?
Christopher: We don’t know. Jacked a truck off the loading dock while they were unloading it.
Paulie: Lost a couple’a boxes off the back, but nothing that what’s inside the rest won’t cover.
Sil: Well, open it up. I wanna see what I missed.
Paulie slices open a box with a boxcutter and immediately goes white.
Silvio goes to investigate. He looks at the shirt on top of the box and laughs.
Sil: It says “Always Pounding Ass” on it.
Christopher: Jesus Christ.
Paulie keeps slicing open boxes, growing further and further dismayed.
Paulie: They all fucking say that. All of them!
Sil: Not all of them, Paulie. This one says “Poontang Pie.”
Christopher: What are we going to do with this shit?
Paulie: We’re going to take this shit out to the woods and burn it, Chrissy.
Christopher: Not the fuckin’ woods again.
Paulie: The fucking woods, Christopher.
Sil: You two have fun.
Paulie: Not a fuckin’ word about this Silvio.
Sil: You get that shit outta my club, and I won’t say a word.
The three of them nod as Sil turns to head back into the Bing. While Christopher and Paulie silently struggle with their boxes, we cut to credits. The song that plays over them is Vince McMahon’s “No Chance In Hell.”