Let me tell you something, Mr. #1 Son. Mr. wanna be big time, Tony Montana, chain-smoking, greasy-haired, caffeine addicted, two-foot-nothing little bitch. You and me? We're officially enemies. If you were choking on a cigarette in front of me I'd sit back and enjoy the show you whiny, spineless piece of shit. Just because your wife carries your balls in her Gucci wallet does not mean you can come in here trying to be Boss Hog. We are not your slaves- don't be fooled by the color of my skin, asshole. My people never picked cotton or cut sugar cane, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be the one to sully my family name doing your menial jobs- you need to stay upstairs with that bull!
But that's okay. Do your shit. Go complain to your dad like the little pussy that you are. I suppose some people have to learn the hard way.
If you thought I was difficult to work with before, shiiiiiit, you're in for a hell of a deadline this month.
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