RT: So I’m part of a team now? A’ight. Me and who?

Rod is told by the cameraman.

RT: A’ight! Ain’t no way we losin’.

Behind him, White Boy steps behind the 3-point arc and drills the game-ending 3 in front of Shawty. Shawty takes the expected ragging for getting schooled by a white guy, and the four men convene alongside Toombs in front of the camera.

S: What up, Rod?

J-R: Yeah, what we got this week?

RT: Tag team match. Six-man tag.

WB: Shit yeah, playa. This week we break into the win column.

S: Who we taggin’ wit’?

RT: Couple cats name of Subdued and Dean Wallace.

The Trouble Squad recognize these names, and they whoop and exchange high-fives.

B: Who we facin’?

J-R: Does it matter?

WB: So we got The Silencer…

J-R: The Prime Example…

B: And the King of Crunk, all on the same team?

S: They ain’t ready!

RT: Let me address my teammates. Truth be told, I’d expect you guys to be a little iffy ‘bout taggin’ with me, on account of I ain’t won yet. But in each of my matches, I’ve made rookie mistakes that have cost me. That ain’t ‘bout to happen again. I’m new, but I’m learning fast, and I can still bring the pain when I’m out there.

J-R: Make no f*ckin’ mistake, he come to hurt.

S: And we desperate to get us a W.

RT: I know what you’re all about, Subdued. You one of the young guns ‘round here, a major title threat and all that. And you, Dean Wallace… though you were less than respectful in your references towards me, you still the Prime Example, you still a former champ, and you still the best around here.

B: The f*ck you mean ‘less than respectful?’ That white n*gga flat dissed you, man!

J-R: He said that if you f*ck up, he’s kickin’ your ass.

RT: Shit, if ya’ll wasn’t my dawgs, you’d be dissin’ me, too.

S (on his cell phone): Hey baby!… naw, just chilling with (lowers voice to a whisper) the Winless Wonder and my dawgs.

RT: Winless Wonder… man, what the f*ck!

WB: He’s just messin’. We know you, Subdued, and Wallace make an unstoppable team.

B: Ya’ll could be facin’ anybody and still win.

WB: Who are we facin’?

The cameraman tells them. The first two names register no reaction, but the third name provokes a collective wince.

J-R: A’ight… Harbinger’s pretty good. But, so’s Wallace. Let’s say they cancel each other out.

B: And Akujin’s won a title before… but, Subdued has too, so let’s say they cancel each other out.

S: That’s pretty generous.

B: That’s very generous.

RT: So that leaves me and Daniel William Clark.

J-R: That’s the whitest white-boy name I’ve ever muhf*ckin’ heard.

WB: If I stood next to him in the dark, I’d disappear.

Much laughter ensues.

RT: Daniel William Clark… I don’t even know where to begin. It looks like we’re the X-Factors in this match, though. So whoever’s better between me an’ you, that’s who’s team is gonna win.

RT: First, let’s look at size. It might not matter all the time, but shit… look at your 5’11” ass, and then look at this. 6’9”, 285 pounds of sculpted, Dirty South monster. You can’t even begin to dream about hitting the Bronx Bomber on me. Your only hope is submissions and top-rope shit, and I’m too quick for you to slow me down. You aren’t strong enough for me, boy!

RT: In the meanwhile, I’ve got a shitload more to prove than you. You’ve at least shown well in your losses. I haven’t. I’ve got to show I’m worth what Beaumont’s payin’ me. I’ve got to show that I’m a legitimate contender in Mercury. I’ve got to represent fo’ the Dirty. That’s a lot of shit to get off my shoulders. And all I’ve got to do is be better than you.

RT: And if I can’t be better than a guy named Daniel William Clark… I probably oughta quit.

B: Ain’t no quit in this n*gga.

S: And ain’t no more losses either.

J-R: Despite what his teammates think, Rod’s going to be a large part of the equation that results in a victory.

WB: F’sho.

The Trouble Squad heads back out to the court, and the promo ends.