knuckle-tatts

IGGY MILKOVICH ON JEOPARDY FANFIC

Ok…I’ve got 20 min before church ends. I’m in the back pew & God and I already talked out our shit 15 min ago. Padre is lulling me to sleep with some talk about being prideful as a Latino…I don’t know enough Spanish to put it all together and since I’m not Latino, I’m gonna check out and dick off on tumblr.
Seems appropriate.

MY OWN CHARACTER’S FANFIC:
(I am officially the #1 Iggy Milkovich fan. Step to that fact.)

Iggy is jolted awake by the slam stop of the L - everyone bustles out of the train as the young Milkovich wipes his eyes and pops 3 Valium. As he exits, a PETA protestor accosts him for support to her cause: “Stop make-up testing on chimps! It’s cruel!” reads the flyer being shoved in his face. “Sure makes it easier to beat off to monkeys tho, huh?” Iggy utters as he starts to eat the flyer.

Iggy crosses the street to the United Center, where today, the game show JEOPARDY is filming their Mid-West Regional. “What the fuck is this shit?” Iggy audibly asks nobody. “Jeopardy, man. Smart ass peeps taking a quiz to win butt loads of cash.” replies a hipster college kid. “Shut up. No one asked you shit.” Iggy snaps and turns back to the giant JEOPARDY billboard hanging above the United Center’s West gate. Thinking, as easily as it’s capable for him, Iggy walks towards the gate.

Iggy quickly enters the line and while side stepping, sometimes physically moving egg heads out of his way, he proceeds to the front. He is met by a prissy bitch with glasses and headset, holding a clipboard. “How can I help you?” she asks hesitantly, as she clocks his dirty, torn clothes and unwashed hair. “Jeperdy.” is his expectant response. “Ok…umm…what is your name?” as she goes down to her clipboard to pretend to look for it.
“Lip.” says Iggy, with a self satisfied smile. “No lip, I was merely asking a question.” she quickly spouts. “Bitch. My name is Lip.”
“Oh, I apologize. What is your last name?” as she rifles through her pages. Fuck, what is that ginger fuck family name? Iggy is pressing his mind for the answer…until “FRANK!” “Your name is ‘Lip Frank’?” she sarcastically queries.
“Did I stutter?” Iggy asks menacingly as he evaporates her personal space by his. She begins to quake with fear. “Let me call my 1st AD.” As she yaps into her XBox microphone, Iggy sees the list. PHILLIP GALLAGHER. Gallagher, yea, like that twat who takes a giant hanmer to the watermelons, right? Makes sense, that whole fam is fucked. That shit head’s name is Phillip? What a fag.
“That’s my middle name. My full name is Phillip Frank Gallagher.” he proudly professes. “Oh. Welcome Phillip. Can I see your ID?” she knowingly requests. Fuck this. “You can let me pass or I can start breaking things. I choose to start with your neck.” he answers, completely nonchalant, as if he was at a fucking tea party. The young coordinator says nothing as she clocks his knuckle tatts and moves out of his path.

Iggy hears much noise and commotion, nothing like WWE RAW or SMACKDOWN but loud enough, as he enters to see a giant stage with audience, cameras, tvs, and a whole slew of wires and cables. He quickly wraps 4 HDMI cables around his waist and pulls his shirt back over them. Fuckin thief. He walks onto the stage and a pompous tool yells “Hey! No crew on stage! Get your grips off my set, Ronald!” Iggy goes straight at him. “Shut the fuck up with your ruckus; I’m 'Phil-Lip’ Gallagher. Where’s the money?” “You’re a contestant?” the AD asks with doubt. Iggy jolts into himself, forgetting his guise “I’m a fucking Milkovich. Where. Is. The. Goddamn Money?”

Absolute Silence.

Iggy turns to a pale white faced audience with wide eyes staring right at him. He lets go of the AD’s blazer and mockingly dusts off his lapels. “When do we start?” Iggy asks with an awkward nicety. Taken aback, the AD composes himself and says “5 minutes, Mr. Milkagher; is this what you’re wearing? Uh, please enjoy kraft services, we will come get you to start.” Right then, Iggy heads off for that sprawl of donuts and coffee cake in the distance.

After stuffing his face (and vest pockets) with food, he finds a spot to sit. ALEX TRIBECK reads in cool font on a nice leather weirdo chair. Good enough, he thinks as he plops down to finish off 2 more danishes. “Excuse me, you’re in my chair.” comes a stick-in-the-ass voice from behind Iggy. He turns to see the host of Jeopardy staring bullets into him. “And I should give a fuck, why?” Iggy volleys. Mr. Tribeck is at a loss and after a beat, leaves to prep somewhere else.

“Mr. Gallagher, we’re ready for you.” Iggy just stares at the AD. Oh, right, shit. “Yea, cool your jets.” He eyes the orange juice. “Gonna grab some OJ.” He (not hiding it at all) opens his flask and dumps all of its tequila into the OJ ½ gallon and downs the ¾ full bottle in one stance, then proceeds to the AD. “Ok, now what?” Iggy is led to his podium and told to write his name on the screen. The rules and etiquette are then explained to him as he isn’t listening at all.

“Quiet on the set!” shouts the AD, “We go in 5, 4, 3……” Corny music blares and the audience erupts into applause. Iggy is dumbfounded by this spectacle. That guy bitching about his chair enters across the stage and starts addressing the audience & then the contestants. Iggy now realizes he stands between an overweight black guy with horn rimmed glasses, smelling of Brut, and an old white lady that had to be older than death. Where the fuck am I, he thinks.

“Welcome Margerie, tell us about yourself, please.” says Alex. “I’m from Ashland, I’m 82 and sharp as a whistle!” Margerie responds with energy. She’s way too excited to still be breathing. And 'sharp as a whistle’? My god. “You seem to be, good luck!” yaps Alex, “And, Phillip…” - we now see that Iggy’s name screen reads: LIP GALAGGER LIKES GUYS (w/a crude penis doodle underneath) - “…tell us a little bit about what you do for a living?” “Fuck bitches; get money.” is Iggy’s auto reply.

Awkward silence, as the AD is whipping his finger in a circle to keep going. (FCC will bleep the cussing)

“Charming, Phillip. - Mr. Williams, you’re a professor and our 4 week return champion, congratulations. Anything to expound?” as Alex regains form & pace. “Happy to be representing Northwestern University African Studies, Alex.” says the portly man to Iggy’s right. “NWU is here in Chicago, guy.” Iggy corrects him. Mr. Williams refuses to acknowledge Iggy’s idiocy. “Wonderful! Let’s start JEOPARDY!” as Alex then reveals today’s categories. Iggy yawns, what the fuck is '16th century sonnets’?
“Our last category is 'Fatal Accidents’ - hey, that’s what my dad calls me. Iggy feels falsely confident in that category. "Ken, we will start with you, as the champion.” says Alex. “I will go with 'Ancient Philosophies’ for 400, Alex.” says the professor. “Aristotle held communion to teach this very important philosophy to the young men of Greece.” states Alex. “What is existentialism.” says the professor. “I’m sorry, that is incorrect, Ken.” replies Alex after a dunce noise is sounded. “What is individualism.” says Margerie. “Also incorrect.” comes Alex. Fuck it. Iggy hits his button. “Uh…whoever smelt it, dealt it.” answers Iggy. There are a few scarce laughs from the audience. “Sorry, that is incorrect, Mr. Gallagher. And you must answer in the form of a question.” says Alex. “What?” asks Iggy. “Exactly.” says Alex, not wanting to waste anymore time. Fuck did I miss here? he thinks.

35 min later.

“Ken, you lead with 8,600 - followed by Margerie with 6,400 - and lastly, Phillip with -14,800. Time for Final Jeopardy. We will allow you, Phillip, to choose the category.” says Alex. “Fuckin finally, shit.” snorts Iggy. He is clearly frustrated. “Fatal Accidents.” he demands. “For how much?” asks Alex. “A grand.” snaps Iggy. “Ok, Fatal Accidents for 1,000: This royalty was killed in a car crash, involving paparazzi in 1994.” states Alex. Iggy is quick to buzz in with “Princess Fucking Diana, man!” He knows he’s right this time. “You are correct, Phillip, but once again, no points for not answering in the form of a question.” sighs the host.

Without time to process, Iggy launches himself from his podium and tackles Alex Tribeck to the floor, pummeling him with his fists. “Fuck you! It was Princess Die, you fucking fuck! I’m right!!” Iggy screams, as we see him strangle Alex with one of his stolen cables. As security rush the stage, the house lights come up and everyone watches in horror as Iggy punches off 2 guards, kicks Alex hard one last time in the rib cage, “Bitch.”

He gauges his situation. Shit, gotta escape. He spots a petroleum tank under a cart of hot food. Bingo. He rushes to pull it out, breaking it’s nozzle, now spewing gas into the air. Using it as a shield, he dashes to the exit. As he kicks open the door, alarms sound. He turns back to see over 20 security personnel heading at him. He throws the gas tank and removes his Zippo from his back pocket. Flicks it aflame & tosses it in the tank’s wake. He ducks out the door and books down the alleyway as his backdrop is ignited by explosion.

2 hours later. Southside.

Iggy looks even more ragged than usual as he turns the street corner. Lip is making his way up the same street. “Fuck happened to you, Iggy?” he asks with genuine concern. “Fuck off Phil-Lip. Couldn’t even win Jeopardy, stupid.” replies Iggy as he sulks past Lip. Lip is left beyond confused. “For fuck’s sake with you Milkovich degenerates! Your whole family is fucking nuts!” yells Lip. “Yea? We got dicks too! I think Mandy’s still got yours and Mickey now holds 2. You’re welcome to suck on mine, you dumb genius piece of shit!” slams Iggy. He continues home with a small smirk as he unwinds the 3 other HDMI cables and the 2 wallets he swiped, enjoying a flattened muffin from his vest pocket.

The End. =)