Michael is sitting in a large leather chair by his desk. He has a small cup of rum and a joint in an ashtray. He is wearing a floral, silk shirt that is buttoned down. His hair is cut short and slicked back. Michael: I built this. I built the IWT. I built everything. Aids Johnson, Jack Forté, Dylan Grey...it doesn't matter. They all owe their fucking lives to me. But what happens? I get guys like Alias Antonio and Dat Kid trying to screw me over. THIS IS MINE! The world is mine! I will not stand for this anymore. I am here for one thing and that's to prove to everyone that held me back or thought I wouldn't be able to run the IWT, wrong. While the IWT is erupting into civil war, what am I doing? Filling out the checks and selling out the seats. No broken neck, no injury, no civil war will hold me back. Michael takes a long whiff of his joint and follows it by a drink. Michael: You can try and do what ever you want. The only way to take the IWT from me is to pry it from me on the day of judgement. The only one that can take this from me is god himself! So I suggest this, to all the motherfuckers that held me back; Dat Kid, Alias Antonio, Rita Kendal, Jonathan - The World is Mine. Now go fuck yourselves. He takes a whiff of his joint and smirks as he lays back and closes his eyes.