Impotence

In Drexl, Promo by Drexl

If there be one thing about Arcadia’s sex trade ya need to realise, it’s dat artificial devices exist as commonly here as they do anywhere else in society.

Don’t get a brother wrong; there ain’t a motherfuckin’ thing that’ll ever replace gettin’ some stankie on the hang down with a real chick, ya get me?

That shit be peak for any G.

But when nature calls and there be no bitches to bump uglies with, applyin’ a bit of lip gloss and havin’ a date with Rosey Palmer and her five little sisters could be seen as a bit passé.

These days, a nigga might spray his baby batter usin’ any number of different tools to get the job done, ya feel?

Me personally? I prefer to clench a fist and punch my own munchkin.

The good, ol’ fashioned, fleixble firearm every nigga possesses in his motherfuckin’ armoury.

Yo, Stub nub – you’re someone around here who likes to pick a brain or two, so how about this one for size, britches?

What one word answer links a guy blowin’ his man chowder all over da joint and becomin’ OSW World Champion?

Climax of course – and as you know only too well, Doc – you are often reliant on those dextrous doohickies of yours to help get you get over the line, are ya not?

See somethin’, Doomsayer, rumour has it dat you’ve been firin’ more blanks than the territorial army your whole entire life, cracka.

Hell – your madcap state of mind is a tribute to that.

Over the years, what started out as an absence of mere understandin’ in your cerebrum soon advanced into somethin’ much bigger, didn’t it?

Somethin’ bigger, and somethin’ far more restrictive than your street smarts could ever hope to handle.

That somethin’ has made your white ass irreversibly impotent in all areas of your psyche and being, homie. It’s eaten away at you as all degenerative conditions do, and now your body says no; unable to keep pace with the brilliance your mind possesses.

Just like all those other jaffa cakes who struggle to get the job done on their own watch, Stub nub, your inventive nature has led you to conceive a cache of cleverly crafted contraptions to fill all those distinct holes in your makeup.

With them, you mechanically ferry human subjects into your Doom factory, puttin’ yet more of your whimsical widgets to good use as you conduct your repugnant research.

But not me, Doc. I won’t be givin’ you a helpin’ hand as those before me have just to satisfy your urges, and I sure as fuck won’t be rollin’ over so that you can continue to shoot your load over OSW as its World Champion.

Come dat main event, you will swift-learn that Big Slim doesn’t need any contrivance, thingamabobs, or whatchamacallits to get himself off.

He’s used to doin’ things with his own, bare fuckin’ hands, and come Monday night, I’ll string you and your gizmos along like a string of white fuckin’ pearls.

I don’t need any phony gadgets to abet me, motherfucker; I’m the real fuckin’ deal.

And at Clash three-thirteen…

My cock rocket’s aimin’ right at ya.