Triathalon Club Three

By now, all you suckers better watch yourselves. My homeboys and I are so sick and tired of you whiny bitches thinking you can run in our marathons. You better believe me, I'm gonna take this shit down, and this shit is not gonna go down easily. I'm gonna make myself a big ole mess with you, son. Remember all those times you looked in the mirror and said to yourself, "I can do it. I can win." Well, let me tell you, I never had to look myself in the mirror cause I've known all along that I'm one ugly motherfucker, and I don't need to convince myself that you will get pummeled by me. I know it. You know it. It seems the only person who doesn't know it is your ass, cause if he did know it, he would've shat himself by now. Are you gonna tell me your ass shat itself? The Boston Marathon is only a few months away. Maybe - just maybe - if you run every hour of every waking day, and give up sleep altogether, and make plenty of sacrifices to your monkey gods until the marathon, you might just be able to strengthen your knees enough so they won't break when you fall down on them to lick the sweat between my toes. Even then, if for some strange reason I don't completely obliterate you - say I get a cramp and accidentally leave a trace of your memory somewhere here on earth - one of my two fine homeboys are gonna wipe every last molecule of your existence from those Massachusetts streets. We are the Triathalon Club Three. Don't cry. We'll do you in all quiet-like. Vindicated.