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"My van is fast, fool!" shouted T, even as his van accelerated away from the extremely pissed off Stone Cold. Face red with rage, and his fingers having their usual lack of effect, Stone Cold Steve Austin was left with only one option.
"You jack-ass! I’m gonna hit you with my STONE COLD STUNNER!" With that, and a rebel scream of rage, Stone Cold launched himself from the pick-up truck at the GMC van, flailing his arms wildly in some pathetic parody of a wrestling move. However, the distance was too great, and Stone Cold Steve Austin ended up implanted in a poster on the side of the road, advertising an all night Craig T. Nelson special.
"NOOOOO! You’ll pay for this, ‘cause Stone Cold Said So!" Steve Austin’s screams of rage faded off into the distance as James Bond and Mr. T drove away towards the mall, leaving behind them a couple wrecked blocks, an incensed Stone Cold, and a crowd of mightily confused oldsters.
Still in their tuxedos, and some time later, the two agents of the Suckah Service walked discreetly into the mall. Glancing about, the two say no sign of any Skids capable of committing the crime involved.
Smiling in a confident fashion, Bond whispered, "It’s time we pieced together this mystery once and for all. I believe a vast evil organization was behind this whole incident, and they have been watching us from the beginning."
"What ya talkin’ about, you crazy foo’? A skid did this. And I pity the suckah that watches us! I think you just a bit crazier than Murdoch."
"I’ll tell you who was watching us. First of all, at Hannibal’s house, I noticed someone acting suspicious across the street. Obviously a spy. And then, at Jeff’s milk bar, those people who attacked us clearly work for the same malignant force. Finally, I noticed a yellow pinto trailing me earlier. Clearly they have some way of following our every movements, and I think it must be a tracking beacon. It must be placed, though, in some place they know we’d never change or touch. Your Mohawk!" With that, Bond made a grab for the aforementioned place.
"Don’t mess my hair, foo’!" Suddenly, Mr. T noticed a group of skids approaching. "Quiet, James-Jibba-Jabba. Here come some skids." Indeed, a group of skids walked up towards the agents, dressed as usual in their grungy dirty clothing. They were all carrying their boards, rather than riding them.
"Alright," said Bond, "now could be our chance to find out the truth about this whole thing." Walking up to one of the skids, he asked, "So, have you skids been up to any pyromaniac things lately?"
"What?" said one of the skids in a very bored type of voice. "I dunno." Supplied another. The rest of the skids just sort of stood there rather skidishly. One of them pulled out a very greasy and clearly old french fry and ate it.
"Alright, have any of you crazy foo’s broken your board lately?" asked T. At this, there was actually some reaction. One of the skids looked up and said, "Yeah. It was cool. I broke my board with an edge. Yeah. It was after I slept in someone’s garage. But. I didn’t set their fridge on fire."
"We’ve got them!" cried Bond. With that, he assumed a classicly useless martial arts pose.
At this, the skids all let out ridiculously stupid laughs, before one of them said, "Hey. He’s gay." The others agreed with variations of "Heheh. You geek." All of a sudden, the skids attacked, half of them leaping on skateboards, whilst the other half started tossing pennies at the agents.
"I’ll take care of the rich ones." Said James Bond with a confident smirk.
"They ain’t gonna be no rich for long! But how ya going to do that?"
"With my watch." Replied Bond mysteriously. Despite Mr. T’s fierce glare, Bond refused to elaborate further. T didn’t push it, as he had problems of his own. As the skids leaped high in the air with their battle cries, Mr. T watched in a disturbing lack of awe as they one by one tumbled from their boards at his feet.
"I pity da foo’ who fights me!" yelled T as he slammed one of the skids to the ground. Meanwhile, another skid attempted to punch Mr. T, but with a disturbing lack of effort, the punch had absolutely no effect.
"Perhaps some of you skids would like some english T!" Bond cracked from the side, waiting hopefully for his audience to laugh.
"Don’t need no english! I’m gonna throw dere asses!" With that cryptic warning, Mr. T proceeded to toss the uncaring skids left and right.
Meanwhile, Bond was hardpressed facing all the uncaring penny-tossing skids. Raising his watch, Bond remembered that as more budget cuts, his laser-firing watch had been replaced by a cheap casio. Nevertheless, he had a plan. Raising his fancy-looking watch towards the skids, he said, "Look at this~!" in an imploring tone.
Instantly, the penny-tossing stopped. The skids all leaned forward and gazed at the watch in awe. "Hey. That’s cool. Never seen a watch like that before." Even as the skids gazed in amazement at the watch, and Mr. T threw the last of the board ones, the local police finally arrived on the scene, after spending the morning removing an obnoxious wrestler from a Craig T. Nelson poster.
"Congraturations!" congratulated the police chief. "You , Mr. T, and Mr. Bond, of course, have managed to put away one of the most annoying bands of skids in the entire country. Oh yeah, their band sucks too."
Bond smiled. "Now that my mission is done, I can finally go to a casino, win some money and pick up a cute girl."
Mr. T shrugged. "Do what you want, suckah. Right now, I could use an ice cold milk."