Fear is a familiar feeling for Vince Mcmahon, who steps on the people responsible for his success purely for fun and in worship of laziness and greed. He fears the scores of wrestlers who put their hearts and bodies on the line for a living, and he has nightmares about the loyal family of fans who use their voice for the better of their ring-bound heroes.

Vince has a secret weapon: Beneath his wrinkled skin, under his tummy-tucked gut, he has an army of tiny Vinces who, like an accidental fart, spring out from his mouth if he gets frightened. All of them are identical to the big Vince in every way except their size - the smallest is the size of a hummingbird.

All of the little bastards have the same dreams of milking the gorgeous human that is Rodney Piper, until sadly croaked. The little Mcmahons sit in Big Vince's womb feeding on leftover hunks of ham (Vince's eats three live pigs worth a day) that Vince's stomach acid doesn't get to first. One day, the whole 37 of them sprung out when Ray Mysterio startled the Big Vince.

One even got loose and started selling counterfeit Van Gogh on the streets of Kensington. One day after a hefty orphan asked for a discount so they could hang a Starry Night above their bed, the little Vince threatened to eat their ear, "You like Van Gogh so much, how 'bout I bite your fucking ears and eyes off and see how long you last without art, you Pig lookin’ swine sissy-boy." The tiny Vince hasn't been seen since.

Luckily for the rest of decent human beings and the world of just-deserts, Vince Mcmahon's secret weapon does little to calm his fears, he’ll live on never knowing when his Mini-me’s will vomit out of him. He will most likely live the rest of his days stuck in between deserved nightmares of his employees and shrieks of repressed guilt. He’ll occasionally catch the feeling, just for a moment, and just enough to learn to fear it, before it returns to the corner of his eye.

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