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"And see that's what I don't get about people these days, you can't say ANYTHING without a massive lynch mob coming after you... BANG BANG.. Like seriously ya know, I worry about kids today, I really do. It's like everyone has their own AGENDA. Everyone has their own ANGLE. It's such horseshit.. Hah.. Hah... BANG BANG.."

MLB player Josh Donaldson sits on the loveseat of the Midnight Marauders International/Team CWF office with his eyes glazed over passed out whilst former SWA commissioner Mick Foley speaks to the disgraced former MVP. Trash and bottles of Vodka are littered about the floor of the converted meat hanger in which hundreds of thousands of petrodollars pass through each day under the watchful eye of the organizations personal accountant, former wrestling personality JJ the Jet Smith. On the other side of the room Nicky Delabonte is slouched over a photo copy machine with his pants around his ankles drooling onto the screen. Foley, the only conscious man in the room reaches for his Android phone as it lights up.

"Hey uh, Vince... BANG BANG... How we doing, huh.. hah... Heh... Heh... Oh yeah? He's on the way? That's uh--BANG BANG--That's fantastic. Go ahead, send him up! And send the girl too... You know, the one... She got a GREAT a**!!"

There was something different about the normally progressive minded and amiable Foley, who now spewed bile in the presence of an avowed racist. It was almost as if this Foley were being controlled by some kind of colonizing force with no respect for his deepest held values. The Hardcore Legend now contorted into a power hungry puppet spewing Al Pacino impersonations and afflicted with some kind of condition causing him to say his catch phrase as though afflicted with very advanced tourettes. Reaching into his desk, he brings out a pill bottle popping a handful into his mouth. Josh Donaldson shifts slightly in his chair snooring loudly as the Voros Twins barge into the room both carrying giant bags of ice. "Mr Foley! We're here to ice the boss!!"

Nodding along both Twins walk around the desk grabbing the door handle near the back of the room and popping open the freezer to reveal Freakshow in his wheel chair with his eyes wide open his entire body covered in a layer of frost. Dumping the fresh ice onto the lap of the former CEO whose body sat cold and rigid, the receptionist buzzes into loudly:

"Mr Foley! Your guest is checking in, do you want me to send him in now?!"

Foley's eyes widen in shock. He hadn't expected the Brit to show up so soon. A lump swallowing down his throat, he hits the button to respond, "Yeah.. Yeah BANG BANG... Go ahead... Send him in...!!" Standing up, the flustered acting chairman and ECW original looks behind him, knowing he couldn't risk his guest of honor bear witness him breaking bread with Hungarians. Not in this current climate. Not with the stakes being so high. Hobbling to the freezer door his slams it shut hard as the faint protests of the boys ring out. Sitting back in his chair, he smooths out his hair and presses a button on the intercom to play some Kenny G drowning out the noise as he tries to keep his poker face, starring at the door--

"Boss.. Boss?! What are you doing?! Boss! This isn't very... COOL!!!"

Mrs. Foley's baby boy holds his composure his teeth clenched as he watches Cartwright and his negative attitude towards his living conditions manifest themselves underneath the surface of his British demeanor. Taking a deep breath and focusing to talk suddenly he blurts out--

"BANG BANG!!" Covering his mouth, the commissioner swallows. "Ehem. Sorry. Look, I know you've had your issues in the past with members of this organization. I want to put that behind us. Let bygones be bygones." Pulling out a yellow notepad and reading glasses, his squints. "First of all, Vince wants to apologize. Wants you to know that he inherited a mess. By the time he joined MMi, it was already a sinking ship. Bloated. Too many cooks in the kitchen. All that heat between you in BBW? That was the office, not him. Ok? Sorry."

Clicking his pen as he marks an X on the top bullet point on his notepad finally getting to the 2nd one. "I'm sorry too, Cartwright. I'm sorry that I lost control of Heyman. We never should've gotten wrapped up with those OECW guys. And that whole time he was kidnapped? I hear he was having tea and crumpets with those guys. I mean, really, what kind of idiot stages---BAAAAAAANG--stages an invasion of his own companies?! Again, I'm sorry. That was Heyman, not me."

Marking the 2nd box, pushing his glasses back up on his eyes he sighs moving to the last one. "Finally we all apologize for Freak. He's uh... Not feeling so--B...BANG-BANG--Damnit.. BA--...Uhhhhh god... He's not doing so good." Clearing his throat, rubbing his eyes Foley continues. "We're sorry he used you to win the WWFG title and worked with Bad Boy. Honestly, he was already gone at that point. You could even say that it wasn't him, even though it was."

Folding up the notebook after the 3rd mark and nodding his head, Foley extends his hand across the table to Cartwright. "So that does it. See? We did it. We all took full accountability for past actions that while they may or may not have been our fault, we still take responsibility for as a token of friendship from new management. With that out of the way, I hear that you have an issue with Salem Croft? We'd like to help with that problem." Foley spits in his hand, again extending it to Cartwright.

"You know I could sit here and give you a million reasons why... BANG BANG.." Reaching down under his desk, giving a warm Mick Foley smile to his guest with honor. He was about to drop the bomb on him. "And I could tell you all about the issues we've had with Salem in the past, and that's all part of it don't get me wrong. But I think it's best if you hear it from the horses mouth"

Producing a copy of Eric Bischoffs New York Times best selling book Controvery Creates Cash, also a USA today best seller. Sliding it across the table there was an envelope tucked into it's pages. Leaning back, Mick Foley releases Cartwrights hand.

"Read this Cartwright. Let it marinate. Then you'll understand why we want to help. BANG BANG. Trust me, it's a real page turner. Once you pick it up, you won't be able to put it down."

A loud, disgusting, ravenous fart interrupts the conversation as Nicky Delabonte Jr. falls from his position on the photo copy machine. The young old-man wakes from his stupor and flounders around on the ground, shocked and curious as to his whereabouts. He yanks on his trousers and pulls them back up around his waist, locking eyes with Mick. The two proceeded to have a seven hour conversation that last merely seconds via way of gaze. Everything was suddenly understood, and Nicky realized that manifest destiny was in full effect. He staggered to his feet, slamming back first into the freezer door leading to some muffled laughs coming from inside. He cocks an eyebrow and looks in the little window of the door, seeing the Da Vinki's sculpting a Mona Lisa out of ice so they had something to entertain themselves while they stared at the corpse of the Shah.



Nicky stumbled about and let out another large fart, the stench entering his nose like a fork to the head of an illegal at Wrestlemania. He suddenly vomited all over Josh Donaldson, waking the New York Yankee up from his racial stupor. The slugger screamed and cracked Nicky across the face with the bat he was holding, knocking him out cold and to the ground.