"The Ebb And Flow Of The Sanguine Tide/Life's Rich Pageant"
Mar 10, 2015 5:11:57 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Mar 10, 2015 5:11:57 GMT -5
The Glock waved to and fro with respect to the President's cranium. Barry Oak-Bama was distressed, fearful. He offered his damnedest conciliatory gestures. Robert Cairo was confused, disillusioned... a dangerous man acting in a dangerous manner. "This wouldn't be the first time I've murked a Head of State," The Poon Guinean leader thought to himself. And oh sure, the Oval Office had witnessed its fair share of bloodletting over the years, but never with the President hisself as the target-- at least not since those Hillary Rodham years.
"Buh-Buh-Bobby! Please, be reasonable! We can work this out!" Oak-Bama was desperate. Had he truly overcome racial division and corporate blowback to become President of the United States of America, only for it to all come crashing down on an otherwise ordinary day, in an utterly unordinary way, at the hands of a most extraordinary man? Barry's life flashed before his eyes. He thought about all the thousands of times that he had pounded the Michelle Oak-Bama ass poon, mouth poon and poon poon. He thought about covert handjobs galore beneath the tablecloth whilst the First Couple entertained state dinners with dignitaries and diplomats. He thought about how he'd gotten his rocks off during those early drone bombing raids in Pakistan, mere hours after he'd taken the oath of office.
That was when Barry truly knew that he was gonna love being POTUS. But there had been unsavory elements as well since those buoyant early days that seemed to hold so much verve and virtue. The ISIS matter, for one thing... well, it had taken a toll on the President's conscience. He was not great at leading matters of military conflict. Barry was a paint by numbers bureaucrat. He was the type of guy who loved pushing thousands upon thousands of pages of unread legal documents down the throats of bumbling and overworked legislators and twisting their arms to vote YEA. And sure he'd sign the T's and dot the I's when it came time to authorize those drone strikes. He did not, however, care for having to make decisions of global consequence during the heat of battle. Such matters were unquestionably better suited for a leader the caliber of Robert H. Cairo.
Barry considered the irony as he regarded such notions. That same damn Bobby Cairo brandished the firearm that was making Barry so uneasy. Cairo had threatened Oak-Bama before. There was the matter of pushing Poon Guinea's status as a globally recognized sovereign state to the forefront of the United Nations agenda a couple of years back. But back then it was easy enough to calm tensions between Barry and Bobby with promises of a trillion dollar blowjob from those sultry nigress lips of the First Lady. Cairo would agree to such terms and conditions and would even go so far as to quash any efforts by a Republican-led House of Representatives to overturn the Oak-Bamacare legislature. It was a leftist kind of magic; the chemistry between the two Heads of State was pure and true, even if it was borne of mutually beneficial deeds that superseded democratic whims and fancies.
Where had things gone so wrong in their relationship? Bobby paced the Oval Office, his "Where the Yoo-hoo? LMAO" tee shirt rippling under the strain of his Herculean mass, though failing to add levity to the life or death confrontation between the worlds leaders. Cairo's brilliant Jewcranium had been placed under tremendous strain in recent times. Firstly, there was the matter of Baron Samedi invading Poon Guinea with his voodoo tactics and wreaking an untold world of horror and havoc upon the People's Republic. Cairo had fended off invading forces before, whether they had originated from Australia, Somalia, Denmark or even The Future (namely, MAVERICK's army of Terminator cyborgs). But this-- this voodoo concoction? It was plain and cursed heresy of the most HIGH-ANUS order.
Poon Guineans believed in only one kind of higher power (well six if you included the poon, the weed, the dope, the blow, and the Popeyes Chicken and Biscuits): Above all else, they believed in the supreme power of their Lord and Savior Jam Willy Jesus. Jam Willy stood tall and proud as the spiritual conscience of a Commutarian nation, and until recent times no one had objected to this arrangement-- however, His powers were now being challenged by the ongoing conflict with Samedi. It would be a Godfatherdamn tragedy if the forces of evil should prevail during this impromptu Armageddon, and Cairo simply wasn't going to stand for it. Bobby had spilled blood, sweat and jizz to ensure the sanctity of hallowed Poon Guinea soil. Pantheon had fallen in his wake. The Pack had fallen in his wake. The Vapor Kings had fallen in his wake. Sarah Twilight had been abruptly kicked to the curb during its time as Dub See Eff owner, amid fears of being sprung from his-or-her Uranus by that Prime Thickness.
Time and again these forces would rise, strive for relevance, declare their status as something more than midcard jobber fodder, only to be crushed under The Godfather's Golden Shitkicker Boots once again. Such victorious conquests used to give Bobby a boner, but somewhere along the way they became tedious. They became old hat. Defeating such hapless foes was akin to proclaiming one's hatred for Nickelback or Justin Bieber or other somesuch Canadian mongoloidisms that had been propagated upon a worldwide audience: It was simply redundant. Robert Cairo had matters of a far more grave concern to which he must tend.
Securing his nation was Bobby's most immediate objective, though even that was the tip of the iceberg. There was also the matter of advancing the international sociopolitical means of his Magnum Opus: Liberation. Poon Guinea, though a powerful bargaining chip in its own right, was but Square One in Cairo's Pax Poonmericana. The Worlds Championship that Bobby captured at Timebomb? That was power. That was strength. That was Robert Cairo fleXXXing his most irrepressible muscle of all for the world to admire, that thickness that had started this whole liberation protocol in the first Godfatherdamn place.
The Worlds Championship had to be protected at all costs, and Cairo was not going to let it slip through his hands. Not after the nine years of toil and sacrifice that it took for him to get that belt back into his rugged Uzbeki clobbering paws. It didn't matter what New New Pantheon wanted. It didn't matter what the Vapor Kings wanted. And indeed it did not matter what a rat bastard from the FCC named Jonah Worth wanted. These were simply further obstacles for The Godfather to overcome, and he would do so in short order by the good grace of Jam Willy.
And as sure as it had been told, Cairo was indeed cited as a reason for why Slam was not being broadcast, FCC protocols deeming the Dub See Eff product unfit to be spectated by the American nuclear family. Well, then why shouldn't The Poon Guinea Governor march into the President of the United States' office and resolve such matters with a problem solver named Revolver? Technically, it was a customized fully automatic, but who was sweating them semantical bullets, other than President Oak-Bama? Indeed, this style of strong-arm tactic typified the Poon Guinean Way. You thought Montana loved its guns? Come to Poon Guinea, his children. The NRA be packin' potato pellets compared to what the average Poon Guinea newborn wields straight out the poon basin.
Barry Oak knew this to be true. Under the specter of the weight of the world, a tearful and pleading Oak-Bama knelt before the great Poon Guinean leader. Barry whispered in cooing tones, salty droplets rippling from beyond his eyelids. "Buh-Buh-Bobby, please!" Barry tugged on Cairo's Zubaz, trying to reason with the Commutarian, trying to offer him concessions and appeasements, but what would it truly amount to? Tear-soaked pleading and a shiny new ruble would get Oak-Bama a kuppeh kawfee and little else 'round The Godfather's way.
Cairo was stone-faced, unmoved by Oak-Bama's whimpering. "I could skull-fuck you in the here and now, Oak-Bama, and it would kill you just as efficiently as these bullets, but I'm not feeling of the faggot persuasion today. And anyway, you aren't my type. I prefer the Brazilian and Thai transacked poon."
"Great! Great!" Oak-Bama declared as he damn near jizzed whilst springing to his feet. "I can arrange that for you with one phone call! You see that red phone on my desk, that rotary style joint? Bobby--BOBBB BEEEEEE! That phone is used to call in nuclear strikes when rogue nations such as Canada and Denmark act up. You remember when Reagan dropped the bomb on Copenhagen? That's the shit he used to call in the orders. But for you? I can turn that phone into a sexline, Bobby." Oak-Bama flashed those big, brown, pleading, puppy dog eyes. "Trillion dollah blowjob, my friend?"
Cairo pimp slapped Oak-Bama with the pearl-on-poon handle of his Glock. Barry fell to the floor in a heap, blood gushing from his, no-doubt, broken nose. "You gotta be outta yo damn mind, Barry. You wish to bribe me with sexual favors? I RUN THE FUCKIN' GLOBAL SEX RACKET! MY JIZZ PUTS MONEY IN YOUR POCKETS, MUDDAFUKKA! You think when Jay Omega is spoutin' off at the mouth about some pseudo-science fiction bullshit he's making bank for a Barry Oak-Bama or a Seth Lerch? I'm the one puttin' money in pockets, son! I'm the Rainmaker, the Crucible, the Impetus, and yes--I'm that Godfatherdamn albatross around ya neck when ya act a fool!"
"But, but, but, Buh-Buh-Buh-Bobby!" Oak-Bama wailed like a bitch who just got served... cuz dat's what he be.
"SHUT-TUP!" Cairo sent a furious flurry of kicks into Oak-Bama's ribs, tenderizing them shits as if he was about to throw 'em on a grill. "You do not speak when I'm droppin' science on ya goofy ass, ya Bryant Gumbel lookin' jobbah! You only exist out here because of me, not cha dick suckin, Socialist rhetoric spoutin, gun grabbin, Oak-Bamacare bumblin jibbah jabbah, ya clown shoe! You wanna live? You wanna live to see yo daughters get married to the thick? You better pick up that same damn poon-whetted sexline and put in a call to ya boy, Barry!"
The barrel of the Glock was pointed squarely at the temple of Barry Oak-Bama's noggin. Oak-Bama fumbled for his words, tried to dig deep inside hisself to muster up the courage to speak, tried to avoid thinking about the consequences... tried to avoid thinking about Sasha and Malia. "I, uh, Bobby--" Oak-Bama stammered. "I don't know exactly what you want me to do. Please, just explain it to me in terms that I can understand."
A Robert Hercules Cairo was furious. He was beside himself with rage. The Godfather was so pissed off that he took a deep breath and he smiled that raptorous and beaming ode to the poon, because really... what else could he do? He was beyond scowling. He was beyond screaming. He was beyond yelling. His head was damn near ready to asplode, and not that downstairs head neither. Cairo dropped to his knees, knelt next to Oak-Bama's prone body on the carpeted Oval Office floor and practically whispered his terms and conditions into the President's ear.
"You better call your boy Jonah Worth, that scum-sucking bureaucratic leech, and get this shit squared away, Barry. I have had it up to here--" Cairo thrust the Glock thusly, effectively uppercutting Oak-Bama in his Presidential jaw. "With the FCC and its nonsense. There's two very important messages that need to be broadcast to the WCF Loyal. Firstly, my Worlds Championship address. I've been waiting nine years to address the world as its champion, Barry. I want the world to hear what I have to say. I want the world to hear my declaration of war upon all that is unthick and capitalistic. I could only wager so much as a mere Worlds Championship contender, Barry. Now that I have the belt? Now that I am CHAMP-YUN... I control all of the chips within the prism of my Uzbeki clobbering paws.
"Can you understand what that means, Barry, as you yelp like a dying lamb? Can you understand what it means to breathe the breath of a free man, a true leader, rather than that of a puppet on a string, a... dancing monkey, as it were?" Cairo sneered at America's first African-American President and observed as his double entendre stung Oak-Bama as much as the physical damage that had been levied. "When you're thinking about that, shoeshine boy, I want you to think about something else. This isn't just about me wanting the world to hear me gloat about a dominant and resounding Poondock Saints victory over the Vapor Kings at Timebomb. I want the world to see something else, Barry."
Cairo licked his lips and flashed a wry grin. The blood trickled down Oak-Bama's face as he alternated between groans and sobs. "No, no, Barry, shhh-shhh-shhh. Listen to me. My words could save your life. Listen to me, you fuckin doorman, or I'll blow your fuckin head off right now! I want the world to see Pantheon's sad, shameful and absolutely disgraceful attempt to rehash an old brand using the members of my personal job squad. The Dub See Eff Loyal need to see this shit, Barry. The left-wing, the right-wing and everyone in between, they all need to see the clap trap that Corey and Jayson be peddlin'. The people need to understand that they've been sold a false bill of goods. They need to understand that we're living in dark times.
"You think about that, Barry. I'm not just talking about Oak-Bamacare, Oak-Bamanomics, a failed War on Terror, a perpetual and pervasive NSA surveillance state. No, no, son. I'm talking about Corey Black claiming relevance without having them Jonny Fly coattails to ride on no more. I'm talking about Jayson Price puffing up his frail and concaved chest whilst sucking Jay Omega's nonexistent unit. I'm talkin' about Chelsea Armstrong and that goofball Scarecrow trying to shoehorn their way into a main event scene that they have absolutely no basis for staking a claim to. Them crackaish jobbahs might as well change they names to Doc Henry, cuz that's the same shit he used to pull when he was challenging Tort to a match every five minutes on Twitter.
"And an Alexander Richards? Who the fuck opened the door and let Alexander Richards into the Panty-on reunion party? That's when I knew they really fucked up, Barry. You wanna gain respect and credibility so you recruit a bloated up, Down Syndrome Frankenstein lookin' muddafukka wit a bobblehead and an insatiable thirst for pisswater Zimquila? That's a joke, Barry. That's a fukkin comedy scene right there, and Pantheon are the only ones too dumb to understand that they're the punchline."
Barry halted his whimpering long enough to raise his brow toward Bobby in a questioning glare. "The Pack and Cory Scarecrow... furrealz, my nigguh? After all that hype, that's who Pantheon recruited to join they shit? Is you fawkin kiddin me?"
Cairo studied Oak-Bama's bemused condition and then smirked at the President. "Dead men tell no lies, eh, Barry? Even a gentleman who finds himself in your precarious predicament can see the absurdity of a watered down product being repackaged for mass consumption to a bonehead audience. Now do you understand what must be done?"
"No Jonny Fukkin Fly? Yeah, I understand that, Bobby. I understand that that's fawkin horse shit!" Oak-Bama shot up to a seated position on the floor and climbed to his feet, using his desk for leverage.
Cairo remained knelt on the floor, not worried at all about how Barry might react, not even looking at the President. As Cairo saw it, Oak-Bama's options were simple and the consequences of making the wrong decision were permanent... indeed, lethal. Cairo tapped the barrel of the Glock upon his wondrous Semitic noggin and shrugged his heaving shoulders in a resigned manner. Bobby was at peace with whatever the President decided. Would Oak-Bama feel the same way? Cairo waxed poetic on that Jew wisdom tip. "The people need to see this shit, Barry. I've laid out my argument in the most plain-spoken terms that I am capable of. Are you gonna make the things happen that I need you to make happen or am I gonna splatter that shit that you call brains all over this Oval Office?"
Oak-Bama's gutless willingness to appease was apparent. He wasted no time in making his decision abundantly clear to the Poon Guinea Governor. Barry cleared his throat and spun that old-timey rotary dial on the red Denmark Destroy sexline. It took a good thirty seconds to finish dialing cuz them rotary shits was... they was a pain in the ass, wuddn't they? The line began to ring as an anxious President Oak-Bama held the receiver to his ear. "Jo-Jo-Jonah? This is President Barry Jay Oak-Bama! Yes, yes, of course you know it's me, no one else has access to this line. I, uh-- listen, Jonah, aha! I need you to do me a favor, OK? Do a favor for old Barry, will ya?" Oak-Bama paused and waited with a bated breath as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line.
Finally, the President pressed forward with his most urgent request. "Jonah, I need you to call off the dogs on that WCF organization, huh? Yeah, the Pennsylvania rasslin' company. Let them have their little Slam broadcast. What does it really matter to us at the end of the day? I just think we have bigger fish to fry right now, what with the implementation of these new Net Neutrality regulations and such." Barry paused, listened, and then spoke again. "Yeah, yeah, it's a damned bureaucracy, but it pays the bills, doughnut?! Haha! Yeah, I'll talk to you later, buddy! Thanks a trillion! I owe ya! I love you, too. Bye."
A relieved President Oak-Bama placed the receiver of the phone down onto the base. He glanced at The Godfather. "Bobby, it has been done. Slam will be broadcast tonight in its usual primetime slot, albeit a few days later than usual. It will preempt that new Total Sluts program featuring Ana Valentine and Kaylyn James Evans, which will in turn be relegated to the Dub See Eff Network for only eight-eighty-eight a month."
"Isn't Anastasia Petrova in that joint too, Barry?" Bobby queried as he plopped into a chair in front of Oak-Bama's desk and placed his Golden Shitkicker Boots upon the desk.
"I believe so, yes, Bobby." The President nodded his head in affirmation and wiped the blood and tears from his face with the silk kerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket.
"Man, I tell you, Barry, I'm a mark for that new pro-Putin gimmick of hers, but I think we made the right call, didn't we? There's plenty of time for sluts in this world. Right now we need some enlightenment, don't cha think? Because for as much as we love to squirt our goo, that muscle between our legs ain't worth a Godfatherdamn without the muscle between our ears being in peak form. Oh Barry, I'm so glad we could reach a peaceable resolution. Do you really think I wanted to murk you?"
The President flashed a modest smile and then laughed uneasily as he glanced at Cairo. "I, uh, I cannot help but notice that you're still wielding that firearm, Bobby. Is there a, uh... is there a reason for that? I've done precisely what you've asked me to do."
Cairo ran the fingers of his free, non-Glock wielding hand through those coal black linguine modules of Poon Guinean origin. Bobby's gubernatorial mane flowed freely, majestically down the back of the leather office chair upon which he was seated. Cairo did not look at Oak-Bama. He did not have to. He did not have to because as soon as that Glock could be holstered to his thick, The Godfather of Professional Wrestling leaped into the air, grabbed hold of the President's head and neck and drove the Leader of the Free World through his own Godfatherdamn desk with an--
/AWW KY ROOOOWWWWWW OUTTA NO-WYAH!!
There was nary a sound to be heard once the deed had been done, save for the rockets that zoomed toward the White House courtesy of those ISIS militants. You know how it goes in the nation's capital. It was the standard daily fare in D.C., and perhaps that's why no one noticed when the President was carried out of his office by a group of strapping, A-Rab lookin' nigguhs wearing lime green colored TMNT footsy pajamas. As Oak-Bama was carried out of The Oval Office, and his desk was replaced by some marble-laden imported Italian joint, an eerily familiar face brushed past the deposed President whilst walking into the office.
"Roger!" Bobby beckoned to the figure in the Presidential looking suit. To the un-nuanced observer it might appear as though Cairo was talking to a more dapperly dressed version of himself, but this was not quite the case. Roger was in fact Bobby's older though nearly identical looking brother, a former laborer who had grown to amass vast power of his own whilst acting as Bobby's political doppelganger. When Bobby could not serve in his capacity as Mayor of New York City due to "outside commitments"? Roger was there. When Bobby could not serve as Governor of Poon Guinea due to similar reasoning? Roger was there. And when Bobby waylaid the President of the United States and needed someone to stand in whilst wearing a remarkably lifelike Oak-Bama mask?
"I am here, my brother," Roger assured Bobby. "May I ask why you did not kill him altogether instead of merely rendering him unconscious and holding him captive?"
"He may prove useful to our cause just yet, Rog. I know of your thirst for bloodshed and I admire it, yet I cannot help but think that holding onto some living assets could prove invaluable."
"Oak-Bama is merely a puppet, Bobby." Roger frowned as he skewered his younger brother's logic. "What value can he possibly offer to our cause?"
Cairo flashed a shit-eating grin as he wrapped his broad Poon Guinean arm around his elder brother's equally broad Poon Guinean shoulder, and pulled him in close. "Don't you see, Rog? That's the beauty of it. We've got ourselves what's known in hostage taking circles as... collateral. We'll use Barry for what we can, then we'll make him our fall guy when the time comes. If Oak-Bama holds any value to us at all, it's as a rat fink. A snitch. A... " Bobby smiled broadly before speaking his next words. "A Scarecrow. He might not know everything, but he knows enough to damage their cause. Just as Scarecrow is feeding us information about the inner workings of Pantheon? Oak-Bama will feed us information about Them, Roger."
"The Lerchuminati?" Roger queried.
"Indeed, Roger. The Lerchuminati and their entire capitalist infrastructure, right down to the bulwark of the Federal Communications Commission. Why simply grind their gears when we can infiltrate the belly of the beast and annilhilate their very foundation? We've been playing this game for far too long, my man. We've been playing this game on a worlds stage. What is life? Is it being a puppet? Is it pushing dope? Is it rehashing long since dead and irrelevent wrestling factions? That's what the Corey Blacks and Jayson Allen Prices would have us believe." Cairo heaved a deep and angered sigh as he stroked his Revolutionary Style Beard and gazed outside to the White House lawn, green as an emerald though littered with combatants of a ceaseless and debilitating war.
"I cannot possibly muster an understanding of what it means to live in their world, Roger. I cannot fathom it. I've spent oh so many years observing the ebb and flow of the sanguine tide, the bloodletting of professional wrestling rings, corporate boardrooms and battlefields. Men in suits and ties, Roger, white men with an axe to grind. They run all of this shit." Bobby revved his index finger and gave it a twirl, as if indicating not just the confines of the White House compound, but indeed the world-at-large. "Life's rich pageant is little more than a shit show for the unthinking masses to gawk at. This is why a Kanye West outburst at an awards show draws more mainstream attention than all of the suffering and famine in the heart of Africa.
"This is why a dress, a muddafukkin dress stirs up more debate than all of the police shootings and drone bombings in the whole of our global community, Roger. You know this, my man. You know that those Godfatherforsaken wolves will sink their teeth into the working class and bleed them dry for every last bottom down dollah they can muster. It's all about the illusion of choice. The illusion of progress. The illusion of freedom. Pantheon? Oh, they're part of it, Roger."
Bobby sat down in that creamery colored leather office chair and kicked his feet upon the desk once more. Roger assumed his Presidential power position behind the desk, claiming that Oak-Bama throne for hisself, though not yet pulling the mask over his head. Why would he? For the moment, there were simply two brothers chatting and they were both in on the scheme to save the world from itself. Roger listened to his brother's diatribe, recognizing that the younger Cairo was world wise and wary of the corporatist claptrap, far more than most of his contemporaries, even more so than many of his elders.
"For the low, low price of your mortal soul you too can abandon Jam Willy Jesus and all that is decent and fall in line to that Baron Samedi worship posture. And if that's not to your liking?" Bobby mustered up his best voice-over sales pitch voice as he cut loose on his diatribe. "'Hey kids, steal your parents' car and their credit cards and drive down to your local Hot Topic! We got dem Pantheon tee shirts and all the rest o' dat fly Pantheon gear at LOW LOW PRICES! Get it? FLY gear? HAHA! Low PRICEs? HAHA! MONEY! MONEY! GIVE US MONEEEEEH!'"
Bobby shook his Godfatherdamn head at the tragedy of it all as Roger looked on in silence, the elder Cairo's feet propped upon the desk just as his younger brother's were, hands folded in his lap, ears piqued and attentive to Bobby's rant. "Some great reward, huh, Rog? For a lifetime of toil we can become part and parcel to their billion dollar bonanza. And where does it leave us? Without a pot to piss in. Without a hole to drop a Jay Omega in. Jay fuckin' Omega... JAY FUCKIN OMEGA." Cairo sneered as he regarded the reigning Dub See Eff Hardcore Champion. "The Hardcore Title on Jay Omega is like an eight inch thick on a pale, Canadian virgin who ain't ever gonna smash the poon in the first GODFATHERDAMN place: Totally fawkin useless, my man." Cairo damn near hocked a loogie in disgust, but reconsidered out of respect for his brother's new workspace.
Nevertheless, those pure embers of Hebrew fire churned behind Bobby's irises. That sapphire tinged flame that had sparked the brushfires of revolution, rose to the heights of a raging inferno whilst The Godfather unleashed his torrent of vitriol. "I'm gonna rewrite the rules of this mawfawkin match at XIII. Oh yes, I am, Rog. I'm gonna beat Omega and Beckman and take both those belts home to Poon Guinea just so I can bring some respectability back to the shit. First, DVS Dan Van Invisible Man disrespects the Hardcore Strap by winnin' it-- now a Jay Omega is slimin' her mangina juice all over that shit? Fukkin White Bread 'R Us Hardcore Chumps up in hurr. What happened to the days of Hardcore Champions who would murk a nigga in cold blood just for castin' a half-faggot stare in their direction, men such as SwitchFever, Phillip Baines, Slickie T and Nathan Von Liebert?
"These muddufukkas today be walkin' around with a Hardcore Belt like it's an accessory to their handbags and heels. Straight up fukkin disrespect. You know somethin, Rog, now that you're El Presidente and such you might wanna call in the National Guard at that ECDub Arena cuz we gonna have a national tragedy on our hands, my brother. Drum up all dem Jayson Allen Price lookin niggas and get ready for a Kent State style Bobby Cairo murkin spree. And hell-- once I'm done with ICE and Omega Man you can send in them military niggas to get their comeuppance to boot. Weekend warriahs gonna get straight up GAWT just cuz it's a Friday night and I need that light workout before I start smashin dem Philly bitches in dey ass poons, ear poons, skull poons and wherevah da fukk else a GawdFadduh feels like."
Roger's stony veneer finally gave way to uproarious laughter as he rose to his feet. Bobby did the same. The Brothers Cairo embraced as Roger slipped the Oak-Bama mask over his elder Jewcranium.
"I've missed Jew, brother."
"And I've missed Jew."
"Let's murk dem jobbahs."
"XIII ways to an ass poon smashin?"
"On that ebbin' and flowin' sanguine tide, brother. Life's rich pageant... a thick up the ass and a Vaypuh Packtheon bum bitin' the mat. The spoils of sin. Some great reward for the unthick jobbahisms they done committed."
And the Brothers Cairo toasted. "HAIL POON GUINEA!" And the Poonglourious Vodka flowed through the Oval Office all the way to ECDub Arena. The Brothers Cairo had put the shoeshine boys, the doormen and the garbage collectors on notice. It didn't really matter if you fought tooth and nail and spilled your blood, sweat and jism. Because at the end of the day? If you were on the wrong side of the battle lines? You were gettin' GAWT. Pulled under by that sanguine tide. Another victim for the shit show. A puppet on a string. There would be no Magnum Opus: Liberation in your future. Just them illusions of choice, progress, freedom for your braindead head, claptrapped in a corporatist hell... XIII ways to an ass poon smashed.
"Buh-Buh-Bobby! Please, be reasonable! We can work this out!" Oak-Bama was desperate. Had he truly overcome racial division and corporate blowback to become President of the United States of America, only for it to all come crashing down on an otherwise ordinary day, in an utterly unordinary way, at the hands of a most extraordinary man? Barry's life flashed before his eyes. He thought about all the thousands of times that he had pounded the Michelle Oak-Bama ass poon, mouth poon and poon poon. He thought about covert handjobs galore beneath the tablecloth whilst the First Couple entertained state dinners with dignitaries and diplomats. He thought about how he'd gotten his rocks off during those early drone bombing raids in Pakistan, mere hours after he'd taken the oath of office.
That was when Barry truly knew that he was gonna love being POTUS. But there had been unsavory elements as well since those buoyant early days that seemed to hold so much verve and virtue. The ISIS matter, for one thing... well, it had taken a toll on the President's conscience. He was not great at leading matters of military conflict. Barry was a paint by numbers bureaucrat. He was the type of guy who loved pushing thousands upon thousands of pages of unread legal documents down the throats of bumbling and overworked legislators and twisting their arms to vote YEA. And sure he'd sign the T's and dot the I's when it came time to authorize those drone strikes. He did not, however, care for having to make decisions of global consequence during the heat of battle. Such matters were unquestionably better suited for a leader the caliber of Robert H. Cairo.
Barry considered the irony as he regarded such notions. That same damn Bobby Cairo brandished the firearm that was making Barry so uneasy. Cairo had threatened Oak-Bama before. There was the matter of pushing Poon Guinea's status as a globally recognized sovereign state to the forefront of the United Nations agenda a couple of years back. But back then it was easy enough to calm tensions between Barry and Bobby with promises of a trillion dollar blowjob from those sultry nigress lips of the First Lady. Cairo would agree to such terms and conditions and would even go so far as to quash any efforts by a Republican-led House of Representatives to overturn the Oak-Bamacare legislature. It was a leftist kind of magic; the chemistry between the two Heads of State was pure and true, even if it was borne of mutually beneficial deeds that superseded democratic whims and fancies.
Where had things gone so wrong in their relationship? Bobby paced the Oval Office, his "Where the Yoo-hoo? LMAO" tee shirt rippling under the strain of his Herculean mass, though failing to add levity to the life or death confrontation between the worlds leaders. Cairo's brilliant Jewcranium had been placed under tremendous strain in recent times. Firstly, there was the matter of Baron Samedi invading Poon Guinea with his voodoo tactics and wreaking an untold world of horror and havoc upon the People's Republic. Cairo had fended off invading forces before, whether they had originated from Australia, Somalia, Denmark or even The Future (namely, MAVERICK's army of Terminator cyborgs). But this-- this voodoo concoction? It was plain and cursed heresy of the most HIGH-ANUS order.
Poon Guineans believed in only one kind of higher power (well six if you included the poon, the weed, the dope, the blow, and the Popeyes Chicken and Biscuits): Above all else, they believed in the supreme power of their Lord and Savior Jam Willy Jesus. Jam Willy stood tall and proud as the spiritual conscience of a Commutarian nation, and until recent times no one had objected to this arrangement-- however, His powers were now being challenged by the ongoing conflict with Samedi. It would be a Godfatherdamn tragedy if the forces of evil should prevail during this impromptu Armageddon, and Cairo simply wasn't going to stand for it. Bobby had spilled blood, sweat and jizz to ensure the sanctity of hallowed Poon Guinea soil. Pantheon had fallen in his wake. The Pack had fallen in his wake. The Vapor Kings had fallen in his wake. Sarah Twilight had been abruptly kicked to the curb during its time as Dub See Eff owner, amid fears of being sprung from his-or-her Uranus by that Prime Thickness.
Time and again these forces would rise, strive for relevance, declare their status as something more than midcard jobber fodder, only to be crushed under The Godfather's Golden Shitkicker Boots once again. Such victorious conquests used to give Bobby a boner, but somewhere along the way they became tedious. They became old hat. Defeating such hapless foes was akin to proclaiming one's hatred for Nickelback or Justin Bieber or other somesuch Canadian mongoloidisms that had been propagated upon a worldwide audience: It was simply redundant. Robert Cairo had matters of a far more grave concern to which he must tend.
Securing his nation was Bobby's most immediate objective, though even that was the tip of the iceberg. There was also the matter of advancing the international sociopolitical means of his Magnum Opus: Liberation. Poon Guinea, though a powerful bargaining chip in its own right, was but Square One in Cairo's Pax Poonmericana. The Worlds Championship that Bobby captured at Timebomb? That was power. That was strength. That was Robert Cairo fleXXXing his most irrepressible muscle of all for the world to admire, that thickness that had started this whole liberation protocol in the first Godfatherdamn place.
The Worlds Championship had to be protected at all costs, and Cairo was not going to let it slip through his hands. Not after the nine years of toil and sacrifice that it took for him to get that belt back into his rugged Uzbeki clobbering paws. It didn't matter what New New Pantheon wanted. It didn't matter what the Vapor Kings wanted. And indeed it did not matter what a rat bastard from the FCC named Jonah Worth wanted. These were simply further obstacles for The Godfather to overcome, and he would do so in short order by the good grace of Jam Willy.
And as sure as it had been told, Cairo was indeed cited as a reason for why Slam was not being broadcast, FCC protocols deeming the Dub See Eff product unfit to be spectated by the American nuclear family. Well, then why shouldn't The Poon Guinea Governor march into the President of the United States' office and resolve such matters with a problem solver named Revolver? Technically, it was a customized fully automatic, but who was sweating them semantical bullets, other than President Oak-Bama? Indeed, this style of strong-arm tactic typified the Poon Guinean Way. You thought Montana loved its guns? Come to Poon Guinea, his children. The NRA be packin' potato pellets compared to what the average Poon Guinea newborn wields straight out the poon basin.
Barry Oak knew this to be true. Under the specter of the weight of the world, a tearful and pleading Oak-Bama knelt before the great Poon Guinean leader. Barry whispered in cooing tones, salty droplets rippling from beyond his eyelids. "Buh-Buh-Bobby, please!" Barry tugged on Cairo's Zubaz, trying to reason with the Commutarian, trying to offer him concessions and appeasements, but what would it truly amount to? Tear-soaked pleading and a shiny new ruble would get Oak-Bama a kuppeh kawfee and little else 'round The Godfather's way.
Cairo was stone-faced, unmoved by Oak-Bama's whimpering. "I could skull-fuck you in the here and now, Oak-Bama, and it would kill you just as efficiently as these bullets, but I'm not feeling of the faggot persuasion today. And anyway, you aren't my type. I prefer the Brazilian and Thai transacked poon."
"Great! Great!" Oak-Bama declared as he damn near jizzed whilst springing to his feet. "I can arrange that for you with one phone call! You see that red phone on my desk, that rotary style joint? Bobby--BOBBB BEEEEEE! That phone is used to call in nuclear strikes when rogue nations such as Canada and Denmark act up. You remember when Reagan dropped the bomb on Copenhagen? That's the shit he used to call in the orders. But for you? I can turn that phone into a sexline, Bobby." Oak-Bama flashed those big, brown, pleading, puppy dog eyes. "Trillion dollah blowjob, my friend?"
Cairo pimp slapped Oak-Bama with the pearl-on-poon handle of his Glock. Barry fell to the floor in a heap, blood gushing from his, no-doubt, broken nose. "You gotta be outta yo damn mind, Barry. You wish to bribe me with sexual favors? I RUN THE FUCKIN' GLOBAL SEX RACKET! MY JIZZ PUTS MONEY IN YOUR POCKETS, MUDDAFUKKA! You think when Jay Omega is spoutin' off at the mouth about some pseudo-science fiction bullshit he's making bank for a Barry Oak-Bama or a Seth Lerch? I'm the one puttin' money in pockets, son! I'm the Rainmaker, the Crucible, the Impetus, and yes--I'm that Godfatherdamn albatross around ya neck when ya act a fool!"
"But, but, but, Buh-Buh-Buh-Bobby!" Oak-Bama wailed like a bitch who just got served... cuz dat's what he be.
"SHUT-TUP!" Cairo sent a furious flurry of kicks into Oak-Bama's ribs, tenderizing them shits as if he was about to throw 'em on a grill. "You do not speak when I'm droppin' science on ya goofy ass, ya Bryant Gumbel lookin' jobbah! You only exist out here because of me, not cha dick suckin, Socialist rhetoric spoutin, gun grabbin, Oak-Bamacare bumblin jibbah jabbah, ya clown shoe! You wanna live? You wanna live to see yo daughters get married to the thick? You better pick up that same damn poon-whetted sexline and put in a call to ya boy, Barry!"
The barrel of the Glock was pointed squarely at the temple of Barry Oak-Bama's noggin. Oak-Bama fumbled for his words, tried to dig deep inside hisself to muster up the courage to speak, tried to avoid thinking about the consequences... tried to avoid thinking about Sasha and Malia. "I, uh, Bobby--" Oak-Bama stammered. "I don't know exactly what you want me to do. Please, just explain it to me in terms that I can understand."
A Robert Hercules Cairo was furious. He was beside himself with rage. The Godfather was so pissed off that he took a deep breath and he smiled that raptorous and beaming ode to the poon, because really... what else could he do? He was beyond scowling. He was beyond screaming. He was beyond yelling. His head was damn near ready to asplode, and not that downstairs head neither. Cairo dropped to his knees, knelt next to Oak-Bama's prone body on the carpeted Oval Office floor and practically whispered his terms and conditions into the President's ear.
"You better call your boy Jonah Worth, that scum-sucking bureaucratic leech, and get this shit squared away, Barry. I have had it up to here--" Cairo thrust the Glock thusly, effectively uppercutting Oak-Bama in his Presidential jaw. "With the FCC and its nonsense. There's two very important messages that need to be broadcast to the WCF Loyal. Firstly, my Worlds Championship address. I've been waiting nine years to address the world as its champion, Barry. I want the world to hear what I have to say. I want the world to hear my declaration of war upon all that is unthick and capitalistic. I could only wager so much as a mere Worlds Championship contender, Barry. Now that I have the belt? Now that I am CHAMP-YUN... I control all of the chips within the prism of my Uzbeki clobbering paws.
"Can you understand what that means, Barry, as you yelp like a dying lamb? Can you understand what it means to breathe the breath of a free man, a true leader, rather than that of a puppet on a string, a... dancing monkey, as it were?" Cairo sneered at America's first African-American President and observed as his double entendre stung Oak-Bama as much as the physical damage that had been levied. "When you're thinking about that, shoeshine boy, I want you to think about something else. This isn't just about me wanting the world to hear me gloat about a dominant and resounding Poondock Saints victory over the Vapor Kings at Timebomb. I want the world to see something else, Barry."
Cairo licked his lips and flashed a wry grin. The blood trickled down Oak-Bama's face as he alternated between groans and sobs. "No, no, Barry, shhh-shhh-shhh. Listen to me. My words could save your life. Listen to me, you fuckin doorman, or I'll blow your fuckin head off right now! I want the world to see Pantheon's sad, shameful and absolutely disgraceful attempt to rehash an old brand using the members of my personal job squad. The Dub See Eff Loyal need to see this shit, Barry. The left-wing, the right-wing and everyone in between, they all need to see the clap trap that Corey and Jayson be peddlin'. The people need to understand that they've been sold a false bill of goods. They need to understand that we're living in dark times.
"You think about that, Barry. I'm not just talking about Oak-Bamacare, Oak-Bamanomics, a failed War on Terror, a perpetual and pervasive NSA surveillance state. No, no, son. I'm talking about Corey Black claiming relevance without having them Jonny Fly coattails to ride on no more. I'm talking about Jayson Price puffing up his frail and concaved chest whilst sucking Jay Omega's nonexistent unit. I'm talkin' about Chelsea Armstrong and that goofball Scarecrow trying to shoehorn their way into a main event scene that they have absolutely no basis for staking a claim to. Them crackaish jobbahs might as well change they names to Doc Henry, cuz that's the same shit he used to pull when he was challenging Tort to a match every five minutes on Twitter.
"And an Alexander Richards? Who the fuck opened the door and let Alexander Richards into the Panty-on reunion party? That's when I knew they really fucked up, Barry. You wanna gain respect and credibility so you recruit a bloated up, Down Syndrome Frankenstein lookin' muddafukka wit a bobblehead and an insatiable thirst for pisswater Zimquila? That's a joke, Barry. That's a fukkin comedy scene right there, and Pantheon are the only ones too dumb to understand that they're the punchline."
Barry halted his whimpering long enough to raise his brow toward Bobby in a questioning glare. "The Pack and Cory Scarecrow... furrealz, my nigguh? After all that hype, that's who Pantheon recruited to join they shit? Is you fawkin kiddin me?"
Cairo studied Oak-Bama's bemused condition and then smirked at the President. "Dead men tell no lies, eh, Barry? Even a gentleman who finds himself in your precarious predicament can see the absurdity of a watered down product being repackaged for mass consumption to a bonehead audience. Now do you understand what must be done?"
"No Jonny Fukkin Fly? Yeah, I understand that, Bobby. I understand that that's fawkin horse shit!" Oak-Bama shot up to a seated position on the floor and climbed to his feet, using his desk for leverage.
Cairo remained knelt on the floor, not worried at all about how Barry might react, not even looking at the President. As Cairo saw it, Oak-Bama's options were simple and the consequences of making the wrong decision were permanent... indeed, lethal. Cairo tapped the barrel of the Glock upon his wondrous Semitic noggin and shrugged his heaving shoulders in a resigned manner. Bobby was at peace with whatever the President decided. Would Oak-Bama feel the same way? Cairo waxed poetic on that Jew wisdom tip. "The people need to see this shit, Barry. I've laid out my argument in the most plain-spoken terms that I am capable of. Are you gonna make the things happen that I need you to make happen or am I gonna splatter that shit that you call brains all over this Oval Office?"
Oak-Bama's gutless willingness to appease was apparent. He wasted no time in making his decision abundantly clear to the Poon Guinea Governor. Barry cleared his throat and spun that old-timey rotary dial on the red Denmark Destroy sexline. It took a good thirty seconds to finish dialing cuz them rotary shits was... they was a pain in the ass, wuddn't they? The line began to ring as an anxious President Oak-Bama held the receiver to his ear. "Jo-Jo-Jonah? This is President Barry Jay Oak-Bama! Yes, yes, of course you know it's me, no one else has access to this line. I, uh-- listen, Jonah, aha! I need you to do me a favor, OK? Do a favor for old Barry, will ya?" Oak-Bama paused and waited with a bated breath as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line.
Finally, the President pressed forward with his most urgent request. "Jonah, I need you to call off the dogs on that WCF organization, huh? Yeah, the Pennsylvania rasslin' company. Let them have their little Slam broadcast. What does it really matter to us at the end of the day? I just think we have bigger fish to fry right now, what with the implementation of these new Net Neutrality regulations and such." Barry paused, listened, and then spoke again. "Yeah, yeah, it's a damned bureaucracy, but it pays the bills, doughnut?! Haha! Yeah, I'll talk to you later, buddy! Thanks a trillion! I owe ya! I love you, too. Bye."
A relieved President Oak-Bama placed the receiver of the phone down onto the base. He glanced at The Godfather. "Bobby, it has been done. Slam will be broadcast tonight in its usual primetime slot, albeit a few days later than usual. It will preempt that new Total Sluts program featuring Ana Valentine and Kaylyn James Evans, which will in turn be relegated to the Dub See Eff Network for only eight-eighty-eight a month."
"Isn't Anastasia Petrova in that joint too, Barry?" Bobby queried as he plopped into a chair in front of Oak-Bama's desk and placed his Golden Shitkicker Boots upon the desk.
"I believe so, yes, Bobby." The President nodded his head in affirmation and wiped the blood and tears from his face with the silk kerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket.
"Man, I tell you, Barry, I'm a mark for that new pro-Putin gimmick of hers, but I think we made the right call, didn't we? There's plenty of time for sluts in this world. Right now we need some enlightenment, don't cha think? Because for as much as we love to squirt our goo, that muscle between our legs ain't worth a Godfatherdamn without the muscle between our ears being in peak form. Oh Barry, I'm so glad we could reach a peaceable resolution. Do you really think I wanted to murk you?"
The President flashed a modest smile and then laughed uneasily as he glanced at Cairo. "I, uh, I cannot help but notice that you're still wielding that firearm, Bobby. Is there a, uh... is there a reason for that? I've done precisely what you've asked me to do."
Cairo ran the fingers of his free, non-Glock wielding hand through those coal black linguine modules of Poon Guinean origin. Bobby's gubernatorial mane flowed freely, majestically down the back of the leather office chair upon which he was seated. Cairo did not look at Oak-Bama. He did not have to. He did not have to because as soon as that Glock could be holstered to his thick, The Godfather of Professional Wrestling leaped into the air, grabbed hold of the President's head and neck and drove the Leader of the Free World through his own Godfatherdamn desk with an--
/AWW KY ROOOOWWWWWW OUTTA NO-WYAH!!
There was nary a sound to be heard once the deed had been done, save for the rockets that zoomed toward the White House courtesy of those ISIS militants. You know how it goes in the nation's capital. It was the standard daily fare in D.C., and perhaps that's why no one noticed when the President was carried out of his office by a group of strapping, A-Rab lookin' nigguhs wearing lime green colored TMNT footsy pajamas. As Oak-Bama was carried out of The Oval Office, and his desk was replaced by some marble-laden imported Italian joint, an eerily familiar face brushed past the deposed President whilst walking into the office.
"Roger!" Bobby beckoned to the figure in the Presidential looking suit. To the un-nuanced observer it might appear as though Cairo was talking to a more dapperly dressed version of himself, but this was not quite the case. Roger was in fact Bobby's older though nearly identical looking brother, a former laborer who had grown to amass vast power of his own whilst acting as Bobby's political doppelganger. When Bobby could not serve in his capacity as Mayor of New York City due to "outside commitments"? Roger was there. When Bobby could not serve as Governor of Poon Guinea due to similar reasoning? Roger was there. And when Bobby waylaid the President of the United States and needed someone to stand in whilst wearing a remarkably lifelike Oak-Bama mask?
"I am here, my brother," Roger assured Bobby. "May I ask why you did not kill him altogether instead of merely rendering him unconscious and holding him captive?"
"He may prove useful to our cause just yet, Rog. I know of your thirst for bloodshed and I admire it, yet I cannot help but think that holding onto some living assets could prove invaluable."
"Oak-Bama is merely a puppet, Bobby." Roger frowned as he skewered his younger brother's logic. "What value can he possibly offer to our cause?"
Cairo flashed a shit-eating grin as he wrapped his broad Poon Guinean arm around his elder brother's equally broad Poon Guinean shoulder, and pulled him in close. "Don't you see, Rog? That's the beauty of it. We've got ourselves what's known in hostage taking circles as... collateral. We'll use Barry for what we can, then we'll make him our fall guy when the time comes. If Oak-Bama holds any value to us at all, it's as a rat fink. A snitch. A... " Bobby smiled broadly before speaking his next words. "A Scarecrow. He might not know everything, but he knows enough to damage their cause. Just as Scarecrow is feeding us information about the inner workings of Pantheon? Oak-Bama will feed us information about Them, Roger."
"The Lerchuminati?" Roger queried.
"Indeed, Roger. The Lerchuminati and their entire capitalist infrastructure, right down to the bulwark of the Federal Communications Commission. Why simply grind their gears when we can infiltrate the belly of the beast and annilhilate their very foundation? We've been playing this game for far too long, my man. We've been playing this game on a worlds stage. What is life? Is it being a puppet? Is it pushing dope? Is it rehashing long since dead and irrelevent wrestling factions? That's what the Corey Blacks and Jayson Allen Prices would have us believe." Cairo heaved a deep and angered sigh as he stroked his Revolutionary Style Beard and gazed outside to the White House lawn, green as an emerald though littered with combatants of a ceaseless and debilitating war.
"I cannot possibly muster an understanding of what it means to live in their world, Roger. I cannot fathom it. I've spent oh so many years observing the ebb and flow of the sanguine tide, the bloodletting of professional wrestling rings, corporate boardrooms and battlefields. Men in suits and ties, Roger, white men with an axe to grind. They run all of this shit." Bobby revved his index finger and gave it a twirl, as if indicating not just the confines of the White House compound, but indeed the world-at-large. "Life's rich pageant is little more than a shit show for the unthinking masses to gawk at. This is why a Kanye West outburst at an awards show draws more mainstream attention than all of the suffering and famine in the heart of Africa.
"This is why a dress, a muddafukkin dress stirs up more debate than all of the police shootings and drone bombings in the whole of our global community, Roger. You know this, my man. You know that those Godfatherforsaken wolves will sink their teeth into the working class and bleed them dry for every last bottom down dollah they can muster. It's all about the illusion of choice. The illusion of progress. The illusion of freedom. Pantheon? Oh, they're part of it, Roger."
Bobby sat down in that creamery colored leather office chair and kicked his feet upon the desk once more. Roger assumed his Presidential power position behind the desk, claiming that Oak-Bama throne for hisself, though not yet pulling the mask over his head. Why would he? For the moment, there were simply two brothers chatting and they were both in on the scheme to save the world from itself. Roger listened to his brother's diatribe, recognizing that the younger Cairo was world wise and wary of the corporatist claptrap, far more than most of his contemporaries, even more so than many of his elders.
"For the low, low price of your mortal soul you too can abandon Jam Willy Jesus and all that is decent and fall in line to that Baron Samedi worship posture. And if that's not to your liking?" Bobby mustered up his best voice-over sales pitch voice as he cut loose on his diatribe. "'Hey kids, steal your parents' car and their credit cards and drive down to your local Hot Topic! We got dem Pantheon tee shirts and all the rest o' dat fly Pantheon gear at LOW LOW PRICES! Get it? FLY gear? HAHA! Low PRICEs? HAHA! MONEY! MONEY! GIVE US MONEEEEEH!'"
Bobby shook his Godfatherdamn head at the tragedy of it all as Roger looked on in silence, the elder Cairo's feet propped upon the desk just as his younger brother's were, hands folded in his lap, ears piqued and attentive to Bobby's rant. "Some great reward, huh, Rog? For a lifetime of toil we can become part and parcel to their billion dollar bonanza. And where does it leave us? Without a pot to piss in. Without a hole to drop a Jay Omega in. Jay fuckin' Omega... JAY FUCKIN OMEGA." Cairo sneered as he regarded the reigning Dub See Eff Hardcore Champion. "The Hardcore Title on Jay Omega is like an eight inch thick on a pale, Canadian virgin who ain't ever gonna smash the poon in the first GODFATHERDAMN place: Totally fawkin useless, my man." Cairo damn near hocked a loogie in disgust, but reconsidered out of respect for his brother's new workspace.
Nevertheless, those pure embers of Hebrew fire churned behind Bobby's irises. That sapphire tinged flame that had sparked the brushfires of revolution, rose to the heights of a raging inferno whilst The Godfather unleashed his torrent of vitriol. "I'm gonna rewrite the rules of this mawfawkin match at XIII. Oh yes, I am, Rog. I'm gonna beat Omega and Beckman and take both those belts home to Poon Guinea just so I can bring some respectability back to the shit. First, DVS Dan Van Invisible Man disrespects the Hardcore Strap by winnin' it-- now a Jay Omega is slimin' her mangina juice all over that shit? Fukkin White Bread 'R Us Hardcore Chumps up in hurr. What happened to the days of Hardcore Champions who would murk a nigga in cold blood just for castin' a half-faggot stare in their direction, men such as SwitchFever, Phillip Baines, Slickie T and Nathan Von Liebert?
"These muddufukkas today be walkin' around with a Hardcore Belt like it's an accessory to their handbags and heels. Straight up fukkin disrespect. You know somethin, Rog, now that you're El Presidente and such you might wanna call in the National Guard at that ECDub Arena cuz we gonna have a national tragedy on our hands, my brother. Drum up all dem Jayson Allen Price lookin niggas and get ready for a Kent State style Bobby Cairo murkin spree. And hell-- once I'm done with ICE and Omega Man you can send in them military niggas to get their comeuppance to boot. Weekend warriahs gonna get straight up GAWT just cuz it's a Friday night and I need that light workout before I start smashin dem Philly bitches in dey ass poons, ear poons, skull poons and wherevah da fukk else a GawdFadduh feels like."
Roger's stony veneer finally gave way to uproarious laughter as he rose to his feet. Bobby did the same. The Brothers Cairo embraced as Roger slipped the Oak-Bama mask over his elder Jewcranium.
"I've missed Jew, brother."
"And I've missed Jew."
"Let's murk dem jobbahs."
"XIII ways to an ass poon smashin?"
"On that ebbin' and flowin' sanguine tide, brother. Life's rich pageant... a thick up the ass and a Vaypuh Packtheon bum bitin' the mat. The spoils of sin. Some great reward for the unthick jobbahisms they done committed."
And the Brothers Cairo toasted. "HAIL POON GUINEA!" And the Poonglourious Vodka flowed through the Oval Office all the way to ECDub Arena. The Brothers Cairo had put the shoeshine boys, the doormen and the garbage collectors on notice. It didn't really matter if you fought tooth and nail and spilled your blood, sweat and jism. Because at the end of the day? If you were on the wrong side of the battle lines? You were gettin' GAWT. Pulled under by that sanguine tide. Another victim for the shit show. A puppet on a string. There would be no Magnum Opus: Liberation in your future. Just them illusions of choice, progress, freedom for your braindead head, claptrapped in a corporatist hell... XIII ways to an ass poon smashed.
