The campfire blazes like The Mannequin Arm of Giant flung across a funeral pyre. Marshmallows bloated and charred, strung out across a spindly stick of ash, hang precariously from the outstretched hand of Lil Baby JuJu. What was he doing here out in the wilds of Gary, Indiana? Why were these gyrating, masculine bodies of steel orbiting around this flame casting ugly shadows across the torn down life that once was the American Steel Industry? Ah, yes. It all comes together in JuJu's slop-heaped mind. These wonderful men are the remnants of a bygone era of powerful foundry workers, all sexed up on JuicePilez and makeshift stainless steel. The arctic economic climate of today brought with it a stream of erotically charged hardbodies emerging from every exit of every steel factory in the godforsaken pit that is Gary, Indiana. This collective muscle floe had been waiting for the moment when they could finally tear off the tortured chastity belt of American Steel and "Get Real Crazy." Within hours impromptu Discos were set up across the town proper in the form of campfires and boomboxes; creepy smiles and erotic joylessness became an instant way of life. JuJu was drawn to this cacophony of sexuality. Donning his "Cap of Shame," he crossed the state line and found himself engulfed in avid sensuousness like nothing he had ever experienced before. Looking out across the sea of wrangled, tinkled flesh, Lil Baby JuJu screams, "Does anyone want s'more?!" He's not sure what he's offering when he asks this.
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