Daisy, who had had plenty of sex in a canoe, or two, informed Kitty and the boys, “Nothing but sunshine and blue skies for the next three days.”

“What a pity. Just when you really need a dark and stormy night, there’s not a cloud in the sky,” Stephen lamented, with a wry smirk.

Not being comfortable with the sexual innuendo banter, and wanting to move in a different direction, Lance finally spoke. He addressed the Staals, introducing himself fist, since no one had bothered to do so. “Hey guys, my name is Lance. I’m with Kitty,” he said, staking his territory. “Like everyone else, I admire your philanthropic gesture, but I’m wondering if any of your friends, or teammates, have expressed any interest in jumping on your bandwagon.”

Once again, it was Eric the elder who spoke for the brothers. “Kinda, sorta, but not really. Not yet, at least. But we’ve come up with a plan. A big thunder of a plan. And we are pretty confident that, if we can pull it off, all sorts of pro athletes will start coughing up all sorts of money.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been hoping for,” Stephen admitted. “What’s the plan, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, no, we don’t mind at all, coach. We were kinda hoping Mrs. Coach would be here to hear it,” Eric replied, “but that’s okay. We are going to try to organize an event. Something so big that the whole world will be watching. Something so big that people around the world will pay to watch, with all the money going into some kinda fund. It will be the biggest sporting event in the history of the world, and it will generate a shit ton of money.”

“How much money are you talking?” Stephen asked.

“Five hundred million,” Eric replied. “Or more. Maybe a billion. Maybe more. We don’t know. But a lot. A lot a lot.”

Stephen was impressed. Impressed a lot a lot. But dubious. Could these three puckheads come up with an idea that big? WTF could it be? And how could they pull it off? They’re just puckheads, after all. Good guys. Big hearts. Far from dunb. Obviously ambitious. But surely something that massive is out of their league. “What is it?”

Grinning proudly, Eric challenged, “See if you can guess.”

Stephens’s brain scrambled, but it stopped on a strange idea he had had for years. Unable to come up with anything else, he spat it out. “You know, I always wanted to see the Klitschko brothers fight each other. But their mother wouldn’t let them.”

The Staals laughed, because they had a similar, but far better, far funnier idea, that involved the brothers. Laughing, Eric said, “That’s funny, because we always wanted to see the Williams sisters fight the Klitschko brothers!”

“That’s hilarious,” Stephen laughed, “But the girls wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Eric begged to differ, “Both sisters in the ring at the same time, but only one of the brothers.”

“It’s great, but they still wouldn’t stand a chance,” Stephen scoffed.

Eric grinned and clarified, “The girls get to use their tennis racquets!”

“Oh, that’s brilliant!” Stephen said.

Pleased, Eric added, “If the sisters win, they get to wear the heavyweight championship belts, and the brothers have to wear tennis dresses!”

“I’d pay big money to watch that!” Stephen confessed. “So would a lot a lot of people. But wait, is that your idea?”

Still grinning, Eric answered, “No. But it could be a follow up. That’s a circus. Our idea is a real show. A real battle that everyone wants to see. And it will be bigger than the Williams sisters vs the Klitschko brothers.”

“Well, you’ve got me beat all to Hell. What is it?” Stephen wanted to know.

Eric looked at his brothers, who were both grinning maniacally. Then he looked at King and answered, “McGregor vs Mayweather 2.”

Stephen liked it. A lot. A lot a lot. But said exactly what anyone else would say, “But Mayweather will beat him again. Conner has no chance.”

Eric shook his head, and said, “Not this time. This time they’re in the octagon, not the ring.”

“Holy fuck,” said Stephen. “It will be a massacre. McGregor will kick the living shit outta Mayweather. Maybe literally kick the shit out of him.”

“And… do you know anyone who doesn’t want to see Mayweather get the shit kicked outta him?”

“You’re rigt. Everyone wants to see Mayweather get the shit kicked outta him. Which is why he’ll never do it, no matter how much money he’s offered.”

Laughing, Eric affected a German accent, and said, “Ve have vays of making him fight!”

“Such as?” Stephen wanted to know.

“Peer pressure and fear, mostly,” Eric answered. “First of all, we need a promoter. The biggest and best of all time. Might be a cousin of yours, but he would certainly be a distant cousin, if he is.”

King was stumped, but only for a few seconds, “Don King! Fuck me! You think you can get Don King to promote this?”

“Dreaming is free, so why dream small,” answered Eric the elder. “But we’re dreaming even bigger than that. We want King to co-promote the fight with… George Foreman.”

“Holy fucking shit! Are you kidding?” King, who is not related to the new King in the ring, asked.

“No, we’re not. We’ve thought this out,” Eric assured him. “It all makes sense. Foreman is a man of God. He can put the fear of God into Mayweather. Explain to him that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to pass into Heaven. And if he ain’t going to Heaven, he’s going the other way. For eternity. So he fights for free, as does Conner. Mayweather’s a Christian. He thanks God before, and after every fight. George just has to put the fear into him. Or beat the shit outta him!”

“You’re rigt,” King said. “You’re absolutely rigt.”

“What’s more is, George can explain to Mayweather how he became a better man after Ali rope-a-doped him in the Rumble in the Jungle. George went through Hell after that fight. The humiliation. But he came out the other side a better man for it. And that’s how he managed to climb back into the ring, and become the heavyweight champion of the world at the unbelievable age of 45, after not boxing at all for 20 years. To a Christian, like Mayweather, that’s proof positive that God is very much on George’s side. And everyone knows that Conner will beat the shit out of him, anyway, so there’s no humiliation. In fact, it’s salvation for him, because everyone will know he’s getting the shit kicked out of him for a good cause. He is doing the good Lord’s work. He will be redeeming himself for beating his wife.”

“Holy fuck!” Stephen whispered, thinking, ‘These guys aren’t puckheads at all, they’re fucking geniuses.’

“Now, can you imagine that fight being hyped by Don King and Conner McGregor?”

King did some quick math. “Ten million pay-per-views, at a hundred bucks per,  makes a billion bucks. It’s a slam dunk. You guys are fucking geniuses. So, the fight will be at Wembley? Vegas?”

Eric grinned, and said, “Nope. Rigt here in Thunder Fucking Bay, baby!”

“You can’t hold a fight like that here,” Stephen scoffed.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But we have Plan B.”

“And what’s that?”

Eric gave a one word answer, that simply stunned everyone, “Wuhan.” Then he stunned them again, “Here’s the cherry on top; Lady Gaga is the card girl. Different costume every round. Or… even better… she’s topless after round one, and totally naked after round two.”

Eric’s brothers, who had not heard of the Gaga card girl idea before, were surprised. Neither of them objected, of course, but Marc asked, “Where did Lady Gaga come from?”

Someone had another question, and it was voiced with disdain, “Why her?” asked Madonna.




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