GRAND THEFT PALUMBO!

Tazz pilots Air McMahon to the mean streets of South Central, Stamford, Connecticut, just as Snoop Dogg did in the hit motion picture "Soul Plane". You pull into Vince's carport and notice all sorts of vulgar graffiti scrawled across the walls. Things like "C'MON, TAZZ" and "HA HA HA HA HA" and "LEAVE THAT THANG ALONE".

Your homeslice lowers a ramp from the airplane so you can swagger down like a pants-crapping retard. You gasp at the sight of your once-beloved Titan Towers in a state of disrepair. Buh Buh's got his short shorts strewn about all over the place. Before you're able locate a pole long enough to use in the disposal of his unmentionables, a high-pitched voice assaults your girlish ears.

"Well, well, well," it drawls. Two seedy-looking figures emerge from a nearby alley. You immediately recognize them as crooked lawmen "The Admiral" Charles Robinson and Jimmy "Rotten To The" Korderas, two of the hardest screws to ever walk a turn in the Velocity ring. "Look who's back in town," continues Robinson. "Been keeping your nose clean, have you? Clean of cocaine and/or crayon wax?"

You bristle at the mention of your long-since-kicked Crayola habit. "My nose is just fine," you reply, sniffing in an exaggerated fashion. "In fact... Is that bacon I smell?"

"Yeah, we just came from Denny's," says Korderas, producing a strip of bacon from inside his sock.

"Oh. Can I have some?"

"Nope," he gloats.

"OMG HEEL!!!" You make a move for the referee, but Tazz somehow restrains you by clinging to your ankle.

Li'l Naitch clucks his tongue. "Still a loose cannon, this one. We'd better conduct a search." Before you know it, Chuck and Jimbo stick their hands down your parachute pants and get all up in your area.

"Hey, you can't do that!" you protest. "Not without the warrant! THE WARRANT, GUMSHOES!!!"

Korderas chuckles, spitting delicious bacon bits. "Not according to the Patriot Act."

"I always knew he and Marcus Alexander Bagwell were up to no good," you scowl.

It doesn't take those villains long to locate the contraband you keep hidden in your underpants. "What have we here?" wonders Charles Robinson as he emerges with a wad of phat Benjamins.

"That's my birthday money from Grandma!" you weep.

"A likely story," snorts Robinson, sniffing your crotch dollars long and hard. "Drug money. Just as I suspected. Dear old Granny must be dealing in angel dust, eh?"

"What, the pasta?" you ask.

The referees have a long, nasal laugh at your expense. Really long. Like 45 minutes. Once their guffaws finally cease, Robinson speaks up. "I think we should teach these two a lesson." Before you can run away like Michael Cole, the pair starts pointing emphatically at their Official Referee Patches.

"NO!" Tazz squeals as his legs give out immediately. "REFEREE BRUTALITY!" Before long, he's curled in the fetal position, convulsing at each jab of Korderas' bony finger.

Robinson closes in on you, pointing for all he's worth. His Official Referee Patch emits deadly authoritative powers that seep into the center of your brain and cause you to regret your rulebreaking ways. You recoil as if shot, collapsing in a heap of twitching limbs. The world goes dark.

Fade To Black