Clenching his fist, Doug gasped for air and attempted to sit upright but to no avail: His pelvis had been shattered so severely that it was going to require a miracle to repair it. Fortunately for the Quailman, the surgeons had something special brewing—an ulterior motive you could say—and Doug was about to find out what his body was really capable of. With his shattered pelvis being held together with duct tape and his ribcage being carefully crocheted back together, Doug finally slipped into a coma, where he was confronted with the reality that he might not get out of this jam. During this time, doctors rushed to combine an assortment of chemicals—most of them probably banned on the federal level—and mixed them. After measuring out a small amount, they poured this concoction into a spoon, which they promptly lit a candle under. As the sauce brewed, the unlicensed doctors tied a tourniquet around Douglas' arm. Once his childlike-arms began to tighten and his veins expanded, the doctors slowly injected the experimental drug into Doug's lifeless corpse.
Hours later, Doug opened his eyes. He couldn't believe it: Not only was he alive, but his body had been magically stitched back together with all of his organs being returned to their natural positions. Not only did he feel better, he felt great. In fact, he never felt better in his life. He felt so great, in fact, that he was ready to bust out of that hellhole they called a hospital. He tore the IVs out of his arms and ripped the dog muzzle off his face and slammed it onto the ground, alerting the nurses at the nearby station. As they rushed to help return him to his bed, he pummeled them with an assortment of strikes so powerful that it rendered both of them unconscious. With freedom staring him in his face, he sat upright on the table, stood up, and walked toward the horizon, leaving a trail of saucy stink behind him. He had arisen.
Stepping out of the hospital, law enforcement was quick to apprehend him and toss him onto the ground. After a brief session of police brutality, Doug was finally handcuffed and lifted back up. "We caught you trying to escape, you little hardass, you must think you're such a tough guy," an officer ignorantly boasted. As the blood dripped from his mouth, Doug uttered the phrase, "Now you've done it", before snapping out of the handcuffs by brute force. The police, now cowering in fear, backed off, creating a path for Doug to walk by.
"Feel lucky that I spared you," Doug told an officer as he walked by him before promptly spitting in the other officer's face. After ripping the door off its hinges, Doug approached the city, which was seemingly welcoming him with open arms. Taking in the beauties surrounding him, such as the prostitutes working the corners, he took a long, deep breath. "That p*ssy 'Snotty' Sanders is about to get the snot kicked out of him," he groaned.
Stepping over the piss-soaked newspapers that lined the street, Doug casually walked pass the homeless people hurling quarters at children. These children, whose cries reverberated throughout the street, probably deserved it. Not only were they truants, but they were snotty little brats, just like Scottie Sanders, that son of a bitch. The more he thought about him, the harder he grinded his teeth—so hard that he mineralized his molars. This wasn't just a fued; no, this was war—at least as far as Doug was concerned. Nothing was going to get in his way of kicking the nickels out of Snotty Sanders' POCKETS. Come hell or high water, he was going to make it happen. He was so focused and so determined that his nipples were erect.
Heading into the city, Doug had a series of options. His first option was to track down Gary, general manager of the Utah Jazz, and shit in his sink for writing such a degrading story about him. His second option—which he felt was the more appropriate option—was to head to the airport and take a flight to Brooklyn. See, Doug had always been the social type; he was always making friends and, as a result, had a lot of contacts spread throughout the country. His friends in Brooklyn, although considered "lowlives" by some, were some of his closest allies. Many of them dealt in illegal contraband such as stolen firearms and enriched uranium; others were part of a network of spies who had influence over the elites; others were simply Edgardo, general manager of the Brooklyn Nets, who was caught off-guard when Doug knocked on his door. Edgardo was in a dreadful situation as he was struggling to push the final turd of an otherwise paranormal bowel movement out of his ass. He could feel the final, massive turd ripping him apart from the inside out. There was nothing he could do but moan out in pain as the helplessness overcame him, making him quiver on the pot.
"Help! I'm dying in here!" Edgardo screamed with whatever life he had left in him, as he was too exhausted from giving birth to an asteroid.
"Don't worry, I'm coming!" The Quail shouted as he kicked the door down and rushed to Edgardo's side.
By this point, Edgardo was slipping in and out of consciousness on the toilet. After a few slaps on the face, and some dick jokes later, Edgardo returned to his senses. Once alert, Doug pulled him aside and crept up to his ear. "Hey man, I came to ask you a favor," he whispered softly in his ear.
"What is it dude?" Edgardo replied as he wiped his ass.
"I need you to help me track down Scottie 'Snotty' Sanders, that chiropractor out of Utah who rendered my body useless. He was drafted by the Utah Jazz, the worst team in the league. And he's going to pay for what he did to me. All the scars, my deformities, my now crippling disability—he's going to pay for it all," Doug told him with whilst fighting back tears.
"Oh. Yeah. About that. That actually won't be a problem. Fortunately I have connections with some big-breasted boys who're attending the upcoming Jazz game. With one phone call, I can have all of your problems solved and have him jumped," Edgardo proposed.
"No, I want to take direct action myself. I want to confront him and do to him what he did to me," Doug sternly replied as his muscles began to expand, leaving a shiny coat of sweat in its wake.
Suddenly, his head began to throb. The veins in his skull began to expand, many of them bursting in the process. As the veins in his skull continued to expand, he could feel the angry army of blood flow like a tsunami directly into his amygdala.
"It's going down," Doug told him.
____________________________________
Doug stood outside the Vivint Home Smart Arena patiently awaiting for Snotty Sanders to appear. Knowing that he'd be trying to lay low, Doug crept around the parking lot, dodging security whilst scouting the area. It didn't take long before Snotty Sanders walked out of a side door, conveniently mere steps away from Doug.
"I came back. Just for you," Doug snarled, shirtless for no reason. "I want you. I want you in every way possible that isn't sexual," Doug reaffirmed.
"You want it? You got it. Just tell me where and when," Snotty shot back as he hurled some snot directly into a trash can 15ft away.
"First, you beat me on your turf. This time, I'm going to beat you on my turf: The boxing ring. We'll see just how tough you are if you can answer the challenge," Doug belted with confidence.
"You got it, boner boy," Snotty shot back.
And just like that, they had a match. It was originally scheduled for a Thursday, but had to be rescheduled due to Scottie's emergency dental appointment. Regardless, we had a match and the date was set: Friday, October 13th, 2023.
______________________________
Gilbert Gottfried: Greetings everyone, and welcome to The Battle of The Ballers, the first of hopefully many boxing bouts sanctioned by the PBSL, the most lucrative RPG simulation-styled online basketball league in the world today. And today we're finally getting to see these two gladiators, these two men of meat, these two pillars of pump, meet in the ring. Never before in the history of this league has the Commissioner sanctioned a bout between two employees—until now. What are your thoughts, Donnie?
Donovan McNabb: I think this is going to be a close one, Gil, and welcome back from the dead. On one hand, we have a seasoned general manager who's magically transformed himself into a cement wall. He knows talent when he sees it, Gil, he's been around the block. But on the other hand you have a chiseled athlete known as "Snotty." Now what this suggests to me, Gil, is that his body is overproducing snot, which in the later rounds of the fight could prove to be pivotal. If that snot gets to his body, Gil, well that's a lot of lubrication. And that amount of lubrication is going to give Snotty a lot more wiggle room, so I'm curious to see how Doug overcomes that.Gilbert Gottfried: The one thing that you can't forget about Doug, Donovan, is that despite being an underdog he's also a volunteer firefighter. Now what this tells me is that he's resilient. It tells me that he doesn't feel fear like other men do. In fact, he thrives in situations when things start to heat up. He extinguishes problems just like his fires, with a few squirts and a wink. Donovan McNabb: Don't get me wrong here, Gil, but I think Doug may be a little overmatched. Now hear me out, Gil. We're talking about an athlete who has a background as a certified chiropractor, indicating that he's at least mildly familiar with the human skeleton, right? You take that—and you pair it with a bad attitude? You're asking for trouble. Big trouble. BAD trouble, even.Gilbert Gottfried: Now that is a fair assessment Darren but you're forgetting that Doug has literally transformed into a giant goblin of a man overnight. There's something frightening: I can see it in his eyes, and I can't help but get lost in them.Donovan McNabb: That's a pretty good point, Gil, because when I gaze into Snotty's luscious, sulky brown eyes, I see a lunatic just waiting to be unleashed. Just you watch these titans go at it, it'll be like the PBSL Finals but instead it'll just be a boxing match between a chiropractor and a disgruntled general manager.Gilbert Gottfried: Well said, Donald. Looks we're about to find out what's going to happen right now, as both fighters are headed to the ring. They look great, Dave, I can almost taste them.Donovan McNabb: That's exactly what my wife told me about my former employer, Gil, and I have to admit, it hurt, Gil. My uncle was always a role model to me growing up and now all of a sudden he was my competiti—*AND JUST LIKE THAT, THINGS STARTED HAPPENING*
When all was said and done, Doug walked back to his locker with pride. With a tired, humble smile on his face, he took off his gloves and tossed them onto the floor. What had to be done, was done, he thought to himself. He scratched his groin, and smelled his fingers after.
Snotty Sanders, beyond defeated from the bout, returned to his locker with a solemn look on his face. With a tear falling from his eye and snot pouring from his nostrils, he looked down at the blood on his gloves. He couldn't believe the mayhem he caused; the pain he created. It was eating him up inside, consuming him like a virulent disease. He tried to relax but couldn't get Doug's face out of his head; it haunted him, much like the memories of his childhood. The pain continued to build inside him until he couldn't hold it in any longer: He shit his pants, ruining them.
