It's 6'o clock at night in the middle of the Arabian Peninsula. Freakshow, in a trip to see international investers for Midnight Marauders Incoporated. had found himself awoken inside of a bathtub full of cold water following a company funded charity event in honor of the orphaned children of Mad Dog McLennon. After several drinks and a dispute with an individual of color regarding fishcrabs he departed the ball and was last seen entering a van with several robed figures, the figures, individuals later alleged by the renowned venture capitalist to be members of the Nigerias Independent Gaian Government Event Registration a group with reputed ties in deep politics. Nevertheless, when Freakshow woke up surrounded by ice in a Versace ******** suit with the socks on he looked up at the ceiling and said hell nah.

Who was responsible for this. The thought had occured to Freak that he alone was responsible for his own transgressions and error in the face of judgement but this thought was soon eclipsed by the crushing realization that he was a billionaire playboy with the finest bitches in the club peaking 40 and still getting some shorties on the beach. Who did it then? Who set the bess up?If it were Croft it would have happened in person and who wants to worry about Croft, anyways? That was dealt with, he told himself. Kelly King was another option. King, a total p***s pumper, certainly had the smarts to pull it off but would he have the patience? Probably not. It'd more likely be his fine a** daughter. The one that didn't know how to bump. No. No. No. It had to be one man. It could be only one man.

Freakshow looks at hmself in the mirror. He looks at himself good long and hard. Yeah, that's right. No scars. If they took out a kidney then they must have done a pretty good job. He looks deep within himself. Deep within his own soul or whatever it was that occupied that space. After confronting the absolute furthest depths of his own longings for the very best things in life he realized that there was one thing wrong with this world.

"Where the ******** is my U.S Title"


Baseball carrying, little boy marrying, gerrymandering, name slandering, couldn't wrestle his way out of a paper bag and not an ounce of ******** swag, he can't beat me man to man or hand to hand, Matt-- You're Retirement Doesn't Mean s**t To Me You ******** Ignorant Piece of Trash-- can it man because I'm going ham, Shanahan. 6'8 inches of calcified s**t wearing a pair of $4 dollar aviators who would rather s**t in a pot of rice than dance with wolves baby. You're nothing Punk. You've always been nothing. Yeah, go ahead, quit without giving me my rematch. All it does is confirm what I've known ever since I had my first match with you in S.W.A where you were slumming it after I'd already been King of The Death match bay-bay. Uh-huh, me, King of The Death Match. Not bad for someone whose wakes up every morning without those five pounds of American ******** gold around his waist--