A short day’s travel to the west of the Cape Complex, the self-styled Roger the Good is meeting with his senior advisors in a glass and steel tower in the heart of Gotham.
On one side of the rectangular lucite-topped mahogany table are Jeff Pash, Mike Kensil and Troy Vincent; on the other side of the table, Charles Koch, Rupert Murdoch and pizza mogul “Papa” John Schnatter are seated. Tablets are set up in front of each of them. There are pitchers of ice water and glasses at either end of the table. On a large monitor at the end of the table opposite Roger the Good, in split screen, Vladimir Putin and Justin Bieber attend by videoconference. All of the men seated at the table appear to be uncomfortable and subtly shift their weight in their high-backed leather chairs.
After clearing his throat and taking a sip of water, Roger the Good says, “I think it’s time we acknowledge this isn’t mere coincidence.” He shifted his weight from his left buttock to the right. “If it was just Pash and Kensil - for example - whose testicles has shriveled to the size of raisins then I could agree it was mere coincidence. But all of us?”
From the video monitor, Putin sniffed, “My ballz is not swiveled.”
“Shriveled,” Troy Vincent corrected. “Shriveled.”
“Dis is vat I zay,” Putin’s image responded. “I know vat I zay. I speak Enklish good. Better dan you, Finsent.”
“Wait-What?” Vincent said. “Is this a black thing?”
“You are a black ting,” Putin replied.
“Yeah, well I got a black thing right here for you,” Vincent said, point to his crotch.
“Vlad! Troy!” Roger the Good exclaimed. “Vlad, why must you do this every single time? Troy, you’re not a stupid man. You do know the single biggest reason you have the job you have is the color of your skin, don’t you?”
Looking around the table at the old white men surrounding him, Vincent hesitated.
Roger the Good continued, “You’re instant, ineluctable street cred for this old white boys club. You’re also a fungible resource. There are a couple thousand former players who suffered sufficient traumatic brain injury over their all too brief careers to be more than willing to do anything I ask.”
“You know what always happens to the black sidekick in the movies, don’t you, Troy?” Jeff Pash asked.
“Yo, Troy,” Bieber’s winking, smirking face says, “You know I love you, bro.”
Shifting in his seat, Roger the Good said, “And Vlad, we all know your balls are swiveled, I mean, shriveled, too, just like the rest of us... This is clearly not a coincidence. Given the fact HGH, Viagra, the testosterone therapies, nothing medical science has to offer has had any palliative effect, it’s also clear this is not… natural.”
Charles Koch spoke next. “I have to concur. I’ve already had three testicle transplants from increasingly younger, dumber, full of cumer, um, I guess I'll say donors and within 72 hours of each procedure, my new testicles had once again shrunk to the size of raisins.”
“Mine is da size of prunes,” Putin’s image said. “Becayus they started out da size of plumz.”
“You had testicle transplants?” John Schnatter asked Charles Koch. “That’s kind of, well, ballsy. How much?”
“You know what they say,” Koch answered. “If you have to ask.”
“That much?” Papa John asked.
“That much,” Koch confirmed. “You won’t be able to afford it until we get Obamacare repealed and you’re no longer legally compelled to care for your employees health and well-being.”
“I’d say the salient point here,” Rupert Murdoch said, “is that the procedure didn’t work. Which I can also personally confirm.”
Near tears, Mike Kensil joined the conversation. “Don’t you get it? Shrunken balls? It has to be Brady!”
“Of course it’s Brady,” Jeff Pash said. “The question isn’t who but how? Until we figure that out we’ll all be singing falsetto.”
“I had the sex seven times just yesterday,” Putin’s face said.
“Yeah, right,” Troy Vincent said.
“You don believe me?” Putin’s face asked. “Zen vy don you ask your mozzer, Finsent.”
Bieber’s face giggled. “Sorry, bro.”
Between clenched teeth, Troy Vincent responded, “If I was your brother, he’d be talking about your mother, too.”
“Oh, yeah,” Bieber’s face said. “Not cool, Vlad.”
“Gentlemen,” Roger the Good said. “Assuming Tom Brady is at least generally aware of our deflated balls, does anyone have any theories as to how he masterminded this plot to destroy the integrity of our genitals?”
Charles Koch responded first. “As I said, I don’t believe our condition is the result of natural causes.”
“Three times,” Papa John said half under his breath, shaking his head in amazement.
“What are you saying?” Kensil asked as he wiped tears from his eyes. “The cause is unnatural?”
“Supernatural,” Koch answered.
“Tom Brady has supernatural powers?” Pash asked.
“It would explain a lot,” Kensil added.
“Not Tom,” Koch answered. “Gisele.”
“Gisele Bundchen is a witch?” Papa John asked. “Seriously?”
Vlad Putin’s face disappears from the monitor.
“Seriously,” Koch responded.
Vlad Putin’s face reappears; he’s wearing a garland of garlic cloves around his neck.
“He said she’s a witch, not a vampire,” Troy Vincent smirked.
“If she’s a vitch, vat’s to stop her from changing herzelf into a fampire?” Putin’s face asked.
“It’s a fair point,” Papa John noted. “I think I’d change myself into whichever Hemsworth brother it is that plays Thor.”
“I’d change myself into a giant, flying robot with laser cannons for arms,” said Bieber’s face.
“I’d just give myself back my normal sized balls,” Kensil said, sniffling. “And make my dick bigger.”
“Because you’ve got a small penis?” Papa John asked.
“What? No, of course not,” Kensil declared. “I’d just make it, you know, bigger. I mean, we all want to be a little bigger, am I right?”
Putin's face looks down. He shrugs. “I’m good.”
Putin's face looks down. He shrugs. “I’m good.”
“I’d have a giant robot penis,” Bieber added. Tilting his head, he observed, “Yeah. I’m going to need some giant robot babes, too.”
“It’s an interesting theory,” Roger the Good said, “but what are we supposed to do about it? Burn her at the stake?”
“I have to think that we’d lose a large segment of the female demographic should we pursue that particular course of action,” Murdoch offered.
“For the integrity of the game,” Kensil said. “We simply can’t allow unnatural, demonic forces to affect the outcome of games.”
“Of course!” Pash added. “Integrity!”
“It’s not a theory,” Koch said. “I have my resources, as you all know. And you can forget burning her at the stake. That won’t work with a real witch.”
“Vitches,” Putin’s face nodded in agreement. “Fery, fery bad.”
“So, what can we do?” Kensil asked, once again on the verge of tears. “You know, for the integrity of the game.”
Roger the Good tapped the screen of the tablet in front of him. “Get me Ted Wells.”
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