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Don looked high as a helicopter over a drug den - not too high, just high enough to know what's happening. Luckily, his shades hid his curious pink-eye. He kept his joint in his mouth as Mack handed him a micrizzle, ready to talk that talk.

"Aite, aite, y'all listen up," Don jived, the thick scent of marijuana sticking to the microphone. The crowd didn't really know what to make of him and the gigantic man stood next to him.

"Yoyoyo aite, aite, y'all best be listenin', y'dig? Cuz what we got here, aite, is da debut o' da newest guy in da Bee Bee Dub lockah room, ya dig? So dawgs n' ma rats in da hood, what y'all gotta do naw, naw, stand up dawgs, get on dem feet, get dem hands up, knowhadamsayin?"

Don took a moment for the fans to get their s**t together. Most of them had no idea what he was saying. The ones who did ignored him. SUCH SWAY.

"Aite aite aite so y'all dawgs on yo feet, got yo hands up, aite, I'ma introduce ma man o'er here, da new guy, da best guy though ya dig? What we got o'er here is da futa world champ dawgs, nowhadamsayin? We talking futa world champ, hall o' fame, da whole nine yards n' den ano'er hundy feet knowhadamsayin? Dis dawg goin' all da way to da bank, n' back to da... err... marble, yeah dawg, dem marble hall o' fames."

Don adjusted his shades, his jaw hanging open, the gormless guttersnipe.

"Wi'dout dat further 'dieu, 'scuse mah French, what we got here, in da corner o' da champeen, da corner o' yours truly, Don Shaquille, da big money playah, what we got here, is da main man, da Mack Daddy, da Big Mack, Mack n' cheese, return o' da Mack, da one n' only, DA BIG MACK!"

Don started to clap, haphazardly releasing the microphone as he did. It fell to the ground, thudding against the mat, drowning out his clumsy clapping. He slowly plodded back to his corner while clapping, muttering random words of encouragement to the huge guy next to him (who clearly didn't need encouraging).

People were expecting the arrival of the heavy-breathing Asimov. Instead of his usual entrance music, however, the Habanerabegan to play throughout the arena. Fans were puzzled; did Asimov suddenly take on an ear for classical music?



Anton walked out from backstage to a chorus of boos. He looked out into the crowd with his one good eye, noting the disappointed faces. Anton raised his microphone, holding a hand up to silence the crowd. "It is a wonder...how I can get such a response from you all," he said with a smile. The boos rained down harder. Once again holding up a hand, he continued. "Unlike the fools in the ring, my...associate...has no need for extra boasting. He is but a simple man with a simple mission.

...Destroy."



With that, Asimov began to play throughout the arena, and Asimov did indeed step out from backstage. The ring announcer, finally getting his composure set, made the usual announcement.

"And his opponent, accompanied by Anton Heedon, weighing in at 320 lbs; he is the Hammer of Creation. Asimov."

Asimov strode forward, looking only at the large man in the ring. Last week he tore through Trent. Small prize, small game. Tonight, he went up against a man not much bigger than himself. He climbed into the ring, staring down Big Mack. Anton, in the meantime, grabbed a chair from under the ring, set it up, and took a seat.