Danny Sex is not well, or so it would seem. Sure, he's getting his dick wet, living some macho fantasy where he fucks whomever, wherever, whenever. The ultimate sex icon.

"Get out."

A twitch.

"Get out."

A shudder. An idea surpressed for too long. Mr.. Sex is seen walking down the street in a bright yellow paisley romper, a pair of oversized aviator sunglasses, and a big floppy fedora.

"You look like a dick."

Danny Sex: Shut up!

Mr.. Sex hollers into the air at nothing but the voice that keeps pestering him inside his head, a lost idea that just won't stop nagging at him. Passersby, otherwise aroused and intrigued by his luxuriously sexy romper and masculinely sexy build, are startled at the outburst. He forces a smile and continues to walk, this time a bit faster.

"You're not long for this world, bud. It's high time I came back."

Mr.. Sex starts to whistle, which seems completely out of place. Some people acknowledge his cheery but ultimately antisocial demeanor, if only because they can't help but. His massive frame dominates the sidewalk he continues to walk down.

"You can't drown me out, you know. I will be heard."

Caught up in his mid morning stroll, whistling like some doofus instead of carrying the swagger of heteronormative sexiness he's apt to, Mr.. Sex stops whistling when he sees a group of hot babes. They're sitting, enjoying their mid-morning cup of coffee in front of a Starbucks, chatting amongst each other, casually pulling their smart phones up here and there and clacking away with perfectly refined finger nails to respond to or create some gossip. Lustrous hair, perfect eyelashes, carriers of the feminine form. They all stop and notice Mr.. Sex, his masculine sexuality oozing, permeating from half a block away, and they each set their phones down. One hot babe starts to bite her lower lip. Mr.. Sex walks up to the table.

Danny Sex: Hello, hot babes, enjoying this wonderful morning? Nothing like a hot, steamy cup to get the day started.

"America runs on Dunkin."

Mr.. Sex smiles, his teeth gritting against themselves as he physically ignores that strange voice in his head, getting louder and louder by the moment. The hot babes all look at each other in shock, a man this sexy approaching them this early in the day has to be the best thing going for them. Far better than whatever their social media feeds have to offer.

"You look like a dick in this onesie. Were your footie pajamas dirty?"

Danny Sex: You hot babes know who I am?

"You're a liar, a thief, and you're on the way out, stud."

The hot babes kind of giggle and mutter to each other, one twirling the end of her perfect blonde locks in her right pointer finger as she puts her Starbucks cup to her lips, taking a sip of some kind of coffee drink with a spuriously long-winded name that describes coffee with flavored corn syrup and fake milk. One of her friends speaks.

"You're hot, did you know that?"

Danny Sex: Of course I did, I'm Mr.. Sex.

The hot babes all giggle again, taken aback my the sheer bravado of a sex icon in a yellow paisley romper and fedora.

"They're babies, you're like fifteen years older than them, it'll be like sticking your dick in a piece of veal."

Mr.. Sex rolls his eyes at the thought, coinciding with their giggles.

Danny Sex: Well, hot babes, I'm here to sex you up. I can take you all here right now!

The hot babes all roar in laughter. One of them looks back at Mr.. Sex and speaks.

"Whatever, creeper, get out of here. Cute onesie."

Mr.. Sex is awestruck. Did he just strike out with the hot babes? Yes, yes he did. Your boner is crushed. The virility you felt is drained, kaput, and you realize you probably have better things to do than just beat your dick to a wrestling promo in between watching clips of Michael Graves, the Kings, or Trax.

"Attagirl."

Mr.. Sex starts to shamble away from the Starbucks. He begins to mutter to himself.

Danny Sex: You need to quit, alright! This is insane, what is wrong with you, you cockblocking a-hole? Those were hot babes, and you just had to show up and throw a wrench in my game?

"I'll throw a goddamned wrecking ball into it."

Danny Sex: What is the matter with you? This is everything! This is the biological imperative, heteronormative masculine sexuality going out on conquest and dominating every hot babe one can encounter! You're prattling off about, well, what exactly? What higher purpose is there than sex?

"Lots. Grow the fuck up."

Danny Sex: You grow up! You sound prepubescent! Don't you know a man has needs?

"Hyep. I need you to get the fuck on out of here, boy, the real men have business to attend to."

Danny Sex: What business? You mean that nonsense at High Stakes? Who cares, I'm going to slip some dick to some dads and leave the others to deal with it.

"Nope."

Danny Sex: YES I AM!

The street corner all pauses and turns to look at Mr.. Sex, again yelling into the air for seemingly no reason in his yellow paisley romper and floppy fedora.

"You look like an even bigger dick."

Mr.. Sex sheepishly turns and starts to walk up the street, forsaking crossing the street to instead go a different direction up the block.

"Get out. Get out. Get out."

Danny Sex: No! I want to go have sex!

"I want to go sleep with my god damned girlfriend, instead you're sticking my cock into anything with a pulse. Where's my sense of integrity? Right here, that's where. Hell, you even want to go and fuck some dudes, thinking that'll win you a match, thinking that'll instill fear, or shock, or whatever you think it is. Dead wrong, boyo. Time to face fucking facts, you're the pretender, you're a sham, and it's time for you to get out."

Mr.. Sex pulls out his smart phone and starts to fiddle with it. He navigates to some hedonistic and selfish website to find an escort.

"Ooh, resorting to a Backpage girl? I thought you were Mr.. Sex, why do you gotta pay for strange?"

Danny Sex: I'm going to get some pussy, and it'll all be better.

"No, it won't. You'll still be hollow, empty, a shell. I'm the real deal, here. Look at all the men you'll be facing at High Stakes. Jack Cain and Thomas Nixon both want to walk out there and dole out hard justice to the rank and file of the scum and vile, but I took care of that already. I was the vanguard, the precursor, the motherfucker who wrecked shitheads and reprobates for years before they even knew how to lace up their boots. They have a place here because of me, because I tore down the wall, because I started letting good people feel like they had a fucking chance at something descent and pure. They want to hunt monsters, they keep an eye out for any kind of horrible piece of trash that wants to poison or harm the people. I was the anti-venom in the first place. They're following my example, my lead, not yours. Drezdin is a fucking , big for nothing, and I'm the best fucking big man in the business. Phantom Panzer is just a sopping wet pussy of a Ghost Tank knockoff, complete with silly fucking rainbow hair. Obsidian Air is just a waste of fucking time for everybody who has to listen to or even just look at him."

Mr.. Sex is furiously clicking on link after link on his smart phone, pulling up personal ad after personal ad for a bevy of escorts.

"You know it's true, don't you? You know you're the pretender, the biggest fake of them all, and that I'm the real deal. I'm the motherfucker who can wreck a sucker, leave 'em blacker and bluer than Darius Rucker, hauling rhymes like freight like a transcontinental trucker, god damn it, get out, let me out, stop trying to make some dude's dad's asshole plucker. I got a knack to make backs crack without slack, you're just a hack, get out, get out, let me come talk the smack. I got the serious skill set that you seriously lack, you want to get laid, I want to go on the attack. I'm the full course, you're just a midnight snack, it's time once again for me to get shit on track. I'm a man of the people, you only got one trick, you made up heteronormative and insist on your dick. It's sick, let me fill you in real quick, you're some delusion I had, I'm the number one draft pick. Put the phone away, listen up, let me free, get out. Get out, get out, get out."

Mr.. Sex quickly dials in a set of digits, calling out to some sex professional of the grimy variety. The phone rings. As it does, we hear a gunshot ring out somewhere in the mid-morning chaos of the city. Washington, D.C.

"GET THE FUCK OUT! I NEED TO GO DEAL WITH THAT!"

The phone answers, and Mr.. Sex starts to speak with the hooker over where to meet up and what rates he'll be paying as a car zooms past, a man poking out of the sunroof firing at a police cruiser tailing the vehicle. Mr.. Sex smirks.

Danny Sex: I want the full nuru.