The Chicago Way

July 25, 2025 The U C; Chicago, IL Right after ReVival 72 goes off-air

You can’t tell Johnny Dorn shit.

The walking disaster known to himself and every shithead Chicago Chad as “Wrigleyville’s Finest” struts through the backstage halls of the United Center with his chest puffed out further than that of Chris Farley’s Chicago Superfans character. Not only has he been treated like a king amongst his people tonight, but he also beat the red and black piss out of that fake Michael Jordan fan Fred Dick.

That fuckin’ poser.

That fuckin’ piece of Southern Fried Shit.

“Johnny, the way you kicked the shit out of Fred Dick was fuckin’ legendary, bro.” The voice of Dorn’s best friend and tag team partner, Mikey “The Business” Giuliano, has gone past 10 on the excited meter. He daps up his boy and jumps alongside him. “Dumb hick caught some hands and BOOM, you made a bitch eat tile.”

“Fuck Fred Dick and Sketti Bucket, all my homies hate Fred Dick and Sketti Bucket, am I right, bro?!” Johnny’s obnoxious laugh carries through the corridors as the two Barons of Beer Pong make their way toward the parking garage exit. They pass by PRIME staffers breaking down the equipment and packing it up, ignoring them as they talk and laugh amongst themselves.

Voices from the cafeteria breaks the boys’ concentration momentarily as they walk past. A quick glance over, and it’s Crash Jackson in the middle of a conversation, a hot dog (naturally) in each hand.

“Wait a fuc–”

Johnny immediately backtracks and stands, staring, boring holes in the direction of the young Buffalo native, and it becomes apparent very quickly that PRIME’s Hot Dog Hero is not going to be Chicago’s Hot Dog Hero.

Those hot dogs in Crash’s hand? Traditional Chicago Dogs. An all-beef Vienna Beef frank in a poppy seed bun, with yellow mustard, bright green sweet pickle relish, chopped white onions, tomato slices, a dill pickle spear, pickled sport peppers, and celery salt.

And ketchup.

Mikey, who had kept on walking and talking without Johnny, has now rejoined him. It takes him all but a second to see the First Degree Felony Food Crime.

“Oh fuck no.”

He looks at Dorn.

“Fuckin’ let me at ‘em.”

Mikey leaps forward, ready to chuck his shitty Champion headband to the ground and fly towards the unsuspecting Crash with haymakers, but at the last second Johnny grabs him before he can start a brawl.

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa, hold up, Mikey, hold up,” the Keg Stand King pulls Giuliano away from the door and drags him down the hallway a bit. “You’re not contracted here, you don’t need to be catchin’ a fine or a charge.”

“But Johnny, bro, the disrespect…”

“Hey.” Dorn puts a hand on Mikey’s arm and looks him hard in the eye. “I handled Fred Dick tonight when he disrespected me and the City. I didn’t let him get away with that shit.”

Dorn looks back into the caf and sneers in disgust.

“And I’m not gonna let this clowndick get away with it either.”

“COACH! YO, COACH!”

She almost got away.

Almost.

The Queen of the Ring cringes ever so slightly and grits her teeth at the slap slap slap of sandals against bare feet.

“Just pretend you didn’t hear him,” she whispers to herself.

“HEY! COACH! HEY HOLD UP I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!”

SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP

“HEY! HOL-OH HEY…HEYHey Coach, hey, did you hear me calling?” A winded Johnny Dorn jogs backwards and smiles at his trainer. “I gotta ask you something.”

“Jonathan,” Lindsay smiles, cooly. “This can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“Well it could, but I’m coming to you with a matter of disrespect and it’s something I wanna handle.”

Lindsay looks at Johnny and tilts her head slightly. “You kicked Fred Dick’s ass in a bathroom over a plastic container of sad pasta in front of thousands of people, what more do you want?”

“This ain’t about that shit demon, Coach. This is about some brown-haired, headband-wearing dickhead eating OUR hot dogs with FUCKING KETCHUP in THIS ARENA’S CAFETERIA, and I’m not gonna FUCKIN’ STAND FOR IT, COACH. NOT IN MICHAEL JEFFREY JORDAN’S HOUSE. NO MA’AM. NO FUCKIN’ WAY. I want him at the next show. GIVE HIM TO ME.”

There’s silence in the parking garage for a minute.

You can hear a tumbleweed and a cricket in a feedback channel.

“Johnny, are you kidding me with this? You want to fight Crash Jackson over him putting ketchup on a hot dog?

“YOU KNOW I’M RIGHT ABOUT THIS.”

This eyeroll is legendary.

“What I know is this might be the stupidest reason to want to fight someone that I’ve heard in a long time. But I respect tradition, so fine. If you want to fight someone because they put ketchup on a hot dog, then fine.”

Johnny grins and moves to dap up his trainer. “You’re the best, Coach. 10/10 human, no notes. You’re not buying a drink in this city tonight.”

His statement is returned with a smirk. “Uh huh. Better get back in the gym, then. Just because you won a singles match at Second City Wrestling doesn’t mean you’re gonna be able to hang with the big boys here.”