Years ago, in the little town of Fremont, Nebraska, where the pleasant aroma of the hog-rendering plant blankets the city in it’s sweet perfume, and the wind doesn’t blow, it sucks, lived the greatest warrior the world has ever seen. His Christian name was Jango Stevens.
Nine feet tall he was, with biceps like kegs of Pabst Blue Ribbon and legs so powerful he could tip cows two at a time. During the daylight hours, majestic in his flannel shirt and Peterbuilt hat, he spent his days at the meat packing plant, stunning cows not with an air hammer, but with the power of his glare alone.
But when the day ended and the moon was high in the sky, Jango Stevens would comb back his mullet just so, slip on his biggest, shiniest belt buckle, and drive down to Scooters pub. There, he was the drinkenist, fightenist man the town ever seen.
He’d fight men six at a time, they say, until the wee hours, when he would retire to his glorious doublewide with the waitress of his choice, and celebrate his victory until dawn. Such was his life... until one fateful night.
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There, resplendent in a rhinestone bedazzled karate gi, the gel making his hair shine like the sun, stood Stephen Segal. “I reckon that boy’s gonna stomp you,” said one of the pile though a mouthful of bloody teeth.
Jango said nothing. He finished his tall boy in one mighty swig, spit his chewing tobacco out onto the floor, and cracked his knuckles. Now when Ol’ Jango Stephens cracked his knuckles, all across Fremont the men would cower and the women would ovulate.
But Segal never moved. “I’m a seventh dan in Aikido,” Segal said as Jango squared up. “And I got a seventh dan in whupin ass,” Jango replied.
Those that were there on that fateful night say that Segal tried to kick him, but Jango reached his arm so far back that when the punch came in it had a Texas postmark on the knuckles. Folks swear that Segal exploded into a pile of blood and hair, but I have it on good authority that NASA scientists have seen him in the Hubble space telescope, orbiting Jupiter.
As Jango was wiping the hair gel from his knuckles, who should rush out from the shadows but the Incredible Hulk. Jango saw him and before you know it, damned if Jango didn’t use his expert high school wrestling moves to twist The Hulk up into a balloon animal that he gave to a passing child. He then struck the child unconscious, as was his way.
By then every filly in Fremont was there, each one eager and willing to sire Jango’s heir. He was so busy checking these delicate blossoms for open sores and missing teeth that he nearly missed the Chicago Bears sneaking up from behind, each and every one carrying a rusty lawn dart. Jango turned and let out a bellow that would turn a gay man straight, a straight man gay, and a bi-curious one way or 'thuther, and rushed head long into the fray. Legend has it that the ruckus was so loud that the police were taking noise complaints all the way in oriental China.
Well, it was about that time that Jango was growing weary of tousling with mere mortals. Smashing a beer bottle over the head of the final Chigago bear, Jango Stephens uttered his famous last words. “Ima gonna go knock Jehovah the fuck out. He ain't better than me,” he said, and then jammed the beer bottle right into his throat. The force with which his spirit left his mortal shell washed the running boards of every truck in Fremont, if legends can be believed.
Now nobody knows if ol' Jango knocked out Yaweh, but we do know that the very next day president George Walker Bush became the forty-third president of these United States.
Folks round these parts say if you listen just right, you can still here ol' Jango’s voice on the wind, cussin' at his common-law wife to make him some dinner. They say he’ll come back one day, when the town is threatened and wings are six for a dollar, and retake his rightful place, as the Emperor of Fremont.
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