Remember June of last year. Good times, right? Bars, restaurants, and baseball at Busch Stadium was open to the public. The St. Louis Blues won the Stanley Cup, partied like teenagers, and turned the downtown area into a sea of blue for once.
Brett Hull, franchise legend and professional drink-anyone-under-the-table artist, was heavily involved in the experience. He shouted “Let’s Go Blues” before a home playoff game and followed that up with “WE WENT BLUES” when it was all said and done.
During the parade down Market Street, about 3500 beers in, Hull seemed jovial and told a jogging Frank Cusumano how sweet it was to finally be here. But then, Hull was nowhere.
Outside of random social media reports, Hull all but vanished after the parade. Some thought he went into the Anheuser-Busch plant, started sampling, and never came out-but there’s more.
Where did the Ultimate Party Hound go? Soulard for a mad run. Did Hull go into the Mississippi River for a long swim? Maybe he popped over to Casino Queen and other “venues” in Illinois. The spirit detectives and private investigators concluded that they have no idea what happened to Brett for those few weeks.
Until now. My exclusive source has finally unearthed where Hull went. Chalk it up to COVID_19 taking away some of his business or just general boredom, but this is apparently what happened to Hull after that wicked June party.
Well, it turns out he was kidnapped by the Russians and dispatched to an abandoned village, dropped off in the care of a lovely family who really wanted to know what it was like to drink all the beer in the world while being a legendary sharp shooter. There were language barriers and the fact that the mother and father had mistaken a wicked one-timer for an actual bullet being fired from a rifle, but that all went away after a couple of weeks.
The small farm was stocked with enough booze to hold Hull for a few weeks, but he quickly went through it in a week. Apparently, most of the people in this small town had no idea who Hull was. The kidnappers had wanted the former Blue to rediscover who he was and the impact he could have on the world.
In order to create connective tissue between the small town and his city, Hull repeatedly brought up Vladimir Tarasenko and how good he was. Every time he said this, someone would quickly point out, “Oh yes, the greatest scorer in Blues history.” Hull tried to play it off as a mistake, but he remembered every time they didn’t know who he was. He didn’t correct them, informing the innocent hockey fans that he had more than double the amount of goals Tarasenko had accumulated in his career. Only the kidnappers knew who he was and how he owned more goals in Blues history, so Hull took it as a chance to rebuild his reputation and legacy.
Every morning, he’d wake up and pound a four egg omelette and a pint of vodka. There would be drills with the kids and younger athletes in the village, firing left out and forgotten handmade biscuits at a cardboard box. Hull couldn’t do what he once could with a hockey stick, so every time he misfired a kid blurted out, “Tarasenko could have made that blindfolded.” Hull grew mad and started to pick a fight. When he actually got into one, he’d scream, “KELLY! TONY!” Only Tony Twist and Kelly Chase were nowhere to be found, and Hull got his ass kicked ... every time.
Brett would stay up late at night, practicing his shot and accuracy. It was still there, he thought, waiting to be found again. When he tried to find old videos on his phone, he realized his entire history was wiped off the internet. “First, they take the Beatles in that kooky movie, and now my NHL history!” Hull was furious, but then he bucked down and got to work. 100 shots at night, 200 during the day.
He realized that in order to complete this comeback at the age of 54, the alcohol consumption had to go down and so did his calorie intake. But the cooks in the village disagreed and even said, “Heavy Hull equals heavy shot!” Hull became disgruntled yet obliged, feeding half of his portion to the village dog.
After a few weeks of soul-searching and hard work, Hull impressed the whole village with his shooting. He was pleased with himself and was about ready to go smash a 12-pack of lager when someone said, “Almost as good as Tarasenko.”
Hull lost his mind, and went after the person he thought said it. He ended up taking on three grown men at once, and people started to wince at the thought of the American getting beat up. But Hull ended up kicking their ass instead and even kicked the village mule in the ass after the men were knocked out. “I AM BETTER THAN VLADIMIR! Do you hear me??!! Are you not entertained? I WENT BLUES!”
Suddenly, a face appeared out of the crowd. It was Tarasenko himself. He was the one making those comments all this time. Hull lost it all together, a combination of tears and beer coming out of his ears. When asked what was going on, Tarasenko told Hull why all this happened. “I wanted you to rediscover what it was like to be the greatest, without the image of your past hanging over you. And I also wanted you to prove to yourself that you could win a fight.” The only weird thing was, whenever Tarasenko spoke, he sounded like Morgan Freeman.
Confused yet alert, Hull understood. Apparently Tarasenko and friends had found a way to redirect the internet signal that went towards that village, thus erasing all of Hull’s highlights and records. Once restored, Tarasenko took it upon himself to show everything there the details of Hull’s greatness.
Hull smiled, grabbed Tank, and whispered to him, “You little bastard! I really thought I was stuck in the Twilight Zone.” Tarasenko plainly added, “No, Brett. You basically went Blues.”
A plane picked up the two men and took them back to St. Louis. When the plane landed and Hull exited, he turned around towards Tarasenko and asked, “Now that I got the groove back, we should head to the rink and see who is better after all.” Tarasenko smiled generously and said, “Forget it. I am way better than you these days. You would lose.”
“Bullshit,” Hull replied. “Let’s go right now. Two sticks, one net, 10 pucks, and 12 beers.”
So, off they went to the rink to see who was the greatest. No one knows who actually did win. It’s a secret according to my source. Some say Tarasenko drank more beer but Hull was more accurate. Some suggest the stories change every day.
All I can tell you for sure is that this is all made up and Happy April Fools, ladies and gentlemen.
In these chaotic yet revealing times, my goal here was simply to take your mind off the real issues and maybe make you laugh. If not, scroll on and thanks for reading all of it in order to find out if this was worth roasting or not.