Two can play at this game, buddy boy... move over Yee, ya dried up piece o' yak meat, Faydz is comin' through! And I got my little angel by my side. That's right, boys. Guit-box in hand and Miasma-raised! What this chick don't know about crossin' the Miasma you ain't got time to learn.

Always did love that song. They don't make 'em like Nancy Sinatra any more. Voice of gold. Eyes of an angel. And those boots! Eat yer heart out, Nixon Kennedy. Yer fruit-loop rendition ain't never gonna match the likes of that tigress. And born to mix it up? Shit. She'd beat the likes o' Crotch Johnson any day or night. And since she ain't here? Well, buddy boy, it's my turn.

Face it, Crotch, ya washed up, doddering old mule, you ain't half the man yer dad was. How long ya think you can keep skating on his good name? Five years? Maybe two? Burnin' Rubber? Ha! The only rubber you ever burned was that Trojan you thew in the fire that night you were too scared to do Mary whats-her-name up on Tanwater Peak. Didn't think I knew about that one, didja Ol' Chum?

Oh, yeah! Faydz knows all.


So keep schtuppin' that bimbo at Tire Fire City, babe. With any luck she won't blab that you couldn't get it up for Kim Kardashian. Course it wouldn't matter if she did. You'll be doin' your book signings at Crossley's the moment I win this race... which, according to my calculations, should be just about noon tomorrow.

Now, that's burnin' rubber, baby!