Prince: (pulls covers over him and another companion) ‘The fuck you doing, Pops?
Big Ceece: What am I doing? You gotta see what that little weasel said bout’ you on ESPN. Said Ryan Howard is the guy he’d build a team around. Called you fat. Now get up. We gots work to do. We’re gonna go hit. We’re goin’ to the treadmill. Do some CARDI-O. You’re gonna be in the best damn shape of your life come 2008 Opening Day.
Prince: I ain’t going anywhere. Shut that fuckin’ door and let me get back to work old man. You interupted me.
Big Ceece: Interrupted what, fool?
Prince: What? You deaf? I was crushin’ this pu–y.
(Pulls covers off the head of random floozy)
Big Ceece: Get that money-grubbing, skeeza ass ho; outta dis-bitch! NOW! You gotta get your ass on the treadmill and run. Tha SEASON,,, DAPENDS on it!
Prince: Rolls over and tries to drift off to sleep.
Big Ceece: Come on’ CHAMP! You know that was almost your given birth name, don’t you? You reminded me of the heavyweight champion of the world since the time you crawled out of yo’ momma. You were just so little and cute. Now you’re big; fat; you’re lookin like……
Prince: Lookin’ like what? A young Cecil Fielder? I remember you when during your career years. You were big as hell. Mothafucka, you prolly ain’t seen your balls since Lennon was banging out Yoko-Fungu, and even then you had to use a furniture dolly to get to those muthafuckas.
Big Ceece: Why, I ought-a yank you outta there by your neck, pup. I ought-a rip your ass outta that fuckin’ sack and kick your nuts through your teeth. But I won’t. You know why, Champ? You’re my fuckin’ meal ticket.
Tell you what boy. There’s a swap-meet going on next door to the cages. You come there with me, do some runnin’, calistenics, get that swing flowin’, I’ll pay your entry to it. We got a deal, champ?
Prince: Well I was gonna go by myself, later. After I was finished puttin’ a hurtin on dis’ ass. Wait, where’d she go?
Big Ceece: Reminds me of the time I met your momm-
Prince: (gets shit and is out the door).
[Auburn Hills Batting Cages, Detroit, MI]
Batting Machine: Phoop. CRACK! Phoop. CRACK! Phoop. CRACK!
Big Ceece: Boy….mmmm mmmmm mmmmm. That swing is lookin’ good. Not quite to where mine was when I was hittin’ em off the roof at Old Tiger Stadium. But it looks good, Champ.
Prince: ‘The fuck you talkin’ bout? I was 23 last season. I hit 50 homeruns. Youngest fool to ever roll that way. When you were 23 you were on your way to Japan to get the cream of Sum-Young-Du. Heh heheheheh. Heheheheh.
Big Ceece: You laugh boy. But I always loved hittin’. There was only one thing I loved more in my life I loved more than gettin in these ol’ cages and hittin till my hands bled.
Big Ceece: Psh! FUCK NO.
Prince: Those thin-stripped salmon cutlets with walnut-cocktail sauce?
Big Ceece: Hmmmmmmmmmm. Forgot all about those. But no.
Prince: White women?
Big Ceece: Off the record, it was close.
Prince: So what then?
Big Ceece: A game of dice! Boy, you are as dumb as you look. Now work that outside pitch. If you’re gonna hit 50 homeruns again this year, you gotta learn to hit backside.
Prince: Hit backside huh? Well I think I was doin’ a pretty good job of that when you busted in like Colonel Cock-guard and told my skins to get da fuck out.
Batting Machine: Phoop….. CRACK! Phoop….. CRACK!
Prince: There. Backside. Let’s get outta here.
Big Ceece: Not so fast there marshmellow steamed-snuff. We’re hittin the treadmill. Well, haha, you’re hittin it. I’m gonna do line jumps with my eyes and watch you.
Prince: The fuck you are. Look, I’m a new-age ballplayer. I hit an inside the park homerun last season. I’m an athlete. I’m not a fuckin’ turd with arms and legs that ate himself out of the league. You are. I’m gettin out of here and going home to crush some more.
Big Ceece: My rules. My house. My mustard jar, Champ. As long as you’re crushin’ on my watch you’re going to do my workout regimen. You understand me boy? Now, lace up those cross trainers, cause turf shoes don’t play well with tread-mills, bitch.
Prince: (goes to take a swing) You motherfu-
[POOF. Out of thin air a figure appears]
Prince: Paul Molitor? Da’ Fuck you doing here?
Paul Molitor: Cocaine is a hell of a drug man. Lots of cocaine. Plus I heard someone talking about dark women.
Big Ceece: (scratches head, ponders)
Paul Molitor: I’m the ghost of Batting Titles past. I’m here to help you, Prince. You’re father is right.
Big Ceece: See, Champ. I know what the fuck I’m talkin’ bout. I told you tha-
Paul Molitor: You’re already much better than your father ever was.
Big Ceece: Aw, is that so light-skin? Looks like I’ve found-ma fuckin’ dinner. White meat. I bet you taste awfully gamey don’t you Molly?
Paul Molitor: Because I did great things in a Brewers uniform, I’ve got an extra interest in you, Prince. You can re-define hitting in this league. You can re-write the record books. You’re a souped up Porsche in a league full of…. A league full of…..
Prince: League full of ho-ass, pimped out Hondas with the factory speakers still in them. Damn straight.
Paul Molitor: Whatever. If you stay in shape, Prince; the sky is the limit. I’ve never seen power like yours before. You can contend for a batting title while having a shot at 70 to 80 homeruns. You’re a perennial MVP candidate year in and year out.
Big Ceece: Cut to the chase, Cracka ass. Why you suckin up to Champ’s dick?
Paul Molitor: I want to see your boy take the Brewers to the top while becoming one of the greatest hitters in league history. Plus I remember him saying something about a one of his ‘companions’ and I wouldn’t mind ‘gettin me some of that.’ Let’s get it done.
Big Ceece: Well I’m his agent. I make the calls. I decide what works and what doesn’t for Champ.
Prince: My name is Prince, See-sul. You ain’t shit but a dark tumor that drags down my style with your dead weight. Mr. Molitor, if you really see that type of potential, and you think you can bring out the best in me; we could go home and crush a few later. I’m always down for crushin’ hunnies, heh heh.
Big Ceece: This is unreal. I gave birth to you son. Before I came along, boy, you were nothing more than a pimple on Bud Selig’s ass. I don’t know who you think you are talkin about your daddy that way, but the best part of you obviously ran down your momma’s leg at the Detroit Waffle House I met her at. Now get your butt on that treadmill. I’ll get my stopwatch. Interval runs.
Prince: I ain’t doin’ shit.
Paul Molitor: You should run some, Prince. If you can’t battle your weight; how will you ever do battle with guys like Chris Carpenter? Aaron Harang? Roy Oswalt? The beasts of the NL Central await you on your conquest.
Prince: (laces up running shoes) You’re right. I’ma give this runnin’ shit a shot. Just this once.
Paul Molitor: Then it’s settled. See you in the champagne room, See-suhl’s house, 8:00 PM.
[POOF, Molitor disappears]
Big Ceece: Kid, I’m glad you’re willing to listen to someone. But Molitor doesn’t know shit about being a power hitter. You gotta listen to your pops. You know I once hit a ball at Sky-Dome that killed a woman walking on the street by the shopping mall outside the stadium? That’s power. I’m training you, Champ.
Prince: (Running. Singing to I-Pod, TUPAC, Picture me Rollin)………..
Just a few short hours, I be crushin’ some more of that sweet black ass.
Big Ceece: Fuck. To hell with this. Now where’d I put the number to that fried chicken place that bakes their fries?