“And in France today, the...”
*KZZT*
“Then take the duck and add the...”
*KZZT*
“The trial reached a fever-pitch when...”
*CLICK*
The television screen goes black as a camera pushes its way into the hospital room where two men lay -- and one of them just so happens to be the SWF’s own Sean Davis.
“Man, this is fuckin’ bullshit! I wanna see mu’fuckin’ Battleground!” shouts the other man.
“You into the SWF, too?” Davis asks.
“Yeah, I got some interest in it,” replies the other man, who sits up to look at his conversation partner. “Oh, shit! You Sean Davis!” he shouts, realization dawning upon him.
“Yeah, I am. Damn Spike Jenkins snapped my ankle, but you knew that, right?”
“Yeah, kid's a fuckin' mark-ass shyste mutha fuckin' punk lil' bitch,” the other man begins to cough severely, and is forced to pause.
“You okay, man? Need some water, or something?” Davis inquires.
“Naw, man, fuck some water, I need some hennessy.” The man cracks a grin. “Yo man, you seen my boy in the ring yet?”
“I don’t know. Who are you talking about?” Davis wonders.
“Man, Suga' Hill’s Finest! Lil’ Buck, nigga,” the man, who must be Jarrod Banks, says.
“Lil’...wait, Lil’ BUCK?” Davis asks, incredulous.
“Fo’ sho, nigga. My boy straight stomped out those Revolution Zero crackas!” Banks replies, laughing.
“Oh, it’s on, now, motherfucker!” Davis roars, rising to his feet.
“Best set yo limpin’ ass down fo’ I buss’ out the Suga' Hill Hotstep on yo punk ass!” Jarrod shouts back, struggling to get off his bed. “Naw, you know what nigga, I’m gon’ fuckin’ cap you and crip walk on yo dead ass, bitch!”
“How are you going to crip walk when I’ve knocked your ass out?” Davis yells.
“Bitch, you straight beggin’ to get fucked up!” Banks says.
Sean Davis tries to make his way towards Jarrod, but nearly collapses as he puts weight on his bad ankle. Jarrod starts laughing, but is forced to lay on the bed, wheezing for air. Davis tries to hop towards Banks, but overbalances and barely manages to pull himself back onto his bed. Jarrod doesn’t even make an attempt and simply crawls back into his bed.
“You’re fucking lucky that my ankle’s broken, bitch, or I’d have put you through this floor!” Davis bellows.
“Fuck you, bitch! Broken ankle? Nigga, I got shot ten times, and they’s still bullets in me! You ain’t shit, nigga! Jus’ wait till I get some these shells out, and I’mma buss’ yo head open!” Jarrod spits back.
“What on earth is going on in here?” a portly nurse shouts, investigating the noise. “You two are sweating, and Mr. Banks, your heart rate is far too high. I’ve told you countless times, you must stay in bed at all times!”
“Don’t be shoutin’ at me, bitch, it was this nigga, here! He was tryin’ to start some shit cause my boy whupped his boys’s asses, ain’t that right, bitch?” Banks says, turning to Davis.
“Fuck you! Pretzler had no shot in that match! It was designed for Buck to win!” Sean yells.
“Please, gentlemen! If you cannot get along together, then we will have to separate you!” the nurse shrieks.
“Fine, get this punk bitch out my sight! Ain’t nuthin’ but a bitch-ass Uncle Tom, anyway, hangin’ out with those fuckin’ cracka bastards,” Jarrod spits.
Davis tries to lunge at Banks, but the nurse steps between them.
“Stop it, the both of you! You’re acting like children! Mr. Davis, since you’re injury is not as severe, we will be moving you out of this room, and you, Mr. Banks, if you do not learn to calm down, we won’t remove those bullets!” exclaims the nurse as two orderlies enter the room to take Davis away.
