GRAND THEFT PALUMBO!

It still seems like only yesterday that you made the world safe for Tazz'z adorable little religious cult. "ORANGE ORANGE!" they used to shout. But, since then, the shit has hit the fan. I don't know which fan. Hopefully one of those guys who scream "TWO!!!!!" You got thrown into lockdown for going upside a nigga's head wit' yo nine. I don't know what that means, but I think it has something to do with golf clubs. You and Orlando Jordan got into a heated argument at Bradshaw's country club, and everything spun DANGEROUSLY OUT OF CONTROL. Fortunately, you only got a six month stint on The Rock for aggravated assault, because Orlando Jordan is not white. Littering carries a stiffer penalty than punching African Americans in this country. Not to say that your time was easy, because The Rock kept talking about popcorn farts and calling Tajiri Chinese and shit. Oh, how you longed to take a trip down to Cobb County, GA. R.I.P to my dead homiez. Po' one out at a high rate of speed.

But all that's behind you now. Unlike Paul Heyman, you've paid your debt to society. As of today, you're a free man/woman/Kevin Kelly. Deputy Dwayne gives you an old-timey hat and suitcase and pancakes your monkey ass out the door if you smell-la-la-la etc. You run around playing laser tag with all the prison guards until Chauffeur Tazz comes to pick you up in Air McMahon. Your oldest and dearest running buddy stuck by you even though you were a violent criminal who should have gotten the electric chair suplex from Heidenreich. Upon being reunited, you and Tazz give each other your top secret dap handshake for eighteen minutes. I should probably point out that Tazz is no longer a priest because one of the Little People Nation called him "FAT" and he exploded in an outburst of hilariously retarded insults, there, Girl Pants.

"What up, holmes?!" Tazz shouts ethnically. "How you be livin'???"

"LARGE, MY FRIEND!" you reply, giving him some sort of backwards, double-jointed high five you learned during your time amongst the Mexicans.

But your joyous reunion is short-lived. Tazz'z face grows somber. You can tell because he removed his sunglasses. "Our shit's gone south, money. G. Dawg. The old 'hood ain't like it used to be."

"THE ENTERTAINMENT?!?!" you cry. "HAVE RUFFIANS OVERTAKEN MY PRECIOUS ENTERTAINMENT?!?!"

"Yo, yo, keep yo' voice down, negro," Tazz warns. "They say the walls gots ears."

"Not if they're like Mick Foley, they don't!" you state hilariously. "Up top!" You and Tazz try to collaborate on another high five, but he can't reach that high.

"You best get serious, cracka," responds Tazz, unsure of your ethnic background. "These niggaz don't play. Shit's changed in the WWE. I think my partner's a rat."

"Michael Cole? Yeah, I could see that. He's always been pretty rodentlike."

"No, esse, the other one," says Tazz.

"Raven? Dude, he works for TNA. Those arenas are probably infested with rats."

"No, foo!" shouts Tazz, doing an angry gnome dance. "Spike! He thinks he's the boss! He's gone mad with power! MAD WITH POWER, I SAY! ABUSE OF POWER, ABUSE OF POWER!!!"

You're forced to strap Tazz down and sedate him before he can continue his story. "We used to be boyz," he explains, "but he done sold out. He traffickin' in drugs now. Pharmaceuticals, mainly. A brotha's gotta get his hit of No-Doz to sit through a Dudley match. I tried to talk some sense to the boy, but he was all, 'C'mon, Tazz.' Honestly!"

"Shit, that ain't nothin' but a thang," you scoff. "We'll go in there with both barrels blazing. Call Spanky."

"Naw, man, you don't understand. This is some serious shit. I think they got to Cena."

"NOT CENA!!!" you shriek. "HE WAS A MODERN-DAY SHAKESPEARE!!!"

"Word, word." Tazz shakes his head sadly. "They kidnapped his kidney and took it to Australia or some shit. The Dudleyz be runnin' this terrain. On they Gamecube."

Indeed, this sounds much worse than you could have possibly imagined. "We can't sit idly by," you resolve. "WHY ARE YOU SITTING IDLY BY???"

"Whatchoo gon' do about it, money?" asks Tazz. "I think you better check yourself before you wreck yourself. We're just a couple of small-town white boyz from Alabama tryin' to make ends meet."

"We'll round up the old crew," you tell him. "We'll make it morning again in America."

"Bitch, you crazy," Tazz responds. "There ain't no crew to speak of. They got O'Haire on a bum woman-punching rap. Jeff Hardy OD'ed on whatever drugs make him so gay. Mark Henry done ate a shitload of lead."

"So? He's always eating elements off the Periodic Table. More like PERIODIC BUFFET TABLE, HAHA, AM I RIGHT???"

"Bullets, money!" Tazz explains. "They gunned his azz down outside the Old Country Buffet. The dogs tracked him by his stank. The Dudley Dogs. It just ain't right."

You shake your head stupidly in disbelief. Because you're stupid. "Where the hell are the refs? Why haven't they stopped this?"

"Them pigs is corrupt," Tazz sneers. "The boyz in stripez turn a blind eye on everything. Kickbacks, son. Kickbacks."

"GOD DAMN YOU, NICK PATRICK!!!" you howl, shaking a fist at the heavens in impotent fury.

"It every man for himself," continues Tazz. "Ain't nobody gonna help us. The Jobberweights be lookin' out for the Jobberweights. The Hosses too afraid to do nothin' but write they poetry and hang out wit' the Jews. The Gooks stay on Gook turf. Both of 'em. Only the Dudleyz get free reign of the place. They strut around flashin' they gang signs, wearin' they colors..."

"Camouflage and tie-dye?" you ask.

"You damn skippy," is Tazz'z reply.

"God," you whisper, staring off into space as the chilling reality of the situation finally sets in. "Poor Rico."

"Brother done hanged himself with his frilliest ascot," Tazz mourns. "This is not our beautiful Entertainment."

"Then it's time to put the F back in," you decide, narrowing your eyes in that icy, devil-may-care way of yours. "I'm-a set straight this Watergate."

"You one crazy Polack," Tazz fires back. "The Dudleyville Mafia's gonna bust an as-of-yet undetermined number of caps in yo azz."

"I didn't survive six months in the hoosegow just to be fetchin' tables for THE MAN," you plainly state. "At some point, a man's gotta stand for something."

"Unless he's Droz?" asks Tazz.

A hint of a smile cracks your stony facade. "Unless he's Droz, old chum. Unless he's Droz."

"I'll be your Huckleberry," Tazz admits, "but this shit's gonna be our death nail. Knoll. Gnoll. Spunkacider."

You fetch your piece from Air McMahon's glove compartment and slide it in your gay little shoulder holster. "Then let the bodies hit the floor."

Ante up, Hoss.