Hahaha that ending! Loved it! Max Holloway is a g.
Bogeyman's forum posts
@the_psyentist: @queen_cobra (My bad for the late post!)
Diamond-studded grills glistened and clung to his teeth. A bracelet, chains and earrings dripped with gold as they adorned him. His hair, a shade of vibrant, was slicked back and styled with a rich man's flair. Tattoos had been burned onto his skin, onto flesh so white and pale it seemed as though it did not react to the sun. And tailored to the lean contours of his slight frame was a white, three-piece Armani suit. Shifting gears and accelerating, the Mad Pimp felt the engine of his purple BMW i8 lumber with the power of a hybrid supercar. He felt a rush swarm through him, the sound of 'Shiny Suit Theory' by Jay Electronica echoing from the car's speakers. On his right, his most loyal crony sat, Dwayne.
Dwayne was tall and muscled to the proportions of an nGod. He was bald and bearded, and a gruff air seemed to hang all about him. "This shit's a process, Dwayne", the Connoisseur began, "A process that starts with the simplest shit you can imagine", he paused, "Like choosin' which whip to drive by what match my shoes", the Connoisseur paused once more. "See my shoes? See my shoes, bitch?!", he asked, forcefully gripping Dwayne by the chin, his fingers digging into his flesh as he forced his crony's gaze upon his shoes. "See that shit? Shit's smooth, Dwayne. Purple shoes. That shit's clean, m**********r. Only a real G, a real pimp can rock these fly ass crocodiles", he insisted, shoving Dwayne's face away with a countenance so earnest it bordered on the disturbed.
Swallowing his instinctive desire for retaliation, his feelings of humiliation, Dwayne nodded, "Yeah... yeah they look clean, boss", he conceded. Soon the car slowed, and the Mad Pimp glanced through his i8's tinted window. "This is the place Dwayne. She's been told we'd be here. You go in there and bring that bitch into the car. Talk to her nice and sweet, persuade her that big money's to be made with us. Get here to the car and I'll do the rest. Now get the f*** outta my whip", the Connoisseur demanded, swinging Dwayne's door open. "Ah Dwayne", he paused, his pale features growing eerily intense, the tics of a deranged sociopath subtly marring his countenance, "If she refuses. You tell that bitch she's got five seconds to reconsider before I burn this place to the ground".
"If she ain't with me, she's against me!", he growled through his grill, his eyes flaring with an intent so violent it bordered on the psychotic. "I'm no thug. I'm a gangster. Not sidin' with me is doin' business wrong. And if you don't do business with me right, I'ma correct you", he warned.
@the_psyentist: @queen_cobra (My bad for the late post!)
Diamond-studded grills glistened and clung to his teeth. A bracelet, chains and earrings dripped with gold as they adorned him. His hair, a shade of vibrant, was slicked back and styled with a rich man's flair. Tattoos had been burned onto his skin, onto flesh so white and pale it seemed as though it did not react to the sun. And tailored to the lean contours of his slight frame was a white, three-piece Dolce & Gabbana suit. Shifting gears and accelerating, the Mad Pimp felt the engine of his purple BMW i8 lumber with the power of a hybrid supercar. He felt a rush swarm through him, the sound of 'Shiny Suit Theory' by Jay Electronica echoing from the car's speakers. On his right, his most loyal crony sat, Dwayne.
Dwayne was tall and muscled to the proportions of an nGod. He was bald and bearded, and a gruff air seemed to hang all about him. "This shit's a process, Dwayne", the Connoisseur began, "A process that starts with the simplest shit you can imagine", he paused, "Like choosin' which whip to drive by what match my shoes", the Connoisseur paused once more. "See my shoes? See my shoes, bitch?!", he asked, forcefully gripping Dwayne by the chin, his fingers digging into his flesh as he forced his crony's gaze upon his shoes. "See that shit? Shit's smooth, Dwayne. Purple shoes. That shit's clean, m**********r. Only a real G, a real pimp can rock these fly ass crocodiles", he insisted, shoving Dwayne's face away with a countenance so earnest it bordered on the disturbed.
Swallowing his instinctive desire for retaliation, his feelings of humiliation, Dwayne nodded, "Yeah... yeah they look clean, boss", he conceded. Soon the car slowed, and the Mad Pimp glanced through his i8's tinted window. "This is the place Dwayne. She's been told we'd be here. You go in there and bring that bitch into the car. Talk to her nice and sweet, persuade her that big money's to be made with us. Get here to the car and I'll do the rest. Now get the f*** outta my whip", the Connoisseur demanded, swinging Dwayne's door open. "Ah Dwayne", he paused, his pale features growing eerily intense, the tics of a deranged sociopath subtly marring his countenance, "If she refuses. You tell that bitch she's got five seconds to reconsider before I burn this place to the ground".
"If she ain't with me, she's against me!", he growled through his grill, his eyes flaring with an intent so violent it bordered on the psychotic. "I'm no thug. I'm a gangster. Not sidin' with me is doin' business wrong. And if you don't do business with me right, I'ma correct you", he warned.
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