3 cups of MeeMawzz homebrew'tuh coffee sat twix'tuh CL, a hand, and a dumb wise guy.

Upon landin'n the aviation station of the capital of Texas, Alucard, FrankCastiglia, and the ol'boyy FartBarf find themselves lookin' at a fat cab driver holdin' a sign. All 3 of the hit squad members names were spelled wrong. You could always count on Texans for one thing, and that's stupidity.

The trio of connected cunnin'lynguistic con'doodlers from their respective neighborhoods, represent'nuh Northeastern underworld, found themselves chattin' in the back of a cab. The sound of bluegrass music blared on the radio. The red eyed paled skin wizard and the blazed swamp thing with eyes glazed grazed on'n'on. Noddin' along to the twists and turns of the cab as it rolled. Frank sat with his eyes fixated on the unknown surroundings he found himself in, hands fiddlin' wit' his gun that sat 'pon't'ees lap. The destination was near where 1st street crosses paths with Williamson crick. 

MeeMawzz note read

False profit'ierzz'n kowboyklubb of none pure'o'tannz needzz a klubbin'n their fuckin' 'eads. They been beatin' on colored's and homosexuals. Them there's our main source of distributin'n outside of our new connections from the North Atlanticsyde.

The one with jazz in the very fabric of his soul began fiddling with the bag between his legs as the cab hits the main road. FrankCastiglia requests the cabby stops at 6th street, as he knows the club is 5 blocks down now. The crew leader from New York wanted to utilize the element of surprise with FartBarf's knowledge of the local streets.

The triple'etz stopped off at a bar before carryin' out their mission. The flow of money from Texas to Philly was rough river raftin' as the undrafted tried lettin' their daft heads in. Those from this thing of ours wouldn't stand for that, and the TRA was officially on it's non-stop to nowhere. The phat gypsy and crew leader from the mecca had a basic idea on what they wanted to do, FartBarf rolls a spliff before they head out of the bar.

The triangle'o'doom'u'duhh head down a back alley, the bag unzips as FartBarf listens to the two upper'eadz discuss if they want to go loud or quiet. The 3 custom-made Annihilation 1921's with 130 in the drum for this job were fitted with suppressors. FrankCastiglia smirked before he looked over at the dumbest Wise Guy to ever do it.

"How bout we just show you dumb Southern fucks how the Northeast do things"

The three'ode'n vesselz removed the suppressors after USS FB handed them out. 3 homemade bombs remained in the bag. As they approached the backdoor of the club, 3 black bandanas go up as 3 1921's drop in their custom-fit slings.

FartBarf knocks on the door loudly, the good ol' "Shave and a Haircut", gets 'em every time.

The shuffling of footsteps could be heard behind the door, FrankCastiglia lets off 20 into the door. The sound of a body thuddin' on the floor, FartBarf uses 10 bullets to shoot the doorknob off, and Alucard kicks the door in.

Alucard unloads 20 into everyone in the immediate vicinity, FrankCastiglia covers portersyde and drops 3 people immediately. FartBarf heads starberdsyde and finds nothing. After clearing the breach, FrankCastiglia signals to follow him fer'werdz'ed'lyy. The trio of terror were ready to unleash the darkness of fucktards sight into the night of nothing.

The trio of death make their way into the innerd'z o'dee fookin' club of fuck't wits. They were dancing to some shitty music, dressed like some sort of rodeo go-err'z. FartBarf was immediately triggered. He throws a bomb into the middle of the dance floor, 10 seconds later a mass of limbs fly into the sky. Blood covers the walls, dismembered bodies hit the dancefloor. Whore's of know more exist no more, chopped and dropped by the explosion of witchcraft'ead gear.

FrankCastiglia unleashed 30 rounds into the upper room that looked down onto the dancefloor, stereotypical giant viewing windows of a dumbly set up front shattered. 6 bodies flew over the guardrail onto the dancefloor. Alucard took down 4 people rushing down with guns drawn, 20 shots fired total. The red-eyed Wizard quickly snaps lower starberd as a door opens, he fires 30 more into the open space. A total of 10 fucktards fell, and not'uhh one made it into the main room.

FrankCastiglia had gone to the left of the wizard and whizzed up 40 rounds into the crowd, a mass of civilians trying to escape fall. Alucard empties his drum into other fuckin' idiots remaining. He places his 1921 on his starberd shoulder as 40 shells hit the ground and bounce. 

The Wizard shrugs and heads back out the way the hit squad came.

FartyyB and FrankCastiglia make their way to the office. The hardest of HardyBroZz confronts the owner that sat frozen in fear in his chair. Perceived power be damned when you're lookin' down the barrel of a USS Peacock Corvette vessel's guns. FartBarf's 1921 sat relaxed in its sling as the sleuth of war throws a flyin'uhh knee into the man's skull. 

The questionin' begins as FrankCastiglia just relaxes against the open doorway, watching the maddened one let out his frustration on the body of a dumb fuck.

Port,star,port. 3 piece with a biscuit of a crossed portersyde elbow cracks on the man's skull. The drumroll is finished with the snare of a starberdsyded straight into the nose.

With a crack the man's nose is broken, and blood drips.

FrankCastiglia decides he's had enough and whistles for FartBarf to back off. He unloads the last 10 in his 1921 into the man who was on the wrong side of the track dome piece. Shells roll and bounce, the drum stays in the gun. 

The PadCappedOne drops a bomb and the duo make their way downstairs. 30 seconds go by and the office is destroyed.

As they enter the back room they came from FartBarf lobs his last bomb over his shoulder into the dance floor. The showstopper buildin' dropper, force equivalent to more than four C4's. Custom time delay grenade was set to give enough time for the trio of night terrors remembered to saunter off. 

In the thoroughfare just passed the back alley, FartBarf puts 10 into the driverside of a 1947 Ford Super DeLuxe passin' by. The car screeches to a halt and the horn begins to honk.

FartBarf approaches the black sedan with a beautiful black interior now stained in blood and forcibly removes the dead body. He tosses the bag into the portersyde rear seat as he gets in, closes the door, and sticks his porterdsyde foot out the window as the 2 non cowboys make their way in. FrankCastiglia sits shotgun, and the red-eyed Wizard finds his way into the starberd rearseat. The trio drive to the rendezvous of the TRA, a secret crossin' of a thoroughfare wit' anoth'uhh thoroughfare. 

The trio get out, 3 spliffs lit. The lower echelon of the TRA members approach the car, the safehouse behind them as they greet the hit squad. The 3 that had left the group of the safehouse had approached with 3 mixed drinks. Some say it was the greatest moonshine of the time, some say it tasted like shit. The trio seemed to enjoy it as they all smiled and cheers't each other. 

FartBarf does a little jig in front of the group that was gathered here right now, lookin' at this scene unseen buh'ferr. FrankCastiglia just shrugs and takes a sip. Alucard seems intrigued by the crazy fuckin' idiot, and the people in the background just gawk. Perhaps one would sq'wock'uh sqwock this time? 'hapzz not...