HOLY SHIT!

More than a year has passed since you herded some fat people onto a truck or whatever. You've fallen on hard times since then, having blown the fortune you've amassed in previous adventures on Laffy Taffy and Crayola crayons. Yeah, you've got a bad Crayola habit. You're snorting 10 or 12 of those things a day, easy. You started off slow with the gateway shades like Burnt Sienna and Forest Green, claiming that you were just having a little fun. Yeah, that's what they all say. Pretty soon you went straight for Periwinkle. You make me sick.

But you're not here so I can berate you. Well, you sort of are, but I'll save the good berating for later. You're here to wipe the wax off your nose and turn things around, fatty. Four days ago, while you were immersed in an orgy of decadent hedonism down at the Wal-Mart or wherever, Spanky the Singing Delivery Queer gave you a message from an old friend. An old friend named GOD.

Okay, his name's not God, it's Tazz. But like God, he's two feet tall, sports a mohawk, and really has it in for Michael Cole. Tazz'z communique was cryptic, little more than an orange napkin scribbled with random words like "pumpkin" and "licorice". But, deep down, you knew your old running buddy needed your help. This would be your last chance to redeem yourself before you died of spontaneous combustion. Yeah, I forgot to mention, you've been diagnosed with spontaneous combustion. Good luck with that.

And so you find yourself on a Greyhound bus bound for the Red Hook section of Brooklyn. It's the middle of the night and all is silent, except for the meaty sloshing sounds of Mike Awesome making out with a really fat woman in the seat behind you. This is your first trip to Red Hook, and you are nervous because there's a good probability that you'll be killed and eaten. It feels as if a badger is trying to gnaw its way out of the pit of your stomach. Because you swallowed a badger. You nasty.

After what seems like an eternity, the bus driver warns you that this is the last stop. The bus driver, by the way, is one of those fucking terrifying talking greyhounds. In a little suit. Blech. You hurriedly exit the bus to find yourself in Red Hook, USA, where everyone rides ten-foot rats to their jobs at the malt liquor factory. The people work there, I mean, not the rats. The rats are employed at the cigarette factory. It doesn't take you long to discern the whereabouts of Tazz. Towering above the city is a giant orange cross that glows like a beacon of hope. It somehow reminds you of that old Bible story you read in which Jesus got irradiated and turned into The Incredible Jesus and started smashing everything.

You run toward the nuclear cross as fast as your fat little legs will allow. You find the guidepost attached to a small, rickety building. Before the structure waits the stumpy silhouette of your old pal Tazz. Wait, that's an ant. Okay, nevermind, Tazz was standing behind the ant. "Welcome, my son," he greets you. "Or daughter, I guess. Son is probably about 5,000 times more likely." The comforting glow of the neon cross reveals Tazz to be clad all in black, except for a bright orange clerical collar. "I take it you understand why I have summoned you."

"You're short!" you blurt out, because you happen to be mildly retarded.

"Yes. I am short. SHORT ON TIME, THAT IS, BAWHAWHAWHAWHAW!" Tazz begins capering about like a gnome. "I see now that you have strayed from the path. There is something I must show you." Tazz takes you by the throat and starts gently but firmly choking you out. He leads you through the doors of his busted-ass building. To your surprise, you discover it to be a bustling soup kitchen in which dozens of downtrodden ragamuffins take sustenance from some sort of orange goop. Tazz observes the less fortunate with a sad smile. "This, my friend, is the Tazz Mission."

"The what now?" you ask, because you are, once again, retarded.

"The Tazz Mission. It is a place of healing. We do God's work here." As Tazz speaks, Tommy Dreamer emerges from a nearby cluster of homeless people. He repeatedly hits Tazz with a kendo stick, but the benevolent midget only brushes Tommy aside. "But I didn't call you here to get back on your feet," Tazz admits. "There are some people I'd like you to meet." Tazz squeezes through a tiny mouse hole in the wall and disappears from view. After a brief moment, he returns with a small group of dwarves. Redundant. "Say hello to the Little People Nation."

You recognize many familiar faces among the growing crowd of orphaned midgets. Minidust, Booker Wee, Acute Angle, Fernando, Josh Mathews... They all look up at you with watery anime eyes. "When their angles have ended and Vince McMahon no longer has any use for them, these poor souls come here," explains Tazz. "We give them lots of love and plenty of legs to hump. But legs aren't free, as Zach Gowen could tell you. Our funds are dwindling. The bank's threatened to foreclose on the Tazz Mission if we don't come up with $100,000 by next week."

As if on cue, the door of the church/orphanage/soup kitchen/whatever is suddenly sent flying off its hinges. In storms Banker Bradshaw, neatly attired in a three-piece suit and wire-rimmed spectacles. "I HATE NIGGERS!" he shouts. Without warning, Bradshaw decapitates three unsuspecting midgets with the Clothesline From Baltic Avenue. "I WANT MY MONEY, ORANGE BOAY!" he screams at Tazz. As slowly and fatly as he had appeared, Bradshaw lumbers out the door and climbs up into a buggy pulled by Faarooq. "Dayom," says Faarooq. Then Bradshaw whips him a whole lot.

Tazz can only shake his head. "Every day he does that. If I can't get the final payment made, each one of these little people will be just... anutha... victim." He looks up to address you directly. "I need your help. You're a Natural Born Leader/Thriller. Every mission you've commanded has gone without a hitch, unless you count the dozens of horrible, horrible deaths. What do you say?"