Still trying to translate half of what Skeletor is saying, you figure you might as well prove yo’self worthy to da gang by crackin’ a bust.
“Ya’ll know what’d be jive?” you say.
“Lock it up, G,” Skeletor replies.
“I say we crack down on mo’ o’ these old mamma-jammas!” you say, gesturing at the businessman kneeling at the cement. “Ya’ll know where dey at?”
“Ye-ah, dawg!” Spike shouts. “A wrinklehouse!”
Realizing he means a retirement home, you concede. This isn’t quite you were going with this, but you figure it’s all good in da hood anyway.
“It’s all good in da hood, anyway,” you say.
“Den let’s break what joints dey got left!” Skeletor cries, and you set off for the nearest old-people facility.
When you get there, however, you see a bunch of elderly men and women in rocking chairs, knitting machines, and in some cases, hospital gurneys. Do you:
Start to have second thoughts and say that you should try a different job? Page 22.
#^x%x these old $&%#uhs! Let’s pull their IVs off! Page 23.
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