Nice Guy Dustin is in his car, talking to someone on a cell phone. He’s on his way to the warehouse.

Nice Guy Dustin: Hey Paul, we’ve got a major situation here. . . I know you know that. I gotta talk to daddy and find out what he wants done.

In the warehouse, we see Paul "Mr." Wight and Bret "Mr. Pink" Hart beating the shit out Mick Foley. "Mr. Blonde", Chris Jericho, stays in the background, looking pleased. . . and grinning.

Nice Guy Dustin: All I know is what Chris told me, man. Said the place turned into a fucking hardcore battle royal, everyone jobbing to everyone else. He took one of McMahon’s boys hostage just to get the fuck out of there.

Wight and Hart are continuing to beat on Foley, who isn't fighting back. It'd be kind of difficult to, too, as his hands are cuffed.

Nice Guy Dustin: Do I sound like I'm fucking joking? He's driving around with a fucking company boy in his trunk!

The beating continues. Mick is juicing.

Nice Guy Dustin: I don't know who did what! I don't know who's got the gold. I don't know if anybody's got the gold. I don't know who's jobbed, I don't know who's alive, I don't know who's caught, I don't know who's not. . .

Paul says something on the other end of the phone.

Nice Guy Dustin: Don't give me any fucking Jim Neidhart jokes, man, this is serious!

Wight and Hart are dragging Mick Foley's lifeless carcass on the warehouse floor. They put him in a chair and tie him up.

Nice Guy Dustin: I will know, I'm practically there now. . . Well what do I tell these guys about daddy? Alright. . . You’re sure that's what he said? I know it can be difficult to make out at times. . . OK, that's what I thought.

In the warehouse, Chris Jericho is keeping cool, sitting on a large crate. Paul Wight and Bret Hart are taking turns beating on the defenseless Foley.

Mr. Pink: You like being a screwing hero? Huh? You like being a screwing hero?! I liked it too, but then McMahon screwed me! So you're not going to be a screwing hero either!

He nails Foley with a fist right on the mouth, then quickly retreats, holding his right hand with the left.

Mr. Pink: Screw, not again. . .

Mr. Wight: You're gonna suffer for nothing, you hear me? You better fucking talk. You're gonna fucking talk.

Foley: I don't Snowing know anything!

Mr. Wight: You fucking know. You know. Look at me. You fucking know. . .

Nice Guy Dustin enters.

Nice Guy Dustin: What in the Hell in a Cell's going on here?!

Wight and Hart speak at the same time.

Mr. Wight: Where the fuck is Dusty!?!

Mr. Pink: Hey Nice Guy, we've got one of McMahon's company boys!

Dustin ignores them both. He sees Hulk "Mr. Orange" Hogan lying in his own blood on the floor.

Nice Guy Dustin: Holy shit, Orange is jobbed.

Mr. Wight: No he's not jobbed. But he will be if we don't get him taken care of.

Mr. Pink: We were screwed over. The company boys were there waiting for us.

Nice Guy Dustin: What? Nobody fucking screwed anybody over. It’s just your usual fucking paranoia--. . .

Mr. Pink: The company boys were there waiting for us, man!

Nice Guy Dustin: Poultryshit!

Mr. Pink: Hey screw you man, you weren't there, we were! I'm telling you, the company boys had that taping staked out.

Nice Guy Dustin: Okay Mr. fucking Dave Meltzer! You're so fucking smart, huh? Who did it?

Mr. Pink: What the screw do you think we've been whining to each other about?

Nice Guy Dustin: Yeah, what'd you come up with, huh? You think I did it, you think I fucking screwed you over?

Mr. Pink: I don't know. But somebody did.

Nice Guy Dustin: Nobody did. You fucking midcarders turned the SmackDown taping--. . .

Mr. Wight: Don't you call me a midcarder!

Nice Guy Dustin: You fucking ham'n'eggers! Turn a fucking SmackDown taping into a battle royal--. . .

Mr. Wight: Don't you call me a fucking ham'n'egger!

Nice Guy Dustin: . . .--and you wonder why the fucking company boys show up?!

Mr. Blonde: Where is Dusty?

Nice Guy Dustin: I don't know, I ain't talked to him! I talked to Paul, and he says daddy's coming down here and he's fucking pissed.

Mr. Pink: He's pissed? (to Paul Wight:) I told you he'd be pissed.

Mr. Blonde: What did Dust say?

Nice Guy Dustin: I told you I ain't talked to him! All I know is he's pissed! He's pissed like a stewardess on a flight where Willie Regal's a passenger!

Mr. Wight: What are you gonna do about him?

He motions to Hogan.

Nice Guy Dustin: Jesus Castillo, give me a fucking chance to breathe. I've got a few questions of my own.

Mr. Wight: You ain't jobbing, he is!

Nice Guy Dustin: Alright Mr. Big Fucking Bastard! I'll call somebody!

Mr. Wight: Who?

Nice Guy Dustin (sarcastically): Jake the Fucking Snake Roberts! What do you think, I'll call a booker! Push him right up! Now what happened to Brown and Blue?

Mr. Pink: Brown's jobbed, we don't know what happened to Blue.

Nice Guy Dustin: Brown's jobbed? You're sure?

Mr. Wight: I'm sure, I was there. He took one in the head.

Nice Guy Dustin: Nobody's got a clue what happened to Mr. Blue?

Mr. Blond: Either he's alive or he's jobbed. Or the company boys got him. . . or they don't.

Dustin does a "get a load of this guy" face in regards to Jericho's statement. He goes over to Mick Foley.

Nice Guy Dustin: I take it this is the company boy that you told me about? Why are you beating on him?

Mr. Pink: Maybe he can tell us who the screw screwed us over.

Nice Guy Dustin: If you fucking beat this prick long enough, he'll tell you he started the God-damned ECW Arena fire! Now that don’t necessarily make it fucking so!

Foley: Actually. . .

Nice Guy Dustin: Shut up. Come on man, think! Alright. First things fucking last: Who's got the gold? Please, somebody at least tell me. One little fucking favor, just for my sake. . .

Mr. Pink: I got 'em bagged. Vince wouldn't let me keep my belt in '97, but this time, I got 'em bagged, OK? I stashed them before I was sure this place wasn't a McMahon hideout.

Nice Guy Dustin: Good for you. Now let's go get it. First we've gotta get rid of those cars outside, it looks like the Brisco Brothers' Body Shop out there. OK. . . Blondie, stay here and babysit them two.

He means Mick Foley and Hulk Hogan.

Nice Guy Dustin: Wight and Pink, you take a car each. I follow you, we ditch 'em, we pick up the gold. And if you see any member of your immediate family on the way, Pink, don’t fucking run them over. While I'm following you, I'll arrange some sort of a booker for our friend.

Mr. Wight (pointing at Chris Jericho): We can't leave these guys here with him.

Nice Guy Dustin: Why not?

Mr. Wight: 'Cause he's a fucking psycho. I'm talking Jeff Hardy levels of psychoness. And if you think that Dusty is pissed off, that ain't nothing compared to how pissed off I am with him, for putting me in the same room as that midcarder!

Mr. Blonde: You see what I've been putting up with Dustin? I fucking walked in here, I told these guys about staying put. Mr. Wight whips out his shitty offense, he's getting in my face, calling me a midcarder, saying he's gonna job me out, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Mr. Wight: He's the reason the joint turned into a spearing spree. (to Mr. Pink:) What are you, my fucking tag team partner? Tell him!

Mr. Pink: He went crazy at the taping, but he seems alright now.

Mr. Wight (mimicking Jericho ssetting up the Jerichosaults): This is what he was doing: BAM. . . BAM. . . BAM. . . BAM. . . BOOYAA!

Mr. Blonde: Bam, bam, bam, bam, booyaa? What are you, Shane McMahon? I told 'em not to ring the fucking bell a bunch of times in succession, they did. If they hadn't done what I told 'em not to do, they'd still be alive.

Mr. Wight (clapping his hands, sarcastically): Well it's a big fucking hero!

Mr. Blonde: Thanks.

Mr. Pink (silently, to himself): I thought I was his hero. . .

Mr. Wight: That's your excuse for going on a Jerichosault-crazy spotfest?

Mr. Blonde: I don't like ring bells, Mr. Wight.

Nice Guy Dustin: What does it matter who stays with the company boy? We're not letting him go now, not after he's seen everybody.

Foley: My memory is really not that good. . .

Bret punches him in the face. Probably breaking his hand once again in the process.

Mr. Pink: Shut the screw up, man!

Nice Guy Dustin: You guys should never have taken him out of the trunk in the first place.

Mr. Pink: We've been trying to find out about the screwjob.

Nice Guy Dustin: There is no fucking screwjob! Now here's the Weekend News Update with Sean Mooney: Blondie, you stay here and take care of these two! Wight and Pink, you come with me, 'cause if Dusty gets here and he sees all these cars outside, I swear to God he's gonna be just as pissed at me as he is at you!

Dustin, Bret, and The Big Show exit. After a few seconds, Jericho hops down from the crate and takes off his trenchcoat. He turns to the tied up and bloodied Mick Foley.

Mr. Blonde: Alone at last. . .

He walks over to the beaten up company boy, who spits out one of his teeth.

Mr. Blonde: Guess what? I think I'm mired in the midcard.

He grins maniacally.

Mr. Blonde: Now, where were we?

Foley: I told you I don't know about any Snowing screwjob. I've been in the WWF for only four years, they don't tell me anything. Nobody tells me Snow. You can torture me all you want. Please do.

Mr. Blond: Torture you, that's a good. . . That's a good idea. I like that one.

Foley: Even your bookerman said it wasn't screwjob!

Mr. Blonde: My what?

Foley: Your bookerman.

Mr. Blonde: Excuse me, jerky. One thing I wanna make clear to you: I don't have a bookerman. Nobody tells me what to do. You understand?

He slaps Foley across the face.

Mr. Blonde: You heard what I said, you son of a bitch?

Foley: Alright. Alright, you don't have a bookerman. Alright.

Y2J looks at his hand, which is covered with Foley's blood.

Mr. Blonde: Look at that fucking shit. . .

He wipes it off on Foley's shirt.

Mr. Blonde: Look kid, I'm not gonna Ross Report you, OK? I don't really give a good fuck what you know or don't know. But I'm gonna torture you anyway. Regardless. Not to get information. It's amusing to me. . . to torture a company boy.

Jericho takes up a sweat stained leather mask from the floor.

Mr. Blonde: You can say anything you want, 'cause I've heard it all before. All you can do is pray for a quick squash. . . Which you ain't gonna get.

He puts the mask on Foley. Immediately, it seems Mick has trouble breathing, as he starts wheezing through his nose. One of his teeth are embedded there. Y2J just laughs and walks over to a CD player that’s standing on a crate by the wall.

Mr. Blonde: Have you been listening to this WWF Attitude CD? I've got a special edition of it. This song here's my favorite.

He puts a CD in and presses 'play'. As Jericho produces a razor blade from the tape on his fingers, the music starts. . . "Stuck in the midcard with you" blares out the speakers, and while dancing with the razor blade in his hand, Jericho sings along to the music. . .

Mr. Blonde: "Well I don't know who I'm wrestling tonight / I got the feeling that something ain't right / I'm so scared in case I mess up a spot / No wonder that the crowd isn't hot. . . Test to the left of me, D'Lo to the right / Here I am, stuck in the midcard with you. . ."

He SLASHES Mick in the face. Foley is juicing from multiple cuts in his head now, and is wearing a crimson mask. He lets out a number of unintelligible screams. Next, Jericho drapes away Foley's hair on the right side of his face, ready to start cutting his ear off. . . But it's not there.

Mr. Blonde: Oh yeah. Forgot.

He looks at Foley for a while, seemingly pondering what to do next.

Mr. Blond: Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back. He walks out of the warehouse.

Outside, he opens the trunk of his car and picks up a bottle of Jim Ross's BBQ sauce. He then walks back inside.

Once inside, he continues the brutal assault on poor Mick. He splashes the BBQ sauce all over his face. Foley is still screaming, although we can't make out any words. Jericho rips off the mask.

Foley: Ahh! Ahh! Ahh! Don't! Stop!

Mr. Blonde: What? What's the matter?

Foley: Don't stop this! Please! Don't stop it.

Mr. Blonde (splashing some more BBQ sauce in Foley’s face): That burn a little bit?

Foley (ecstatic): Please. . . Don't stop. Please! Don't talk to me. Burn me, please! Ahh! I'm begging you, I don't know any of you Snowing guys, I'm not gonna say anything. Other than there's a blowtorch right over there. Be my guest. Please!

Chris Jericho goes and fetches the blowtorch, and is ready to burn Mick alive. But all of a sudden, Hogan hulks up, runs over to Jericho, gives him nine big boots and the Leg Drop of Doom. Y2J has been jobbed out. Hogan then slumps back down to the floor, apparently just as beat as he was before the attack.

Mr. Orange: Hey. . . What's your name?

Foley: Mick. . . Mick Foley.

Mr. Orange: Listen to me Mick, I'm. . . Listen to me Mick Foley, I'm one of McMahon’s boys.

Foley: Yeah, I know.

Mr. Orange: You do?

Foley: Yeah, your name is Terry something.

Mr. Orange: Bollea. Terry Bollea.

Foley: Randy Savage introduced us about five months ago.

Mr. Orange: I don't remember that at all.

Foley: I do. Which is weird. . .

Mick Foley, bloodied, with only one ear, and with a whole bunch of missing teeth, turns to Hogan

Foley: Terry? Terry. . .? How do I look?

Hogan looks at him in disbelief.

Mr. Orange: I don't know what to tell you, brutha.

Foley: That Snow. . . That sick Snow! That Snowing bastard!

Mr. Orange (confused): It seemed you liked it just a minute ago, brutha.

Foley: Oh. Well, I get sort of excited and caught up in the spirit of the action in these sort of situations. . .

Mr. Orange: Brutha, I need you to hold on. . . There are company boys waiting just a few blocks away.

Foley: What the Snow are they waiting for? This Snowing guy, he slashes my face, my ear is gone, I've had four front teeth knocked out, I've had eight concussions, five broken ribs, two herniated discs in my back, second degree burns on my arm--. . .

Mr. Orange: Sucka! Sucka! I'm, sucka, jobbing here! I'm, sucka, jobbing!

He calms down a bit.

Mr. Orange: They're not to make a move until Dusty Rhodes shows up. I was sent here to get him. Alright? Now, you heard 'em. They said he's on his way. Don't pussy out on me now, brutha. We're just gonna sit here and juice until Dusty sticks his, sucka, head through that door.