Post by Shadow on Jul 2, 2012 18:09:09 GMT -4
A young man is driving down the street in the early morning hours. Pine trees line either side of the desolate road. He slams on the brakes in front of a couple who stand in the middle of the road. The couple smile as they walk over. The man, wearing a black suit and tie sticks his head through the window.
Man: Nice car.
After showing that first segment before the glow-card, the card cuts to Shadow standing on the stage and the faint sound of music is heard during the rest of the opening segment. The first strings of the song begin to play. We see Shadow and Shadow only at Rasslemania. The fans are cheering for him. He smiles. Suddenly, as soon as the lyrics to “Lonely is the Night” by Billy Squier begin, it cuts to Slade and Shadow soaring down the highway before Mayhem, the frown on Shadow’s face. Cut to Shadow’s match against Meltdown’s three “best.” We see Shadow devastating the enemy, then Dita being pinned. We cut to Slade being beaten down in the ring. Shake to Shadow brutalizing Johnny Rebel, followed by Level One pinning Slade. Cut to Shadow’s dream, the house and him stumbling down the hallway clutching his chest and his mirror exploding in his face. We see Shadow and Dita again against Wolves and Horrowitz. Once more Shadow dominates the opposing team and Dita takes the fall. Shadow burst out of the log cabin firing his gun. Gunshots ring loudly into the night. The screen fades back to the Shadow and Slade in the truck and that scowl on Shadow’s face. Then we see the explosion in the ring on Prometheus Grimm, Matt Turner and Jason Andrews. Shadow hammering away on all of them and then finally pinning them all. A slow motion close up of Shadow’s dark angry face.
[shadow=white,left,1500]Gibsland, Louisiana
Two days ago[/shadow]
We open on the front of a brick building. It’s not very impressive; the sign is a bit gregarious and reads in huge letters: Bonnie and Clyde AMBUSH Museum. It’s night time. Inside we see how poorly this museum has fared since opening. Not many people visit this attraction anymore. But tonight, one man is paying a very special visit, to brush up on his history. The camera moves through the museum towards a display case. Towering over the glass case is a man wearing all black and a ski mask. After a bit of work with the lock pick, he gets the case door open. Next to the case is a small device with blue and red diodes on it. All the LEDs are lit brightly. Shadow’s EMF reader.
Shadow: Thank god. That took forever.
His voice is a whisper behind the mask. Actually to tell the truth Shadow felt a little over dressed for this. He thought the Bonnie and Clyde museum would be a little more secured. Well the word “museum” was misleading. This is just an antiquing store with nothing for sale. Then again, the threshold is locked with an oldschool iron lock and chain. Then, just to be safe, Shadow salted the backdoor after walking in. Quick sweep proved no ghosts inside and they were locked the hell out.
Shadow: Well,
He starts to say as he pulls out the handkerchief in the display case. It has E.P. embroidered on the corner for Elizabeth Parker. One the black fabric Shadow sees the small brown blood stains.
Shadow: I hope you two have a good trip south, I hear the sauna gets hot.
He takes out a lighter and ignites the handkerchief. As it burns Shadow watches through the eyeholes of the mask, his face safe from any hidden camera. The handkerchief torches quick and just like that, the case is over. Shadow puts a black handkerchief into the display case now, a fake. It didn’t take him long to figure out the culprits: The location of the events, the time they took place. Nothing else of record ever happened on that stretch of highway except those two. As his hand shuts the glass door, all Shadow can think about this one is case closed.
[shadow=white,left,1200]Dallas, Texas
Sunday[/shadow]
Only darkness blankets the starless Texas sky. It’s late; the street we are on only has a few porch lights on. There are lone street lamps at either end of the quarter mile block. It’s dark, very dark. Suddenly the camera flashes the stop sign sways in the wind, we see a street: Iris. Next it switches to a single mailbox, a little down the street, on the right side. We see the numbers: 11315. White house, blue trim, no garage instead there is a bay window. The bricks lining the dark porch look black under the moonless sky. In the distance the street lamps and the few porch lights flicker as the wind begins to blow. Leave flutter across the lawn and then stop, the lights back to normal. Then, we see a silhouette standing in the street.
Shadow: What the f-?
He snaps up in bed, his forehead drips with sweat. Shadow shakes his head and wipes the perspiration from his face. He is in a motel room, a shady one at that. Sitting up in bed and looking around Shadow slowly starts remembering where he is, in some cheap motel off westbound Interstate 30 near Fair Park. It is a real bad part of town. No one would look for him here. In fact, they would probably check out his old place in Denton before they would look here. He sold it the day after Mayhem. He stayed in motels now, makes him a little less conspicuous. Plus he couldn’t trust anyone with his location anymore. All anyone ever got was Monday night, that’s it, the rest of the time he had places to be. People needed help, but Shadow still made a promise, and despite the fact he was in the ring, he still was helping people. Just sometimes they don’t like how he helps. The curtains in the room are drawn shut, no one can see inside. His eyes fall to the alarm clock next to the bed, its a few minutes after two in the morning. The big man leans his head back, letting his long blonde hair fall down his bare back. He lets out a sigh. shaking his head as he says.
Shadow: I hate Mondays.
Standing up, Shadow slowly starts pacing around the dark room. He takes a seat at the little desk they give you and pulls open a drawer then pushes past the King James Bible you find in every hotel room and fishes out a pad and pen. Carefully Shadow starts sketching what he saw in his dream, at that house. His head starts to spin. Closing his eyes and remembering every detail is sending causing a mental meltdown.
Shadow: Damn it!
He bangs his hand down on the desk, not caring if he has neighbors. Hell if Shadow had neighbors they probably paid by the hour and he just bought whomever a few extra minutes. Finally, Shadow looks down at the paper. He’d drawn more than he thought he would. His eyes study the images. In the upper left corner he faintly outlined the porch. In the bottom right corner we see a window outlined with the trim, just black because of the ink. In the center of the page Shadow sees what he really focused on remembering while his eyes were closed. In the center of the page, drawn in bold sketch lines, is the stop sign at the end of the road. He sees the street name again.
Shadow: Iris... Iris...
Calming down, Shadow’s breathing slows. He walks to the other bed in the room where he set his duffle bag when he got in last night. It was okay, the “other” gear was in the car. Inside his duffle bag Shadow finds a local Mapsco. He’d bought it when he got back into town. Flipping through the pages and landing on the one in question Shadow finds he is not far from the location.
Shadow: After Meltdown.
He tells himself. But Meltdown was awhile away. Maybe just one quick check before the show.
Shadow: No, show first then go get yourself killed.
With a sigh escaping his lips, Shadow turns back to his bed. He glances down, it’s about two forty five. He needed to sleep. After a second, he walks back to the desk and shuts off the light, wrapping himself in darkness once more. The he crashes down on the bed and closes his eyes. He prays he dreams of something else.
Stefan Raab, you no talent, over confident, self-righteous, stupid ass, son of a bitch Aryan Nazi. That’s right I said it. I’m going to be the one to say it. You know why? I will say it because it’s the truth. All I have ever done was tell people the truth. Whether or not they actually want to hear that truth is entirely up to them. Now that the Fuhrer is out of the bag, let’s get down to business. Wait, one more thing. I don’t think you should be called Stefan, I’d much rather call you Stef. It’s a bitch’s name. Because you don’t even have a man’s name. That kind of pisses me off too, because when I got the call about Meltdown this week, I’m listening to the booking agent and I’m like “What the hell? Diamond booked me against a pre op transsexual Swedish prostitute trying to get out of hooking and into wrestling? Damn did I piss him off last week?” I even had to question Louie when he told me you were a German “male.” I asked him, “Are you sure? Because s’him doesn’t have any eyebrows. And looking at s’him’s face, well I can’t quiet tell exactly what the hell is wrong with you, but I am damn certain something ain’t right.
Seriously Stef, you have done so much for yourself since showing up in APW. I mean you’re not in the Test for the Best tournament, but of course being the “Number two contender” for the North American title is such a big step for you. It’s so much better than the opportunity the tournament presents isn’t it? I mean you’re practically a Superstar now, arnt you? Right, because you know what? I think you’re exactly what you proclaim yourself to be, a nice big steaming deuce.
However, that’s not the punch line to this joke. It’s the fact that you really think that you have amounted to something with your short career here in APW, that I find hil-arious. You know, people like to run their mouth about me, how “Shadow’s a wash up.” And for some reason the National Enquirer still is running stories about why I moved to Meltdown. Everyone wants an answer. No one can accept the reason I am here is to whip ass. Well fine, here is another reason why, I don’t care about you Stef, your piddly little career or even your big evening gown match with Evan Envi. I only care about one thing.
You see, it’s not everyone is asking the same question, it is the fact you are all asking the WRONG question. Since no one seems to get it, let me make one thing perfectly clear. You need to be asking, “Why is Shadow so pissed; what has driven him to beating the holy hell out of some Swedish transvestite?” Because deep down, the only person you can ever truly trust is yourself. That pisses me off, because I want to be able to trust someone, but no one is trustworthy and that makes me mad. I can’t count on anyone anymore. Slade, Dita, hell even Assassin let me down with that damn cabin in the woods bullshit. They all let me down and that makes me mad.
By the way Raab, funny thing about mad; ha, ha. Sometimes I express that emotion in a physical way. And I am mad, Stef. I look like I’m a joke because I can’t trust anyone. Every tag match I’ve been in, I’ve found I can‘t count on anyone and that pisses me off. You know what else pisses me off? Assholes like you. Stef, You think that you’re something to be feared. Phhbbt! Don’t make me laugh. The only reason people should even give you a second thought is because everything you do in the ring is a disgrace. You insult the very ring we work in every time you fail to wipe your feet on the apron before getting in. You disgust me. And you were a boxer? Who gives a horse’s ass; get the hell out of our ring.
And showing up drunk? Nice move Jimmy King. Yeah, that’s another thing that ticks me off, how a Deutsch bag like yourself still has a job here. No, strike that how does a Schniedelwichsen like yourself keep from being thrown face down and having “Das Boot” stomped up your asshole? Well guess what Stef, tonight there is nothing to hide behind. Everything, and anything is a weapon. That’s right, I’ve been around awhile Raab. A no disqualification match, do you honestly grasp what that means for your future, or lack thereof, in this business? I plan on taking you apart, one piece at a time.
Stef, when it comes to me and human anatomy, I’m like the terminator: I have detailed files. I almost wonder what they will have stashed under the ring tonight. I’m not going to bring anything or look behind the curtain, I like surprises. You know what would make me the happiest? If there was nothing under the ring, you wouldn’t know what to do or where to begin. Have you even been in a No Disqualification match before Raab? Did they even have “Weapons day” at Hitler’s Boxing School for Stormtroopers? Every Texas wrestling school had weapons day. Hell it’s kind of a Texas favorite. Seeing as we’re in Dallas, why not?
You’re in for a treat tonight. I can’t wait for the bell to ring. I want to show you how the world can really kick the shit out of you. Well, you are German, so you probably have a good understanding of that. Guess I will have to settle for just trying to do it better than any American has done before.
And that’s another thing. You hate America? That’s right, I heard you Fraulien. A few weeks ago I heard you spouting off about renaming the North American title the German title? Where the hell do you get off? I’m going to beat the ever-loving crap out of you. It’s downright Reich-diculous how much of an ass kicking you earned when you got the “deuce” for that belt. Tonight’s Meltdown is a very special show, Stef, it’s the fourth of July and you and I get to celebrate it in one of the most war-like, hillbilly, foreigner hating states in North America, in a No Disqualification match. Happy Independence Day to me.
Call this bad taste, but since we ARE going to be in Dallas, how about on this, our nation’s two hundred and thirty sixth birthday, I give you a nice warm Dallas welcome. You don’t hear about those very often do you? You know what happened the last time anyone gave someone a Dallas welcome? JFK. But it’s cool This fourth of July, I am taking back the Dallas welcome. That’s right, tonight, not just for me either; but for every red blooded America who loves watching a German get shown how Americans do it right. We may not be able to build a car worth a crap or a television worth a damn but we can kick the living shit out someone.
Stefan I really don’t know you’re fighting for. To be honest, I really don’t care. You want the North American title, you don’t want the title, tomato, toe-ma-toe. Makes no difference to me, because I apparently already have enough reasons to comatose your ass. It’s our nation’s holiday’s Stef, you got a chick’s name, you hate America, you’re a huge disgrace and you just out right are unpleasant to look at. That enough reasons for you? Hell I am sure I can rustle up a few more. Fact of the matter is Stef, you bit off more than your big teeth can chew. And it’s my pleasure to kick them out for you.
Now I can stand here and Bill Pullman this bitch all day long. You know, say the same shit he did in that movie and get a big crowd of solders to salute; HOWEVER, comma, your lily white German ass needs to get to the nearest “First Bank of Shadow’s Big Fucking Foot” and cash a check that your smart ass beer-crusted mouth wrote earlier this week. Time to go to work Stef, Let’s do this.
Man: Nice car.
[glow=blue,9,200]THEN... [/glow]
After showing that first segment before the glow-card, the card cuts to Shadow standing on the stage and the faint sound of music is heard during the rest of the opening segment. The first strings of the song begin to play. We see Shadow and Shadow only at Rasslemania. The fans are cheering for him. He smiles. Suddenly, as soon as the lyrics to “Lonely is the Night” by Billy Squier begin, it cuts to Slade and Shadow soaring down the highway before Mayhem, the frown on Shadow’s face. Cut to Shadow’s match against Meltdown’s three “best.” We see Shadow devastating the enemy, then Dita being pinned. We cut to Slade being beaten down in the ring. Shake to Shadow brutalizing Johnny Rebel, followed by Level One pinning Slade. Cut to Shadow’s dream, the house and him stumbling down the hallway clutching his chest and his mirror exploding in his face. We see Shadow and Dita again against Wolves and Horrowitz. Once more Shadow dominates the opposing team and Dita takes the fall. Shadow burst out of the log cabin firing his gun. Gunshots ring loudly into the night. The screen fades back to the Shadow and Slade in the truck and that scowl on Shadow’s face. Then we see the explosion in the ring on Prometheus Grimm, Matt Turner and Jason Andrews. Shadow hammering away on all of them and then finally pinning them all. A slow motion close up of Shadow’s dark angry face.
[glow=blue,9,200]NOW... [/glow]
[shadow=white,left,1500]Gibsland, Louisiana
Two days ago[/shadow]
"ID4"
We open on the front of a brick building. It’s not very impressive; the sign is a bit gregarious and reads in huge letters: Bonnie and Clyde AMBUSH Museum. It’s night time. Inside we see how poorly this museum has fared since opening. Not many people visit this attraction anymore. But tonight, one man is paying a very special visit, to brush up on his history. The camera moves through the museum towards a display case. Towering over the glass case is a man wearing all black and a ski mask. After a bit of work with the lock pick, he gets the case door open. Next to the case is a small device with blue and red diodes on it. All the LEDs are lit brightly. Shadow’s EMF reader.
Shadow: Thank god. That took forever.
His voice is a whisper behind the mask. Actually to tell the truth Shadow felt a little over dressed for this. He thought the Bonnie and Clyde museum would be a little more secured. Well the word “museum” was misleading. This is just an antiquing store with nothing for sale. Then again, the threshold is locked with an oldschool iron lock and chain. Then, just to be safe, Shadow salted the backdoor after walking in. Quick sweep proved no ghosts inside and they were locked the hell out.
Shadow: Well,
He starts to say as he pulls out the handkerchief in the display case. It has E.P. embroidered on the corner for Elizabeth Parker. One the black fabric Shadow sees the small brown blood stains.
Shadow: I hope you two have a good trip south, I hear the sauna gets hot.
He takes out a lighter and ignites the handkerchief. As it burns Shadow watches through the eyeholes of the mask, his face safe from any hidden camera. The handkerchief torches quick and just like that, the case is over. Shadow puts a black handkerchief into the display case now, a fake. It didn’t take him long to figure out the culprits: The location of the events, the time they took place. Nothing else of record ever happened on that stretch of highway except those two. As his hand shuts the glass door, all Shadow can think about this one is case closed.
[shadow=white,left,1200]Dallas, Texas
Sunday[/shadow]
Only darkness blankets the starless Texas sky. It’s late; the street we are on only has a few porch lights on. There are lone street lamps at either end of the quarter mile block. It’s dark, very dark. Suddenly the camera flashes the stop sign sways in the wind, we see a street: Iris. Next it switches to a single mailbox, a little down the street, on the right side. We see the numbers: 11315. White house, blue trim, no garage instead there is a bay window. The bricks lining the dark porch look black under the moonless sky. In the distance the street lamps and the few porch lights flicker as the wind begins to blow. Leave flutter across the lawn and then stop, the lights back to normal. Then, we see a silhouette standing in the street.
Shadow: What the f-?
He snaps up in bed, his forehead drips with sweat. Shadow shakes his head and wipes the perspiration from his face. He is in a motel room, a shady one at that. Sitting up in bed and looking around Shadow slowly starts remembering where he is, in some cheap motel off westbound Interstate 30 near Fair Park. It is a real bad part of town. No one would look for him here. In fact, they would probably check out his old place in Denton before they would look here. He sold it the day after Mayhem. He stayed in motels now, makes him a little less conspicuous. Plus he couldn’t trust anyone with his location anymore. All anyone ever got was Monday night, that’s it, the rest of the time he had places to be. People needed help, but Shadow still made a promise, and despite the fact he was in the ring, he still was helping people. Just sometimes they don’t like how he helps. The curtains in the room are drawn shut, no one can see inside. His eyes fall to the alarm clock next to the bed, its a few minutes after two in the morning. The big man leans his head back, letting his long blonde hair fall down his bare back. He lets out a sigh. shaking his head as he says.
Shadow: I hate Mondays.
Standing up, Shadow slowly starts pacing around the dark room. He takes a seat at the little desk they give you and pulls open a drawer then pushes past the King James Bible you find in every hotel room and fishes out a pad and pen. Carefully Shadow starts sketching what he saw in his dream, at that house. His head starts to spin. Closing his eyes and remembering every detail is sending causing a mental meltdown.
Shadow: Damn it!
He bangs his hand down on the desk, not caring if he has neighbors. Hell if Shadow had neighbors they probably paid by the hour and he just bought whomever a few extra minutes. Finally, Shadow looks down at the paper. He’d drawn more than he thought he would. His eyes study the images. In the upper left corner he faintly outlined the porch. In the bottom right corner we see a window outlined with the trim, just black because of the ink. In the center of the page Shadow sees what he really focused on remembering while his eyes were closed. In the center of the page, drawn in bold sketch lines, is the stop sign at the end of the road. He sees the street name again.
Shadow: Iris... Iris...
Calming down, Shadow’s breathing slows. He walks to the other bed in the room where he set his duffle bag when he got in last night. It was okay, the “other” gear was in the car. Inside his duffle bag Shadow finds a local Mapsco. He’d bought it when he got back into town. Flipping through the pages and landing on the one in question Shadow finds he is not far from the location.
Shadow: After Meltdown.
He tells himself. But Meltdown was awhile away. Maybe just one quick check before the show.
Shadow: No, show first then go get yourself killed.
With a sigh escaping his lips, Shadow turns back to his bed. He glances down, it’s about two forty five. He needed to sleep. After a second, he walks back to the desk and shuts off the light, wrapping himself in darkness once more. The he crashes down on the bed and closes his eyes. He prays he dreams of something else.
Stefan Raab, you no talent, over confident, self-righteous, stupid ass, son of a bitch Aryan Nazi. That’s right I said it. I’m going to be the one to say it. You know why? I will say it because it’s the truth. All I have ever done was tell people the truth. Whether or not they actually want to hear that truth is entirely up to them. Now that the Fuhrer is out of the bag, let’s get down to business. Wait, one more thing. I don’t think you should be called Stefan, I’d much rather call you Stef. It’s a bitch’s name. Because you don’t even have a man’s name. That kind of pisses me off too, because when I got the call about Meltdown this week, I’m listening to the booking agent and I’m like “What the hell? Diamond booked me against a pre op transsexual Swedish prostitute trying to get out of hooking and into wrestling? Damn did I piss him off last week?” I even had to question Louie when he told me you were a German “male.” I asked him, “Are you sure? Because s’him doesn’t have any eyebrows. And looking at s’him’s face, well I can’t quiet tell exactly what the hell is wrong with you, but I am damn certain something ain’t right.
Seriously Stef, you have done so much for yourself since showing up in APW. I mean you’re not in the Test for the Best tournament, but of course being the “Number two contender” for the North American title is such a big step for you. It’s so much better than the opportunity the tournament presents isn’t it? I mean you’re practically a Superstar now, arnt you? Right, because you know what? I think you’re exactly what you proclaim yourself to be, a nice big steaming deuce.
However, that’s not the punch line to this joke. It’s the fact that you really think that you have amounted to something with your short career here in APW, that I find hil-arious. You know, people like to run their mouth about me, how “Shadow’s a wash up.” And for some reason the National Enquirer still is running stories about why I moved to Meltdown. Everyone wants an answer. No one can accept the reason I am here is to whip ass. Well fine, here is another reason why, I don’t care about you Stef, your piddly little career or even your big evening gown match with Evan Envi. I only care about one thing.
You see, it’s not everyone is asking the same question, it is the fact you are all asking the WRONG question. Since no one seems to get it, let me make one thing perfectly clear. You need to be asking, “Why is Shadow so pissed; what has driven him to beating the holy hell out of some Swedish transvestite?” Because deep down, the only person you can ever truly trust is yourself. That pisses me off, because I want to be able to trust someone, but no one is trustworthy and that makes me mad. I can’t count on anyone anymore. Slade, Dita, hell even Assassin let me down with that damn cabin in the woods bullshit. They all let me down and that makes me mad.
By the way Raab, funny thing about mad; ha, ha. Sometimes I express that emotion in a physical way. And I am mad, Stef. I look like I’m a joke because I can’t trust anyone. Every tag match I’ve been in, I’ve found I can‘t count on anyone and that pisses me off. You know what else pisses me off? Assholes like you. Stef, You think that you’re something to be feared. Phhbbt! Don’t make me laugh. The only reason people should even give you a second thought is because everything you do in the ring is a disgrace. You insult the very ring we work in every time you fail to wipe your feet on the apron before getting in. You disgust me. And you were a boxer? Who gives a horse’s ass; get the hell out of our ring.
And showing up drunk? Nice move Jimmy King. Yeah, that’s another thing that ticks me off, how a Deutsch bag like yourself still has a job here. No, strike that how does a Schniedelwichsen like yourself keep from being thrown face down and having “Das Boot” stomped up your asshole? Well guess what Stef, tonight there is nothing to hide behind. Everything, and anything is a weapon. That’s right, I’ve been around awhile Raab. A no disqualification match, do you honestly grasp what that means for your future, or lack thereof, in this business? I plan on taking you apart, one piece at a time.
Stef, when it comes to me and human anatomy, I’m like the terminator: I have detailed files. I almost wonder what they will have stashed under the ring tonight. I’m not going to bring anything or look behind the curtain, I like surprises. You know what would make me the happiest? If there was nothing under the ring, you wouldn’t know what to do or where to begin. Have you even been in a No Disqualification match before Raab? Did they even have “Weapons day” at Hitler’s Boxing School for Stormtroopers? Every Texas wrestling school had weapons day. Hell it’s kind of a Texas favorite. Seeing as we’re in Dallas, why not?
You’re in for a treat tonight. I can’t wait for the bell to ring. I want to show you how the world can really kick the shit out of you. Well, you are German, so you probably have a good understanding of that. Guess I will have to settle for just trying to do it better than any American has done before.
And that’s another thing. You hate America? That’s right, I heard you Fraulien. A few weeks ago I heard you spouting off about renaming the North American title the German title? Where the hell do you get off? I’m going to beat the ever-loving crap out of you. It’s downright Reich-diculous how much of an ass kicking you earned when you got the “deuce” for that belt. Tonight’s Meltdown is a very special show, Stef, it’s the fourth of July and you and I get to celebrate it in one of the most war-like, hillbilly, foreigner hating states in North America, in a No Disqualification match. Happy Independence Day to me.
Call this bad taste, but since we ARE going to be in Dallas, how about on this, our nation’s two hundred and thirty sixth birthday, I give you a nice warm Dallas welcome. You don’t hear about those very often do you? You know what happened the last time anyone gave someone a Dallas welcome? JFK. But it’s cool This fourth of July, I am taking back the Dallas welcome. That’s right, tonight, not just for me either; but for every red blooded America who loves watching a German get shown how Americans do it right. We may not be able to build a car worth a crap or a television worth a damn but we can kick the living shit out someone.
Stefan I really don’t know you’re fighting for. To be honest, I really don’t care. You want the North American title, you don’t want the title, tomato, toe-ma-toe. Makes no difference to me, because I apparently already have enough reasons to comatose your ass. It’s our nation’s holiday’s Stef, you got a chick’s name, you hate America, you’re a huge disgrace and you just out right are unpleasant to look at. That enough reasons for you? Hell I am sure I can rustle up a few more. Fact of the matter is Stef, you bit off more than your big teeth can chew. And it’s my pleasure to kick them out for you.
Now I can stand here and Bill Pullman this bitch all day long. You know, say the same shit he did in that movie and get a big crowd of solders to salute; HOWEVER, comma, your lily white German ass needs to get to the nearest “First Bank of Shadow’s Big Fucking Foot” and cash a check that your smart ass beer-crusted mouth wrote earlier this week. Time to go to work Stef, Let’s do this.
