Slow your roll, Jeff Chimenti.
All of you need to stop presenting me with your randos. You’re like cats bringing dead birds into the house.
“Gonna show ’em my power.”
Oh, God, not all of it?
They can’t take that much power, Jeff Chimenti; you have so much.
“So much power.”
“Is one of my backup musicians getting delusions of grandeur again?”
Dammit. We are not continuing the Rando War.
“Tell piano boy to go comb his hair.”
I like her hair.
“She’s like Thor, with boobies.”
Yeah, but here’s the thing: she might be not be a rando. That looks more like a stone-cold fox.
“Still a rando.”
Can’t be both.
“YOO TELL THAT YANKEE TO SEND THAT BLONDE OVER TO MAH HOTEL ROOM, ‘LESS SHE’S HAD A BABY. KING DON’ BANG NO MAMMAS.”
Why are you here?
“GOT ME SOME RANDOS LIKE YOU WAS TALKIN’ ABOUT. ”
That’s the Memphis Mafia and a cop. Not randos.
“THEN I WILL FIRE THEM ALL, USING KARATE, AND THAT WILL RANDOMIZE THEM!”
Not how it works. And I don’t think you’re allowed to fire cops, Elvis.
“AH CAN ASK FOR THEIR RESIGNATIONS.”
True. Go away.
“I got more.”
Jeff Chimenti, this is beneath you.
“Was that Elvis?”
Don’t worry about it. What happened to the randos we started with?
“They couldn’t handle my power. I showed it to them, and they were overcome.”
“By my power.”
Are they still alive?
“They’re so much more that that now.”
Did you kill more randos, Jeff Chimenti?
“They’re so fragile!”
“Can we just stuff ’em into Garcia’s Briefcase of Infinite Felonies?”