Facebook. The Nameless, Faceless Enemy
May 22, 2016 1:22:07 GMT -6
John Gable, Spencer Adams, and 3 more like this
Post by SEAMAC on May 22, 2016 1:22:07 GMT -6
UCI – Overload
Week 1 – 5/22/16
Triple Threat Match
Crow McMorris
v.
Dustin Beaver
v.
Zombie McMorris
________________________________________
Chapter I: Facebook. The Nameless, Faceless Enemy
( A Prologue Prose )
I am sure that you have all heard it on the news and media outlets, how facebook is destroying “fair and balanced news” by suppressing conservative media viewpoints with its archaic algorithms of meritocracy and liberal bias. As if there is some vice president of live tweet feeds that connect the user to the most interesting and relevant content based of off an in depth and complex analysis of that users click bait interests. That would be some next level heavy shit, iff’n that society was not already there.
What is funny about all this, is that it is being reported and lambasted all over media circles. It is ousting bombing, rape, bus accidents, nuclear incidents and a Menudo revival. What it is doing in reality is what all trivial news does ( E.G. all the news). It exists to cover up some congressional bullshit that neither the Left or the Right know anything about to both swear to Jam Willy Hey-Zeus that it is evil and must be stopped ( E.G some mouse with a newly found space fetish feels that what needs to be stopped is interfering with a buck to be made).
And what exactly needs to be stopped? What is so detrimental to the classical conservative free market capitalism ideal? Free public housing; free “higher education”, perhaps? Clean sources of drinking water for states that rhyme with “Wishigan?” Nah son, it ain’t even all of the above.
This is where Steve Harvey calls you a dumb mother fucker on Family Feud.
Nah, what it really is, is this whole “underground fighting ring”
LOL
Now hold the fuck up Tyler Derdin, you whack ass piece of shit. This isn’t about you. Feel free to punch your cock sucker clean in the jaw anytime you damn well feel like. Ain’t no one caring about you. You don’t have no net worth beyond bubblegum pocket lint.
While the news media was out there with picket lines protesting the fair and balanced news sources for the HTML host for Farmville, congress was hard at work passing a bill.
“ The Anti-amateur Combat and Entertainment Sports Bill.”
I know that means nothing to the NFL or the Boxing Commission, even the UFC. It means something to the little guy; to what are affectionately known as “The Indys.”
In this bill, indy promotions are not to expose hyper realistic violence to anyone under the age of 21 or charge admission to see the simulated instances of violence against minorities, women or the destruction of property within a building or property that pays taxes to a land trust government ( Such as a town, state or federal government). In addition to this, taxes were levied against the organizations for just existing; a crushing 82 percent plus having to accommodate performers with free medical access and compensation for time lost. Overnight the entire industry died. Only a few promotions that could handle such a burden, and with that, there were massive layoffs.
This story, MY story picks up between one company ending and a Mexican prison cell for what has been dubbed “The Mexico Incident. ” Now there are many takes on what happened as everyone experienced things differently but all have equally interesting stories.
Except Dustin Beaver, that dude couldn’t tell a story with a speak and spell and a “Mad Libs Greatest Hits book.” But I’ll get to him.
___________________________
Chapter II: The Mexico Incident Pt. 3
Mexico City, Mexico
My ears still rang from the other night. A two squad team ran through the small makeshift arena as me and a few other boys from Wrestling Championship Federation were doing some estranged house-shows off the beaten path of cataloged events. Mainly it was me, Crow, Extreme and Price trying to score drugs booze and women. We succeeded in our ventures but that is not this part in the story.
I rolled over and groaned, having gotten the best four days’ worth of sleep in my current life. The instant replay kept playing in a quagmire’d haze in my mind. The hookers, blow, booze and wrestling; then it all went south. Then the raid and the flash bangs; then nothing. My eyes crept open to soak in an eight by eight cell complete with broken metal toilet and this hard wooden mattress-less bench that lulled my ribs into a quiet breaking slumber. There was enough mold on the walls to make the sandwich if I have a half slice of bread or some BBW Latina ass cheeks. Looking around, this was nicer than home; a dumpster in back of a TJ Maxx but even how I got here was still a deep dark mystery covered in molly, coke, malt and Mexican poon sweat. Fuck it, today is a great day to be alive.
Sitting cracked my back, from the lumbar to the neck. It was a sickening crack but enjoyable like passing a mallet over the length of a Xylophone; one of those joint cracks that you wish you could duplicate but can’t. I tried retracing my steps but these guilty feet have got no rhythm and Honey Badger don’t give a fuck enough to dance to the beat of black out recall and recollection. While this cell might be seen as pure putrid and squalor, this wasn’t no third world shit hole or some death camp. I’ve been to death camps, thrown in pits, Asian Walk-you-till-you-die, camps. I’m like the Bubba Gump of POWs. Shee-it, I ain’t even been to no regular camp. But I tell you what, every time I’m in these situations, I think of roasting marshmallows by the fire. Hell, I might even do that one day,too.
“ Knock, knock.”
Whose there?
“ It’s the plot, you goon.”
Vincent “ Buddy” Roman strolls into view from the left side of the cell and wraps his hands around the cell bars. He was one of the few men that saw the world the way that I saw the world. You know..
I never fell for that shit. I ain’t about that. They all think I’m some fringe lunatic with crazy ideas.
“ Are you ready? We should be going. I paid your bail, don’t chu know.”
“ Wheres everyone else?” I ask with a snort.
“ M.I.A.” Replies Roman.
“ And Crow?”
“ He too is a ghost. Which is for the best at the moment. We have to get back to the states. There’s a task force out here eliminating wrestlers and promotions. Guess while we were in Mexico a lot, lot of shit went down state side and everything is underground. Not that it matters to you but lets just say that I won’t do well in these types of situations. In fact, there are a lot of people who won’t do well in this type of situation. Hell, I only posted bail for you because I had to prove WCF doesn’t actually pay you and that you work for charity, basically. So you’re tax exempt from the law they put in place.”
“ What law?”
“ Next time.. don’t skip the prologue, asshole.”
A Guard walks over and unlocks the cell as Roman takes a step inside.
“Lets go. It’s a long ride to Chicago.” Says Roman with a smile.
__________________________
Chapter III: Chicago. Murdertown, U.S.A
Undisclosed Warehouse. Murdertown, U.S.A
A few days had passed by the time we made it back across into the states and if what he said was true, there was no WCF; my former home. We rumbled around Murdertown, U.S.A, trying to find this warehouse like a blind midget trying to find tits at a house of pancakes. While in the car, Roman handed me back my BlackBerry, BB6; as I call her.
“Here.” He said throwing the phone in my lap. “ I have no idea how to work this damn thing. I think you got a message. It might be God telling you he blew up the dinosaurs. I mean, if you hurry you could phone fuck the virgin Mary.”
“ Ha, been there and done that.” I replied.
“ Serious, I think the dead sea scrolls would be a technological upgrade.” I scroll through my phone my phone and see a message saying that confirmed that WCF was no longer a thing. “ I saved it, you know. Your title.” Indeed he did, my Internet Champion lay in the back seat. The urge to get on Twitter was strong, had to smash the FGT asspoon on that Twitter skip. We kept driving until we pulled up an old run down Dairy Queen. “ I guess this is it. This is what Adams said.” Roman shrugs as we get out of the car. I grab my phone and my belt as we make our way into the building.
“ Yo, you want a bomb pop? Get you a firecracker or something?” I start digging around old freezers but come up empty handed. However, as I was looking for ice cream Roman found an old service elevator in the back room.
“ Do you think the freezers down there?” He asks.
“ Must be.” I reply.
“ What if its an ax murderer?”
“ Den he gone get clip klopped with an axe wound. I mean like, yah man; we saw the movie. You put peoples skin on ya face cuz you so damn ugly your own damn skin don’t even want to be there. Limp dicked faggot.” Roman swats me on the chest.
“ Lets go. Spencer must be down there.”
“ Spencer, Spencer Adams? You told me a friend of a friend had a wresting promotion that went underground.”
“ Guess that was a literally translation.”
DING
We get in the elevator and click the DOWN key.
LOL What? Serious? Fuck yah, George Michaels. We get to the sub-basement and sitting at a desk in a large darkened room with glass walls on the far side is there to greet us. Spencer Adams sat at the desk with a smile on his face.
“ Ah, ZMAC! I’m glad to see you; kinda. I was half in the basket on if I wanted you here considering the controversy you bring. But damn it, I’ll be cursed if that wasn’t attractive. “ We approach Spencer and take a seat in front of him.
“ So whats this about?” I ask with a snort.
“ Terrible things went down and in a couple of weeks a few of the boys set this up; with considerable financial backing. With that said, we’re looking to grow the roster and a man of your unique attributes is well worth the investment. Where as Seth let you do what you want, we won’t let that happen here so theres a couple of ground rules.
1. Fuck you, no racism.
2. No fourth wall breaks.
“ Dick”
3. Don’t go shitting on peoples gimmick and trashing them from behind the scenes. “
The fuck is this shit?
“ So let me get this right. You want ol’ Z to walk up in your fed and NOT be ol’ Z?”
Can you believe this shit?
“ Yah Z, You cant talk to the audience.” Spencer corrects.
“ But I’m pulling a promo.”
“ Z, theres no cameras here. This isn’t Seths office. I don’t video tape things in here.”
I quickly look around the room but when I turn back towards Spencer, I realize the truth.
I now knew what I had to do. I gotta purge the world of all these consumer fuccbois.
“ Now its all the same rules as normal, just a little bit more up your alley.” Spencer continued. “ Little more freedom, violence. Question is, can you do it without your silly crutches?”
The fuck do I look like, Tiny Tim?
“ Ahem.. fourth wall.” Spencer corrects me again.
“ Fuck you, that’s narration!”
“ For who, Z?”
“ For Roman; He’s hard of hearing.” I reply.
“ It’s true. I am a trifle deaf in this ear.”
“ Indeed.” Spencer slides on contract towards me and folds his hands. “ So will you join Universal Championship Infinite? It’ll be a small contract but you will be compensated. I think we’re getting a sponsor soon.”
You’re goddamn right I am.
____________________________
Chapter IV: Round Won
We were going over a few things, milling around in the blue Honda Acord. Driving around Murdertown, U.S.A. Neither of us had ever really spent time there aside from passing through on a circuit or double header. Frankly speaking, this place wasn’t worth a damn if there was a fuck to give- And Honey Badger ain’t got any fucks to give. We were at a red light when I got the text via BB-6. The message flashed and scrolled across my screen.
ZMAC verse CROWMAC verse Dustin Beaver.
So this is how Spencer Adams wants to do me? Do me dirty like some FGT azz punk bitch? Out me against my Boi like it ain’t in the family honor to kill ya kin. I’d kill the boi for Steven Segals “Sounds from the Crystal Cave” and a crust of bread. And Dustin Beaver; I’m sorry, am I supposed to pretend that dude exists? I know that I’m not supposed to put his gimmick through the ringer but fuck Dustin Beaver. That dude wasn’t worth the shit when he was up in the AHEM- you know where with me and he ain’t going to turn around and be a somebody. Unless we are just playing favorites to win.
Familiarity comes in many forms. Spencer would be good to remember that. Another message came pinging in. It says the match is for a round in the world title tournament.
FUUCCKK that LOL
ZMACS been killin it longer than anyone alive in UCI and these dudes want a tournament? If’n they want change, real change – I’m the guy. I’m the old dog with the fresh face and proven track record to walk up in here and say- FUCK YOU, that’s mine.
Ahem
FUCK YOU UCI
That’s my world title.
Ya’ll just competing for second place scraps to rubs my nuts for good luck on that Rising star joint.
Compared to me, everyone else IS a rising star. I’m the only mother fucker up in here with any name value. That’s why you call upon ol’ Z. Carry a new company into some green presidents. And those bitches do not smell.
Spencer, I’d admire your principles of they were not so misguided.
Money doesn’t smell and this coked up mad man has a cold, ya feel me?
I know you do.
Round one, belongs to ol’ Z. Round two? YUP, mine too. I’m carry this fed on my back. Quick, I’m swim you all the shore,
It can be a new age battle royal and Beaver can be Katniss,
the lame fuck “hero” of the story.
I’d put my dick sooo deep up in that bitch.
Katniss ain’t bad either
LOL
Beaver, I’m coming for you. I’m skull fucking you and I’m curb stomping a bitch dry. This is ZMACS time to shine. If you or anyone thinks you were held back, I’m coming up in UCI with my hands tied. You know Who held me back for the same reason Spencer wants to binds my mouth. I’m a liability.
My words hurts.
It’ll hurt even more when I’m hold that World title above my head.
Beaver, you’re just the guy that gets out the quickest.
But you’re just the first casualty of war.
And it will be epic
LOL
DEUCES BITCH!
Week 1 – 5/22/16
Triple Threat Match
Crow McMorris
v.
Dustin Beaver
v.
Zombie McMorris
________________________________________
Chapter I: Facebook. The Nameless, Faceless Enemy
( A Prologue Prose )
I am sure that you have all heard it on the news and media outlets, how facebook is destroying “fair and balanced news” by suppressing conservative media viewpoints with its archaic algorithms of meritocracy and liberal bias. As if there is some vice president of live tweet feeds that connect the user to the most interesting and relevant content based of off an in depth and complex analysis of that users click bait interests. That would be some next level heavy shit, iff’n that society was not already there.
What is funny about all this, is that it is being reported and lambasted all over media circles. It is ousting bombing, rape, bus accidents, nuclear incidents and a Menudo revival. What it is doing in reality is what all trivial news does ( E.G. all the news). It exists to cover up some congressional bullshit that neither the Left or the Right know anything about to both swear to Jam Willy Hey-Zeus that it is evil and must be stopped ( E.G some mouse with a newly found space fetish feels that what needs to be stopped is interfering with a buck to be made).
And what exactly needs to be stopped? What is so detrimental to the classical conservative free market capitalism ideal? Free public housing; free “higher education”, perhaps? Clean sources of drinking water for states that rhyme with “Wishigan?” Nah son, it ain’t even all of the above.
This is where Steve Harvey calls you a dumb mother fucker on Family Feud.
Nah, what it really is, is this whole “underground fighting ring”
LOL
Now hold the fuck up Tyler Derdin, you whack ass piece of shit. This isn’t about you. Feel free to punch your cock sucker clean in the jaw anytime you damn well feel like. Ain’t no one caring about you. You don’t have no net worth beyond bubblegum pocket lint.
While the news media was out there with picket lines protesting the fair and balanced news sources for the HTML host for Farmville, congress was hard at work passing a bill.
“ The Anti-amateur Combat and Entertainment Sports Bill.”
I know that means nothing to the NFL or the Boxing Commission, even the UFC. It means something to the little guy; to what are affectionately known as “The Indys.”
In this bill, indy promotions are not to expose hyper realistic violence to anyone under the age of 21 or charge admission to see the simulated instances of violence against minorities, women or the destruction of property within a building or property that pays taxes to a land trust government ( Such as a town, state or federal government). In addition to this, taxes were levied against the organizations for just existing; a crushing 82 percent plus having to accommodate performers with free medical access and compensation for time lost. Overnight the entire industry died. Only a few promotions that could handle such a burden, and with that, there were massive layoffs.
This story, MY story picks up between one company ending and a Mexican prison cell for what has been dubbed “The Mexico Incident. ” Now there are many takes on what happened as everyone experienced things differently but all have equally interesting stories.
Except Dustin Beaver, that dude couldn’t tell a story with a speak and spell and a “Mad Libs Greatest Hits book.” But I’ll get to him.
___________________________
Chapter II: The Mexico Incident Pt. 3
Mexico City, Mexico
My ears still rang from the other night. A two squad team ran through the small makeshift arena as me and a few other boys from Wrestling Championship Federation were doing some estranged house-shows off the beaten path of cataloged events. Mainly it was me, Crow, Extreme and Price trying to score drugs booze and women. We succeeded in our ventures but that is not this part in the story.
I rolled over and groaned, having gotten the best four days’ worth of sleep in my current life. The instant replay kept playing in a quagmire’d haze in my mind. The hookers, blow, booze and wrestling; then it all went south. Then the raid and the flash bangs; then nothing. My eyes crept open to soak in an eight by eight cell complete with broken metal toilet and this hard wooden mattress-less bench that lulled my ribs into a quiet breaking slumber. There was enough mold on the walls to make the sandwich if I have a half slice of bread or some BBW Latina ass cheeks. Looking around, this was nicer than home; a dumpster in back of a TJ Maxx but even how I got here was still a deep dark mystery covered in molly, coke, malt and Mexican poon sweat. Fuck it, today is a great day to be alive.
Sitting cracked my back, from the lumbar to the neck. It was a sickening crack but enjoyable like passing a mallet over the length of a Xylophone; one of those joint cracks that you wish you could duplicate but can’t. I tried retracing my steps but these guilty feet have got no rhythm and Honey Badger don’t give a fuck enough to dance to the beat of black out recall and recollection. While this cell might be seen as pure putrid and squalor, this wasn’t no third world shit hole or some death camp. I’ve been to death camps, thrown in pits, Asian Walk-you-till-you-die, camps. I’m like the Bubba Gump of POWs. Shee-it, I ain’t even been to no regular camp. But I tell you what, every time I’m in these situations, I think of roasting marshmallows by the fire. Hell, I might even do that one day,too.
“ Knock, knock.”
Whose there?
“ It’s the plot, you goon.”
Vincent “ Buddy” Roman strolls into view from the left side of the cell and wraps his hands around the cell bars. He was one of the few men that saw the world the way that I saw the world. You know..
I never fell for that shit. I ain’t about that. They all think I’m some fringe lunatic with crazy ideas.
“ Are you ready? We should be going. I paid your bail, don’t chu know.”
“ Wheres everyone else?” I ask with a snort.
“ M.I.A.” Replies Roman.
“ And Crow?”
“ He too is a ghost. Which is for the best at the moment. We have to get back to the states. There’s a task force out here eliminating wrestlers and promotions. Guess while we were in Mexico a lot, lot of shit went down state side and everything is underground. Not that it matters to you but lets just say that I won’t do well in these types of situations. In fact, there are a lot of people who won’t do well in this type of situation. Hell, I only posted bail for you because I had to prove WCF doesn’t actually pay you and that you work for charity, basically. So you’re tax exempt from the law they put in place.”
“ What law?”
“ Next time.. don’t skip the prologue, asshole.”
A Guard walks over and unlocks the cell as Roman takes a step inside.
“Lets go. It’s a long ride to Chicago.” Says Roman with a smile.
__________________________
Chapter III: Chicago. Murdertown, U.S.A
Undisclosed Warehouse. Murdertown, U.S.A
A few days had passed by the time we made it back across into the states and if what he said was true, there was no WCF; my former home. We rumbled around Murdertown, U.S.A, trying to find this warehouse like a blind midget trying to find tits at a house of pancakes. While in the car, Roman handed me back my BlackBerry, BB6; as I call her.
“Here.” He said throwing the phone in my lap. “ I have no idea how to work this damn thing. I think you got a message. It might be God telling you he blew up the dinosaurs. I mean, if you hurry you could phone fuck the virgin Mary.”
“ Ha, been there and done that.” I replied.
“ Serious, I think the dead sea scrolls would be a technological upgrade.” I scroll through my phone my phone and see a message saying that confirmed that WCF was no longer a thing. “ I saved it, you know. Your title.” Indeed he did, my Internet Champion lay in the back seat. The urge to get on Twitter was strong, had to smash the FGT asspoon on that Twitter skip. We kept driving until we pulled up an old run down Dairy Queen. “ I guess this is it. This is what Adams said.” Roman shrugs as we get out of the car. I grab my phone and my belt as we make our way into the building.
“ Yo, you want a bomb pop? Get you a firecracker or something?” I start digging around old freezers but come up empty handed. However, as I was looking for ice cream Roman found an old service elevator in the back room.
“ Do you think the freezers down there?” He asks.
“ Must be.” I reply.
“ What if its an ax murderer?”
“ Den he gone get clip klopped with an axe wound. I mean like, yah man; we saw the movie. You put peoples skin on ya face cuz you so damn ugly your own damn skin don’t even want to be there. Limp dicked faggot.” Roman swats me on the chest.
“ Lets go. Spencer must be down there.”
“ Spencer, Spencer Adams? You told me a friend of a friend had a wresting promotion that went underground.”
“ Guess that was a literally translation.”
DING
We get in the elevator and click the DOWN key.
LOL What? Serious? Fuck yah, George Michaels. We get to the sub-basement and sitting at a desk in a large darkened room with glass walls on the far side is there to greet us. Spencer Adams sat at the desk with a smile on his face.
“ Ah, ZMAC! I’m glad to see you; kinda. I was half in the basket on if I wanted you here considering the controversy you bring. But damn it, I’ll be cursed if that wasn’t attractive. “ We approach Spencer and take a seat in front of him.
“ So whats this about?” I ask with a snort.
“ Terrible things went down and in a couple of weeks a few of the boys set this up; with considerable financial backing. With that said, we’re looking to grow the roster and a man of your unique attributes is well worth the investment. Where as Seth let you do what you want, we won’t let that happen here so theres a couple of ground rules.
1. Fuck you, no racism.
2. No fourth wall breaks.
“ Dick”
3. Don’t go shitting on peoples gimmick and trashing them from behind the scenes. “
The fuck is this shit?
“ So let me get this right. You want ol’ Z to walk up in your fed and NOT be ol’ Z?”
Can you believe this shit?
“ Yah Z, You cant talk to the audience.” Spencer corrects.
“ But I’m pulling a promo.”
“ Z, theres no cameras here. This isn’t Seths office. I don’t video tape things in here.”
I quickly look around the room but when I turn back towards Spencer, I realize the truth.
I now knew what I had to do. I gotta purge the world of all these consumer fuccbois.
“ Now its all the same rules as normal, just a little bit more up your alley.” Spencer continued. “ Little more freedom, violence. Question is, can you do it without your silly crutches?”
The fuck do I look like, Tiny Tim?
“ Ahem.. fourth wall.” Spencer corrects me again.
“ Fuck you, that’s narration!”
“ For who, Z?”
“ For Roman; He’s hard of hearing.” I reply.
“ It’s true. I am a trifle deaf in this ear.”
“ Indeed.” Spencer slides on contract towards me and folds his hands. “ So will you join Universal Championship Infinite? It’ll be a small contract but you will be compensated. I think we’re getting a sponsor soon.”
You’re goddamn right I am.
____________________________
Chapter IV: Round Won
We were going over a few things, milling around in the blue Honda Acord. Driving around Murdertown, U.S.A. Neither of us had ever really spent time there aside from passing through on a circuit or double header. Frankly speaking, this place wasn’t worth a damn if there was a fuck to give- And Honey Badger ain’t got any fucks to give. We were at a red light when I got the text via BB-6. The message flashed and scrolled across my screen.
ZMAC verse CROWMAC verse Dustin Beaver.
So this is how Spencer Adams wants to do me? Do me dirty like some FGT azz punk bitch? Out me against my Boi like it ain’t in the family honor to kill ya kin. I’d kill the boi for Steven Segals “Sounds from the Crystal Cave” and a crust of bread. And Dustin Beaver; I’m sorry, am I supposed to pretend that dude exists? I know that I’m not supposed to put his gimmick through the ringer but fuck Dustin Beaver. That dude wasn’t worth the shit when he was up in the AHEM- you know where with me and he ain’t going to turn around and be a somebody. Unless we are just playing favorites to win.
Familiarity comes in many forms. Spencer would be good to remember that. Another message came pinging in. It says the match is for a round in the world title tournament.
FUUCCKK that LOL
ZMACS been killin it longer than anyone alive in UCI and these dudes want a tournament? If’n they want change, real change – I’m the guy. I’m the old dog with the fresh face and proven track record to walk up in here and say- FUCK YOU, that’s mine.
Ahem
FUCK YOU UCI
That’s my world title.
Ya’ll just competing for second place scraps to rubs my nuts for good luck on that Rising star joint.
Compared to me, everyone else IS a rising star. I’m the only mother fucker up in here with any name value. That’s why you call upon ol’ Z. Carry a new company into some green presidents. And those bitches do not smell.
Spencer, I’d admire your principles of they were not so misguided.
Money doesn’t smell and this coked up mad man has a cold, ya feel me?
I know you do.
Round one, belongs to ol’ Z. Round two? YUP, mine too. I’m carry this fed on my back. Quick, I’m swim you all the shore,
It can be a new age battle royal and Beaver can be Katniss,
the lame fuck “hero” of the story.
I’d put my dick sooo deep up in that bitch.
Katniss ain’t bad either
LOL
Beaver, I’m coming for you. I’m skull fucking you and I’m curb stomping a bitch dry. This is ZMACS time to shine. If you or anyone thinks you were held back, I’m coming up in UCI with my hands tied. You know Who held me back for the same reason Spencer wants to binds my mouth. I’m a liability.
My words hurts.
It’ll hurt even more when I’m hold that World title above my head.
Beaver, you’re just the guy that gets out the quickest.
But you’re just the first casualty of war.
And it will be epic
LOL
DEUCES BITCH!
