Quote:-Joy takes another pause and continues-

Joy: And where is this other guy? You two said you can do it by yourselves, and for your sake, I hope you're right. Because it looks like Mister Mystery mysteriously vanished! He did the smart thing and skipped town. So it's beginning to look like the Trio Tag Titles will be defended in a handicap match at Leap Of Faith? I mean I like how hard you to tried to disguise it, but admit it. Mister Mystery isn't here! And he won't be in your corner! And you're losing the Trio championships!

Oh, Joy -- really?

Did you hear that, Hunter? Did you hear the drivel that just slid down Joy's lips, down her chin, and plopped on the floor between her revolting feet? She doesn't believe in what she doesn't see!

Holy SHIT, Hunter! Let me say that shit again -- real, real loud -- just in case you missed it.

ATTENTION HUNTER PAYNE!

Your filthy fucking crack whore -- Joy Giovanni -- the cunt even Crimson Dong wouldn't enter -- does not believe in what she does not see! She doesn't believe in the man, the myth, the freak so far beyond a legend that his name alone puts a fucking white beard on his foes! She doesn't believe in the raging beast who ran through some of the top names in this business, including the King, and has no concern or understanding of pain or capitulation.

Joy doesn't believe in GOD -- otherwise known as Mister Mystery.

Also known as Poppa Feder.

Sometimes known as that man who is still hidden behind a hockey mask. . . (huh?). . . if you're as out dated and uninformed as that fucking idiot Rock, or Schlong, or . (That figures; why would he pay attention? Arrogant, movie star fuck!)

I mean GOD damn, Hunter, I say GOD damn -- what have you gotten yourself into? You've got an ugly tramp screaming to the world about how she doesn't believe in what she can't see, which in effect is also her taking a cheap shot at the size of your manhood but you're too fucking busy with your head in the clouds to pick up on Joy's mini slight toward your tiny package. Then you've got a partner with his own head so far up his own ass that he's gargling his breakfast from this morning so he actually still thinks I go around wearing hockey masks!! I mean holy fuck -- and I do mean holy! This has to be a higher power at work here; these are the trials and tribulations of Hunter Payne as he takes his journey with the most crippling group of people he could possibly have around him; a doubting Joy and an expired Rock.

How does it feel to have to doubt your own joy and throw away your rock for being expi-

-what the fuck am I even saying? You see this shit, Hunter? This is because of you and what you're living right now. I can just stop mid-sentence and start laughing at how pathetic your very existence is but it's you who can't escape it. It's you who will not need to seek me out diligently in order to suffer my wrath! Joy will be safe on the sidelines enjoying your beating and knowing she got away with everything she said about me but you will be physically maimed and tortured like some kind of crippled possum that wandered into my basement to bleed itself out. Normally I'd threaten to injure the filthy whore who made the mistake of slandering my name but in this case, I feel a man like Hunter would be deserving of taking the full brunt of my onslaught. Every single word Joy spews out will be something Hunter has to answer for when he steps up to the almighty red pearly gates of Mister Mystery. You're going to suffer for Joy's ignorance and you're going to be held accountable for Dwayne's cock-taking lifestyle as a bottom boy. (a Dwayne that is known to like taking it in the ass so all the other fags come and fuck him a lot)

Oh, and I didn't even get to the good part about all this, Hunter. As if all that wasn't enough?

Your other parther?

That child molesting, dick sucking, asshole eating, scrotum chewing, hermaphrodite looking mother fucker known as Dean Moxley McGovern. That's somehow your other partner. Well at least Dean makes up for Joy's chalk board screeching rants and Rock's inability to get with the times as is evident in every recycled movie he shoots.

Oh fuck, oh wait -- no Dean doesn't! Dean doesn't "make up" for jack fucking shit! This boat of yours was already filled with holes and loaded with nothing but anvils and boulders, but now you've taken the largest anchor you could find in all the seven seas and you've thoroughly attached that anchor juuust in case there was somehow a slight chance of you staying afloat before, now you're guaranteed to sink. So far this week Dean has grown his facial hair out which made his face look like he's got pubes all over it or some shit, and he also. . . . . wait, no -- nothing else. He's done nothing else. I guess he lied about knowing what a condom is and tried to pretend there's a "Mister Mystery Condom" but do you know why that's funny? Because he's a . Literally. And we all know don't practice safe sex anyway so why in the fuck would that have been in some gay club with a shit load of condoms? Yeah nice try -- have a bunch of your STD ridden boyfriends all pass around condoms with my face on them. Holy fuck, , you showed me!

Why don't you do yourself a favor and actually go buy a condom for once in your life, open that shit up for the first time ever, and then take it and pull the whole damn thing down over your own head. I've seen it done; it will fit if you do it right. Just slip a condom down over your mashed up looking face, lay your head back, relax, and say goodbye. Then hopefully anybody who actually finds you entertaining can also slip a condom over their own heads too and join you in the afterlife where SATAN! will gladly buttfuck all of you without so much as a single drop of lube.

You'll be begging though -- "just one drop!" "oh please just a drop of lube!"

Isn't that how the story goes? Tell him, Hunter! Tell Dean all about how it works once you've suffocated yourself with a condom and you end up in hell for committing suicide. There's no coming back from having your last living act be your own murder! Tell Dean and his little friends all about how they'll beg and plead -- oh just one drop -- but no lube will be inserted into their asses as SATAN! just drills, drills, drills. That's how the story goes, right?

Preach to your , child molesting friend. Save his soul. You can do it, Hunter!

Then, turn to that whore Joy and make her finally believe in something she can't see. Whether it be me, or your package, you make her believe in it.

Then take The Rock/Schlong and sit him down in front of any television that isn't replaying reruns of shit from a few months or years back and get him up to date on just who he's going to be laying down for on Saturday. He shouldn't mind laying down just like Dean won't.

At this point, Hunter, you better hope and pray for one thing and one thing only -- the Crimson Dong. You better hope he can somehow show up in your corner and be your saving grace, because at this point you'd have a better chance at salvation with the Dong than you would any of those other open wounds you've surrounded yourself with. It's going to get messy when Gilmour, Soldier and I fist fuck those wounds and you drown in the afterbirth of our glorious climax.