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Little River 110 was feeling particularly pretentious. The Cooldude Club, Friturtitown's premiere 90's-esque totally radical kids-only club, was holding a recruitment drive, and 110 was eager to make a good impression. Unfortunately, this meant acting twice as 90's as usual. This was driving Rosie up the wall.

"Why are you so Un-American all the time?" she asked.

"Because I'm totally radical, dude," replied 110, sounding like Kid Vid after having his balls chopped off with a Ginsu cleaver, "I shall lord it over you bogus dudes whenever I want. You're just a bogus goods engine who's utterly beneath me."

"No I'm not," said Rosie, "you love music made by the Japs! Aryan master race forever!"

"I listen to what?"

"Music by the Japs!"

"At least I'm not as racist as you are," laughed 110.

Rosie then left to have sexual intercourse with Mitzi Mozzarella, the mouse girl who was obsessed with shoving her tiny mouse clitoris on Rosie's front coupler.

A few days later, Ash Ketchum came to see him.

"110, you'll be making one stop today with an empty Express to test a new private station some rich 90's kid's gone and built on the hill overlooking the ghetto and the slums. You can make up excuses not to afterwards."

"Can't Rosie come with me, or Crazy Eights? They liked being publicly made to look bogus and not totally radical like me in stations."

"Fucking go!" came the blunt reply.

So, 110 did, but he was still conceited, and he grew even more radical too.

"GENESIS DOES!" he yelled.

"It's time for your visit to the crazy hospital. You're singing the original Sega Genesis ad's infamous jingle," said the Driver.

At last, they approached the new station, which was no ordinary station. To impress the Cooldude Club, 110 had talked his Driver, 90's Nick, into taking out a massive loan under the local KKK branch's Grand Dragon's name and commissioning his own personal station, invite-only night club, and private concert venue as a gaudy shrine to himself. If such a selfish act didn't prove he was Cooldude Club material, nothing would.

110 was apprehensive, but his mood soon changed when he reached the new station. In front of him was a blacklighted nightclub, plastered from wall to wall with neon lights and with a laser light show going on. 110 hummed pleasantly as he approached the color-changing neon buffers and looked through the one-way windows. He could look down on all the poor African-Americans from there.

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