I do not own "8 Crazy Nights."
Bacon. It's just bacon.
It's wet, it's salty, it tastes like a pig, because it's bacon. Just nasty old, lukewarm, leftover bacon. Gotta eat that bacon, it's protein Randy!
Randy Johnson stared straight ahead as he chewed, refusing to look down at what he was actually eating. He would keep his word and eat that jockstrap, but God knew he didn't have to let himself be aware that he was eating a jockstrap. Ain't nothing in the agreement said he couldn't pretend it wasn't a jockstrap.
As if by some cruel irony, a voice cut through Randy's mantra, and demanded, "Why are you eating that?"
Randy refused to look up at the fat man, the owner of this jockstrap.
Really, it was a lucky thing that the man was too baffled to be angry, disgusted, or frightened by the sight of Randy eating his jockstrap.
Ignore him. Randy told himself. No one is asking you anything. It's just the TV. Marla and the kids are playing some Disney movie, with the volume up too loud, and I'm just gonna ignore it and eat this lukewarm bacon.
"Did you lose a bet or something?" The fat man pried.
Randy growled an angry response.
Darren, Randy's friend and fellow loser in the bet, answered for him. "Bingo."
The fat man widened his eyes, as if impressed. "Wooow! Well at least you're bein' a good sport about it!"
It was true. Randy was a good sport. He had always been a good sport. It was Randy's one virtue.
Randy had a temper. It was the Irish in him, his mother would joke. Came with the flame-red hair. Randy wasn't sure if that was true, nor really cared. All he knew was that he had been filled with raging adrenaline his entire life. It had gotten Randy into trouble in school. But then he joined the basketball team and things changed. Sports gave Randy a new place to channel his adrenaline. Now, instead of challenging kids on the streets, or his brothers at home, he challenged fellow teammates to games. He often got too aggressive. His friends often had to tell him to take it down a notch. Randy was a lot of things. He was a jerk. He was a meat-head. He was ultra-competitive.
But Randy's one virtue was being a good sport. After all, where was the pride in winning if you'd cheated? Where were the stakes, the excitement, of having to win a game, if there wouldn't be some real, horrible, consequences for losing? Randy had been tempted, oh so very tempted, to just stuff that disgusting jockstrap into Davey Stone's mouth and tell him to suck on it. But that was the one and only thing that Randy Johnson would never do.
Randy Johnson was a man of his word.
This jockstrap was not breaking apart in his teeth. He would be chewing it for a long time before he could swallow and say he had eaten it. Come to think of it, it might make more sense to just get a pair of scissors and cut it up into smaller pieces. Mix it into chilli maybe.
"Wooow," the fat man said one more time, watching Randy in awe.
Darren nodded solemnly. "When Randy Johnson says he's gonna eat a jockstrap, he eats a jockstrap."
"What a man of honor!" the fat man's voice echoed through the gym. "A man of his word!"
Randy grunted a response.
He'd keep his word alright. He'd chew this jockstrap until it broke apart and could finally, truly be eaten.
And in the meantime, he'd go to that asshole Stone's trailer and burn it down.