Let me tell you somethin’, cocksucka...

I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that fight in my fuckin’ life. I walk in there — smells like moldy deli meat and broken dreams. There’s a dude with a neck like a fuckin’ giraffe, talkin’ to a dead mouse like it’s his therapist. That’s Beady. The Canadian lunatic. Homeless lookin’ dude, got eyes like he’s been starin’ into microwaves since ‘94.

And then there’s this other guy… they call him J-Tard. I don’t even know what the “J” stands for — Jabroni? Jackass? JELL-O? He ain’t walkin’, he’s ROLLIN’ into the ring on a fuckin’ office chair that's leakin’ somethin’. I don’t know if it was soup, grease, or some kinda biological warning.

He’s got this wig on — blonde, shiny, like a Halloween Barbie wig you find in a gutter. He starts makin’ vroom vroom noises like he’s in a race car. “REAL MEN WATCH FORMULA ONE!” he yells. Bro… you leak when you talk. Nobody’s watchin’ anything when you’re around — they’re evacuating.

The bell rings, and this fuckin’ mutant peels out like he’s at Daytona — spinnin’ in circles, yellin’ about numbers and “being based,” whatever the fuck that means. Beady? He don’t say a word. He just stands there. Staring. Like he’s seen every version of the apocalypse and this ain’t even the worst one.

Then BANG — Beady just slaps him. Open palm. No wind-up. It sounded like God flushin’ a toilet. J-Tard falls over like a wet bookshelf, chair and all. Wig goes flyin’. People are screamin’, runnin’ for the exits. One dude was cryin’ into his hot dog. It was like someone dropped a rotted cantaloupe into a blender and gave it a microphone.

That’s it.

That’s the fight.

Two minutes of chaos, zero dignity, and one chair that needs to be set on fuckin’ fire.

Stay black, cocksuckas. And wash your fuckin’ chairs.