The Danks brothers are here for the party, man. Did you see those guys come in? Shit, things are about to get wild up in here. Bank that. I heard a few months back they got a fucking house condemned, bro. Literally. As in, following the party, some neighbors got together and surveyed all the damage to the property, making meticulous notes, taking special care to highlight all the health and safety hazards therein. They then contacted the building commission and made a formal request, outlining the number of concerns they had about the viability of the property in the neighborhood. The Danks brothers wrecked this shit so tough that they were bringing adjacent property values hell of down, dude. They were fucking with these people’s equity, man. These neighbors attended a number of hearings and meetings and after a great deal of investment, both in dollars as well as time—not even to mention all the stress and emotional turmoil of such a debacle, a judge ruled in favor of the neighbors and granted the property owners no less than 90 days to repair the home. 90 days came and went, dude, and the Danks brothers had fucked this mother up so bad that it wasn’t even a sound decision financially to make all the needed improvements. The home owners just let it sit. Now it’s on the market as a short sale, but that shit isn’t going to move, man. Foreclosure is the next logical step. The Danks brothers. Shit. That’s just how they roll. That’s just how they get down.
Jordan is the crazy one. You see that twenty dollar plastic half-gall of whiskey he’s carrying? Notice that it’s fucking half gone, man. That’s a quarter-gallon of whiskey he’s imbibed up to this point. It’s only 9pm, dude, and Jordan is just getting started. He’ll probably use the rest to set up a gnarly whiskey pong game. Yeah, that’s right, your standard beer pong fare, except the cups are to be filled with whiskey rather than beer. I’ve seen him do it before. He never loses. He’s a Big League pitcher for Chrissakes, the dude can work a ping pong ball. John is a little more quiet, a little more reserved. He usually just cruises around the party, sipping on a beer and trying to put moves on drunk chicks. He’ll probably step out back and smoke a little weed. He’s usually pretty chill, but don’t cross him, man, cause once that switch gets flipped, it’s fucking over. You can’t put the animal back in the cage. It’s always the quiet ones you need to be afraid of. That’s what they say and they are not fucking incorrect.
Why are they wearing their White Sox uniforms? I have to admit that’s a little strange. It’s pretty unsettling to see two grown men bounce in to a party wearing some polyester blended fabric top to bottom along with cleats and baseball socks. The hats are cool, though. You can wear those hats anywhere, obviously. I don’t know, man. I guess they just want to let everyone know what’s up. They want everyone to know they’ve made it to the Show, that they’re making good money. I can’t blame them. They’ve worked hard their entire lives to reach this point, you know? They’ve spent a lot of summers sweating in the grass and the dirt in order to be where they are today. I’m sure there’s been a lot of shoulder and elbow pain. A lot of ice time. You have to admire a work ethic like that, man. You just have to. Shit’s undeniable.
How do I know all this information about the Danks brothers? Well because I’m the fucking omniscient narrator, bro. Don’t question this shit. I know things, and I tell them to you. That’s how this little arrangement of ours works. It’s been that way as long as stories have been part of our cultural tradition. This shit’s as old as time.
Here they come, man. The Danks brothers. They’re here for the party. They look like they’re ready to make some moves. Their uniforms are fresh white with clean pressed lines. They’re swaggin’. They’re muggin’ it. It’s about to go down, man. Finish up that drink and pour another, because this is happening. This is happening right now. Shit’s about to get real. Trust me, I know.