RT: Man, Harbinger, don't even talk to me about being unprepared. At least my boys knew you were legit and not just some sucka-ass waste of oxygen. But then you show complete and utter ignorance in what you think you know about me! Man, ain't that just like a white person...

WB: Hey!

RT: Sorry, Dub-Bee. Seriously, though, how can you just dismiss me like that? Your last few matches have been far from impressive outings. I could see a guy like a Picasso, or a Slate, or a Wallace or a Subdued talk to me like you did. But that's because they're the best right now. When I look at you, I see a man who can't come to grips wit' the fact that he's lost his fastball, so to speak.

B: You past yo' prime, n*gga!

RT: Exactly. Where once there was a great champion now lies a shell, a guy who as far as I can tell is hanging on to past glories. I mean, who was the last legitimate superstar you've beaten?

J-R: Couldn't beat Slate, couldn't beat Picasso, couldn't beat Wallace... shit, looks to me like you past yo' expiration date.

RT: Harbinger, you were great once. But this is a new time. A time for new muthaf*ckin superstars to rise up and challenge the champs. And as new superstars go, they don't get any harder than this.

Shawty flips his cellphone closed and lets out a whoop of delight.

B: How many times I gots ta tell ya, n*gga? No talkin' on the phone while we're on TV!

S: Sorry, dawg! But that was Monique, and I had to seal the deal fo' tonight!

B: Shit... Monique? Fo' real?

S: Don' worry, B, I'll let you know how it goes.

WB: You ain't gettin' any, Shawty.

The entire room wheels to look at White Boy, who looks awfully sure of himself.

S: Oh yeah? How you know?

WB: I jus' heard she partial to the white meat.

S: Bull-muthaf*ckin-shit.

WB: I got firsthand knowledge of this shit, Shawty!

J-R: What you mean, 'first-hand'?

White Boy suddenly becomes preoccupied with the chin-up bar. Roderick continues.

RT: Look, man. I wrestled in high school, then I wrestled at Grambling. I know my way around a wrestling ring. To dismiss me as a thug and a tough-guy who can't wrestle is a slap in the f*ckin' face, and here in the Dirty South we don't take too kindly to shit like that. If you had taken the time to study my match against Lucas, you'd have seen that I'm more than capable of holding my own wrestling-wise. I'm more than just some punch-kick specialist. I'm 280 pounds, sure, but that 280 can move a little bit.

J-R: We're not going to lie to you and tell you he's a technical master, but the n*gga is capable of a little mat-work now and then.

B: It's just that punching people is a lot more fun.

S: So... are you telling me you f*cked Monique, Dub-Bee?

WB: I didn't say that!

Rod, J-Rob and B turn to Shawty and White Boy and remind them to shut up and focus.

RT: So, really, who's looking past who here? Is it me, who knows that you were great once? Or is it you, who thinks he knows what I'm all about?

B: I'll tell you what... you don't know jackshit.

WB: Roddy's the future, baby!

RT: Harbinger, your star burned brightest last year, but now it's fading. Now it's my turn to shine, and rest assured that I'll be shinin' brightest after Fusion.

S: 'Cause this n*gga gon' be keepin' it crunk for a long damn time!

RT: Oh, and one more thing. I think we all agree on this.

B: Don't you ever say the 'n-word' again, n*gga. That's our muthaf*ckin' word, y'heard?

The laughter of Rod and the T-Squad ends the promo.