The brothers Staal pounded on the door of Sidney Crosby’s abode with the ferocity of the anti-terrorism unit of the karma police finally looking to execute a search warrant at God’s corporate head office. “Open up! Open the door, rigt now, or we’ll kick it in!”
Sid was expecting them, and suspected there would be shenanigans, so he opened the door with an expectant grin. As soon as he did, the brothers shoved him aside, rushed into the house, and demanded, “Quick, Close it. Lock it! Bolt it! He’s chasing us.”
Having watched Slapshot more than a hundred times, Sid laughed when he saw their Charlestown Chiefs sweaters, and knew how to play along. He slammed the door, and bolted it, as Eric, Marc and Jordan rushed to the bay window to close the curtains and peak out. “It’s okay, my crib is Ogilthorpe proof,” he assured them.
Eric turned to Sid and said, “Ogilthorpe? No. It’s Ovechkin!”
Laughing, Sid sought to placate the brothers, “Hey, if my crib can withstand an attack by Ogilthorpe, it can survive one from Ovechkin.”
“He’s drunk!” Eric shrieked.
“Oh, fuck!,” Crosby laughed. “Quick, you call the cops. Get them to scramble the SWAT Team. I’ll unleash the tigers, and get my elephant gun!”
Laughing wildly, the brothers gave it up when Jordan opened his daypack, pulled out a frosty Mr. Canoehead, and tossed it to Crosby. Sid studied the can, “Mr. Canoehead? Okay, but it’s a little early, no?” As the Staals cracked their beers, Crosby said, “It must be five o’clock somewhere,” and cracked his.
“Dude, we keep telling you; it’s always five o’clock in Thunder,” Marc replied.
“You guys are maniacs,” Sid said. “C’mon, sit down.” The boys parked themselves on a couple couches. “What the fuck is going on? What are you doing here?”
Eric and Marc pointed at Jordan, who said, “We want you to fight Ovechkin.”
Thinking they were kidding, Crosby laughed, “Do I get to fuck Anna Kornikova when I beat his ugly ass?”
The mention of Anna Kornikova threw the brothers off their rush. “Wait, what? You know something we don’t?” asked Eric.
Surprised, Sid said, “Seriously? You don’t know?”
“There’s no way she’s fucking him,” said Eric.
“She did. When he brought the Cup to Moscow,” Crosby announced. “I thought that went all over the league. You guys never heard it?”
“Fuck off,” scoffed Marc. “There’s no way a babe like her would fuck an ugly swamp troll like him.”
“Seriously; how drunk would she have to be to fuck him?” asked Eric.
“Passed out drunk,” laughed Jordan.
“He’s the ugliest fucker to ever play hockey,” Eric insisted. “No one’s kissed the Cup since he planted his ugly lips on it.”
“I gotta admit, I damn ear chundered when I saw that,” chuckled Sid. “But Tim Hunter is still the ugliest fucker to ever lace ‘em up. That’s why the Caps re-hired him as an ass, in ’12. Ovechkin was depressed because he he’s so fucking ugly. It was some sort of mid career, existential crisis for him.
“They had a big meeting of the brain trust, because they were scared it would kill his game. So, McPhee hired Hunter, so Ovechkin wouldn’t be the ugliest fucker in the room.”
“Did Kornikova fuck Hunter, too?” Marc laughed.
“I’m serious; she fucked him when he brought the Cup to Moscow,” Crosby insisted. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard.”
“Where did you hear that bullshit?” Jordan wanted to know.
“Gino,” was Sid’s answer. “He says she did it to piss off Federov. Hell hath no fury like a Russian trollop beaten in a divorce settlement.”
“Gino? Pffttt,” Jordan scoffed. “Three years Super League!” he mocked with a Russian accent. “Gino’s full of shit. There’s no way a babe like her would fuck anyone as ugly as Ovechkin. If I were a barnyard sow, I wouldn’t let Ovechkin fuck me.”
“Would you let Sid fuck you, if you were a barnyard sow?” asked Eric.
Jordan thought for a second. “ Sid’s pretty pretty, so… yeah, I would!”
“I wouldn’t fuck you with his dick,” Sid laughed, pointing at Marc. “Or his,” he added, pointing at Eric. “Not even if you were wearing lipstick, and were so drunk that you wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a perp walk!”
“Oh, yeah?” chuckled Jordan. “Well I wouldn’t fuck you if I were Better Than Doug.”
“He fucked her, too!” Crosby yelled. “In Sochi. Putin made them all fuck her, when they crashed and burned.” Sid knew no one believed him, so he added evidence. “Gino told me. He had to do it, too. It was either that, or off to the salt mines with them! Putin paid Better Than Doug ten million bucks, and paid Kornikova a million bucks to let Better Than Doug fuck her.”.”
“Well, that I believe,” said Jordan. “Gino’s a certified pig fucker.”
“Oh, I know it,” said Sid. “He’s a horn dog. He’ll fuck a donut in the bathroom of a Tim Horton’s. He’s a menace on the road.”
“Yeah, I remember that,” said Jordan. “Whenever he went AWOL, even for a couple hours, you knew he was back door raw-dogging an esky at the closest whorehouse.”
“The fucker racked up my credit card, when he was whoring on the road, a couple years ago,” said Sid, shaking his head.
“Seriously?” laughed Marc. “That’s fucking funny!”
“The fucker pulled one the cards I never use, out of the back of my wallet, when we were in Florida. He went whoring with it in Dallas, Nashville and St. Louis, after starting in Tampa.”
“That’s hilarious!” laughed Eric. “How’d you catch him?”
“How do you think I caught him? I got the statements. Actually, it was Kathy that found out. She knew I never use that card, so when she saw the envelope, she opened it.”
The Staals were howling laughter. “That may be the best prank ever,” said Eric. “Pure genius!”
“Yeah, it may have been, but Kathy figured it out, rigt away, even before I did. She called him, and said she had the security camera footage of him going into the massage parlours. Said she was going to the team, then the league, then the cops, then immigration, then the media, in that order, and nothing could stop her.
“She had it on speaker phone. The fucker was almost crying, begging her not to. We had to hit mute a couple times, we were laughing so hard.
“Then I doubled down and fucked him that summer, when he went back to Russia.” This was too good for the brothers to interrupt, so they let Sid carry on. “I got Gonchy to call his parents, saying he was from the KGB, sex crimes division, and he needed to talk to Gino, rigt away.”
The brothers exploded in laughter. “Fuck off! You did not!” laughed Jordan.
“Fuck yeah, I did,” Crosby insisted. “He gave them a fake name, and told them to get Gino to come to the KGB headquarters, ASAP.
“Then, I doubled down, a couple days later. Me and Bergy were day drunk in the titty bars, in Montreal.”
“Bergeron?” asked, Marc. “Patrice, or Marc?”
“Yeah, Patty,” Sid clarified. “I told him about it. He couldn’t stop laughing. He insisted I give him Gino’s parent’s phone number, so I did. He called the club manager over, and asked if he had any Russian dancers. He did, so he let us use his office to make the call.
“She was riding him, and translating. She told his parents that the RCMP sex crimes department had a warrant for his arrest, for unnatural and unlawful acts with farm animals. Said he needed to surrender himself at the Canadian Embassy in Moscow.”
The boys were in hysterics. When he stopped laughing, Jordan asked, “Did he ever find out it was you?”
“Oh, the fucker knows it was me, and he fuckin’ eh knows it was revenge, but he has never said a word about it to anyone. He doesn’t want anyone finding out about this one. He’d never hear the end of it.
“Once in a while, I’ll look at him, and start laughing my ass off, remembering it. He just looks at me, and mutters in Russian. Three years, Super League that, motherfucker!”
The boys cracked fresh beers, and toasted the merry prankster. “That, definitely, is the best prank ever,” proclaimed Eric.
“Fuckin; eh, it is,” laughed Crosby. “And let it be a lesson to you; never, ever fuck with Sid the Kid!”