There was an stout old lady down the street. Your typical bundled Londoner, waiting for her favorite market to open up before the sun could warm the crisp oranges she had her wrinkly eyes on the whole week.

(Why has no one continued this?)

As the blazing sun peaked above the cityscape, she anxiously peaked from under her umbrella to see if the store owner was going to be late to their post again.

She checked her watch. He was already 5 minutes late. It wasn't like Jeffrey to be late. She grew anxious and pressed her face up against the front window of the shop, trying to see inside.

All that met her gaze was her own faint reflection in the front window and a dark, empty store. When had she grown so old? She checked her watch again. Just as she was about to turn and leave, a car parked in front of the store.

She hated cars. They were annoying. She hated to be trapped in these boxes for hours and not being able to do much else except listening to the radio or having forced smalltalk with another passenger.

The driver's side door opened and Paul Wall got out.

The band's bassist ran over to the car and drunkenly accosted him, grabbing Paul by his chain.
"Hey! Mr. Slayton! Do you have our philosophy papers graded yet?!"

He would regret this question for the rest of his life.

The old woman looked on at the professor beating his student. She did nothing to intervene. She sighed calmly as schadenfreude sunk in.

She turned to the left side looking down the empty street. She saw a figure. She squinted her eyes but could not make out the person's face.

As the figure moved into the light of the rising sun, she jumped. It was another Paul Wall.

Turning rapidly around, she was horrified at what she saw: coming up the street in the other direction were 5 or 6 more Paul Walls! A metallic clank startled her and she spun once more to see a manhole cover lifting up. From the sewers emerged yet another Paul Wall.

"My god!" she said, looking Paul Wall in his cold blue eyes. "What are you?"

"My teeth are mind-blowin'," said the Paul Wall. "Givin' err'body chills. Call me George Foreman 'cause I'm sellin' err'body grills!"

"How... jejune!" thought the woman.

Paul Wall #s 3 and 4 reach to restrain the woman, whom we now know to be called Janet, whilst Paul Wall #8 removes his grillz, with the intent to attach them to Janet's mouth and turn her into yet another Paul Wall. Despite struggling to escape Pauls 3 and 4, she remarked to herself how convenient it was that every Paul Wall had a large sign on its chest telling the number in the sequence of Paul Walls it was.

Then, just as the TOTALLY SICK GRILLZ were a mere inch from her face...

...Janet changed her strategy. Instead of resisting further she embraced #8, put her hand down his loose hiphop pants and began to massage his sphincter with slow circular movements.
He was caught off guard.

He began to sway back and forth in bliss, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. "Too easy" thought the woman, as she probed the roof of her mouth until she dislodged the razor blade she kept there, a nod to the time she spent in Harlem. The Paul Wall never saw it coming as she gripped the razor lengthwise and leaned forward, and in one deft motion, she

...forgot what she was doing. In a moment of filmy, gauzy recollection, the budgie out of the corner of her eye had reminded her of her favorite park-bench-bound activity. As she turned her head to see whether this week's supply of hardtack was adequate to feed the creature, the razor in her teeth sliced a neat bisection across Paul's carotid artery.

The cut she had made was so thin that it took a moment for the Paul Wall to notice what had happened. "Did this ho just bite me yo?" He asked out loud, seeking confirmation from one of his clones.

Paul Wall #4 reached for one of his guns as he answered "Grab yo tec, she cut'cho neck! Time to put this chick in check!"