Chapter 5: The Not-So-Fantastic Four (Whore+ish Men, Ishmael, and Skittles' Reckoning)
The field was still buzzing from the Bad Moms' victory when the sky darkened—not with clouds, but with the arrival of four figures so dramatic they could only be biblical. Or, as Dinah preferred to call them, the Whore+ish Men of the Apocalypse.
They weren't here to end the world. They were here to steal the spotlight, to swagger and pose, to pretend they were the chosen ones. Each one wanted to be her—the woman with all the power, the one who never got the credit. The one who didn't have a penis but somehow made all the men wish they did. The one who'd been kidnapped, erased, and sold off—while the world kept asking, "Who's in charge?" and never looking in the right direction.
They were the Ishmaels of this story—pretenders trying to claim the name, the role, the power that was hers alone. Like Moby Dick's elusive whale, she was the real force beneath the waves, and these Whore+ish Men were just flailing imitators, trying to ride her coattails, hoping no one would notice the difference.
The last to arrive was Skittles. Not Eminem—no, this wasn't the real Slim Shady. This was the knockoff, the candy-coated rapper who thought he could rhyme his way into legend. Skittles strutted in, hoodie up, sunglasses on, spitting lines that were more sugar rush than street cred.
Dinah watched from the dugout, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. She'd had enough of men pretending to be her, enough of the "mockingbirds" who thought they could sing her song better than she could. It was time to set the record straight. And she'd do it the only way Skittles would understand: a rap battle.
She stepped onto the field, grabbed the mic, and let it rip:
Livepool (Dinah) – "Mockingbird's Reckoning"
Yo, Skittles, you ain't Eminem,
You're the knockoff, the off-brand, the "try again."
I'm the real Slim Shady, you're just a snack,
Trying to rhyme your way outta a Walmart pack.
You talk about 8 Mile, but you ain't from Detroit,
You grew up in Tennessee, hun, chasing that clout like a lost boy.
Your horsemen crew? Just whore+ish men,
All trying to be me, but they don't know when.
Like Ishmael chasing Moby's tail,
They're flailing in my wake, destined to fail.
I'm the woman with the power, the one you can't be,
No penis required—I'm the queen, can't you see?
You wanna mock my bird? Don't make me break its neck,
Just like your last verse, you're about to get wrecked.
You spit "Mockingbird," but you missed the real pain,
I've lived every lyric, I've danced in the rain.
So sit down, Skittles, let the real one speak,
You're not the Slim Shady—just a colorful freak.
The crowd gasped, then roared. The Whore+ish Men looked at each other, suddenly unsure. Skittles tried to fire back, but his rhymes melted faster than his namesake in the California sun.
Dinah dropped the mic, her message clear:
You can try to copy me, you can try to erase me,
But you'll never replace me.
The real Slim Shady just stood up—
And she's not sitting down for anyone.
She turned, voice ringing out across the field, sharp enough to cut through every last ego:
"Get in the fucking line and quit acting like retarded assholes this time!"
The Whore+ish Men scrambled, falling over themselves to obey. For once, nobody dared pretend to be her. Not when the real deal was standing right in front of them, and she was done letting anyone else write her story.