You know, this is just getting ridiculous.
I have been approached about three-ways more times than I can count, and now I’m expected to join a four way? For shame. I am a lady of CLASS I tell ya! Thankfully, this menage-et-quatre is a bit more my speed, despite the presence of three absolute dicks.
First we have the Bahaarat Blubber, Lord Of The Chuddies, Jash Kahn’t Believe Its Not Butter. Remember me bud? I remember you. After all, who forgets their first? Our first meeting was down to chance, two names thrown together, but I will freely admit I’m responsible for this regrettable case of sloppy seconds. I stuck my nose in your business… Because it was the right thing to do. You sought to own Jackdaw, and in case you haven’t heard, owning people kinda went out of fashion a couple of centuries back, bud. A bit like your clothes. Do me a favour, find the nearest bin and get ‘innit, bruv’.
Then we have the Way’n’Co Wanker, Cumface Klaus. As I explained to you last week, my grievance with you is much the same – you are another person seeking to dominate others courtesy of currency. How’s that been going for you so far? I saw the initial negotiations, and, uh… They’ve been a teensy bit rough, haven’t they? Homeslice almost slapped the Casper right outta you. Me and Jackyboy have no love lost, but I must admit it put a smile on my face to see you get your comeuppance. If you know what is good for you, don’t show up at Ring Of Dreams. Go back to your lil circus, find the nearest antique radio and twiddle your knob, because that is all you’re good for.
Which leaves us with Jackass. It seems all work, no play and way too many kendo sticks to the face at Pandemonium from The Kingdom has made Jack an exceedingly dull boy. Do you know why they say not to look a gift horse in the mouth? Because nobody else is fucking stupid enough to PUNCH it in the mouth. That advice usually isn’t needed. I bore the gift of knowledge, the opportunity at kinship, the possibility of an ally in a house of wolves. Now I’m gonna make every emoji on your shirt start crying.
You put your hands on me, you punk bitch. In doing so, you unknowingly set off a Rube-Goldberg machine that will ultimately culminate in me punching you so hard that you will become the second member of OSW to have your mask inseparably grafted onto your face. At least Doom had the foresight to pick something sturdy, but you? Gold is softer than a geriatric’s erection. You have one opportunity to fly the coop, or I will tell you how this will go. Khan and Way want you to sing in a cage, but we know that ain’t happening. Instead, I will cradle this little Jackdaw in my hands… And twist your fucking neck.
Bye bye, birdie.