Welcome To Miami Bienvenidos a Miami

At the CLUB, you know we poppin’ off.

It was true beach blast air. Thick as shit with salt and humidity, and a smell of attractive peoples’ sweat and sin. Hundreds of sun-soaked bodies danced barefoot in the sand beneath banners that screamed SEPTEMBER SUMMER 2025. Of course, the party was being fueled by plenty of Twisted Tea to keep it twisted. Bass rumbled through titanic speakers, novelty glow sticks waved like long ass fireflies, and boners and butts collided like the waves into the coast.

Welcome to Miami. What exactly was SEPTEMBER SUMMER 2025? Well, it certainly wasn’t a staged event specifically for the purpose of promoting Twisted Tea. Despite the surrounding bartenders handing them out as the only beverage available. Certainly it was because everyone just prefers it to any other drink ever. One thing was definitely for sure, though. Everyone was getting TURNT up.

And then the music cut.

The bassline dropped to silence. DJ Hard Tea froze mid-yell, and the only sound was the ocean crashing just beyond the barricades. A slight booing broke out, threatening a horrible turn of events for the festivities.

But the silence was short lived.

The sound was faint at first: the sputtering cough of an engine that refused to start. Once. Twice. Three times. The crowd laughed, thinking it was some kind of trick. But then, the engine roared to life, followed by the sound of a million awesomes.

It was St. Anger. Like a fucking SNARE BOMB rocking the coast.

The crowd went insane. Not because they knew what was coming (they didn’t) but because twisted sickness is always welcome at SEPTEMBER SUMMER 2025 (brought to you by Twisted Tea.) Water sprayed into the air. Someone even screamed “METALLICA!” like the band might walk out.

They weren’t coming out, but guess who the fuck did?

Lawnmower Man III came stomping out from the club patio. His grass-stained dungarees were rolled up to his knees, as this was a summer party and he needed to look the part.  Covering his face was his horrific mask with the pull rope, the zipper shut for the time being. Through the eyeholes were wild, unblinking eyes. And bolted into the mask, rattling with every stomp, were two halves of a sling blade. At his side was his trusty red plastic gas can, partially open and spilling flammable material out with each thud of his Bean Boots.

But most importantly? A Will Smith: Willenium shirt with the sleeves cut off showed the party that he knew where he was.

As for them, they didn’t know who he was, but he looked like a slasher villain from a haunted Tractor Supply, and that was enough. They instantly cheered him.

He yanked his pull-cord, convulsed, snapped his zipper mouth open, and bellowed into the humid air: “WHO WANTS TO GET MOWED THE FUCK DOWN?”

The crowd lost it. A bunch of glow sticks shot skyward. Twisted Tea cans flew. A chant broke out almost instantly: “MOW! MOW! MOW!”

The enigma let them chant, then held up a gardening gloved hand. His voice continued to scream, albeit a bit more low and guttural. “Yeah, don’t patronize me, Miami. You don’t know me. I can see it in your eyes, and I can smell it in your arm pits. You don’t have a damn clue who I am. So let me explain.”

He stomped in the sand, then retrieved a microphone from out of his crotch region. “What I’m doing here? It’s called a promo,” he explained, completely changing his tone to sound a lot less sinister and intense. “It’s what wrestlers do. Professional wrestling. Since most of you are extremely hot and probably don't watch it, it’s when two people put on tights, get in a ring, and beat the hell out of each other until the crowd chants their names. Also, it’s just two people. NO MORE.”

He pounded his chest, sling blades rattling along. “And a promo? A promo is when I stand here, look into that camera,” LMW3 said as he pointed at a giant inflated can of Twisted Tea, “and tell the world what I’m going to do to the poor piece of ASS SHIT who’s gotta go against me.”

The crowd laughed and clapped. A guy in a tank top shouted, “CUT THE PROMO, BRUH!”

Lawnmower Man III commenced yanking the pull-cord, convulsing, and then got back to the intensity he started with.  “My name is Lawnmower Man the Third! Not the first, DEFINITELY not the second. But the THIRD! I am the bastard son of a Husquvarna. Born in a shed, raised on gasoline, and baptized…by the blade!”

The partygoers roared with delight. No one knew what the hell he was talking about, but that didn’t matter. He stomped again, his boots crunching sand. With a soured tone, the half-man half-mower paused. “But there’s a problem here. Where’s the grass?”

He kicked at the sand, scattering grains across the bare legs of the partygoers. “This is no lawn! This is a freakin’ sandbox! How am I supposed to refuel in this wasteland?”

The crowd booed. Not at him, but at the tragedy. They felt his pain. Some bent down, patting the ground like grass might sprout if they believed hard enough.

Then salvation appeared. From a haze at the back of the patio, a grinning college kid stumbled forward. In his hand: a baggie. He held it up like a sacred relic.

As if on cue, the party erupted once again: “GRASS! GRASS! GRASS!”

Lawnmower Man III froze, eyes wild with the sight of his precious nourishment. He snatched the baggie, lifted it toward the neon lights, and whispered: “At long last! Chloro for my FILL.”

And without hesitation, the Mulch Lord tore it open and dumped the contents into his mouth. He chewed violently, green flecks spraying from his zipper mouth. His whole body convulsed with a yank of his pull-cord. His eyes rolled. He spread his arms wide.

“Whooooooooooaaaaaa,” he sighed, voice echoing through the mic. “This is some high grade turf, Miami! Not gas station clippings. Not backyard crabgrass. This stuff? This is THE FUTURE OF LAWNS.”

The crowd howled. More Twisted Tea geysered skyward. Girls shrieked with laughter. Boys shrieked with excitement. All genders shrieked at the thought of the future of lawns

Meanwhile, LMWM3 swayed. His movements grew sloppy and wild. After a few minutes, he was finally able to sputter out a reaction. “Twist me, baby!”

The crowd reacted with a big swell of laughter. Someone tossed him a Twisted Tea; he caught it, poured it into his gas can, shook it, and drank the toxic mix. He staggered forward to the inflatable yellow can, finger trembling. His voice dropped to a wrestler’s hiss. “Quinn Fleetwood,” he muttered. “Do you know what you are, Quinn? You’re sod that never grows. Fescue left patchy in the Miami sun. You’re like when a normal mower hits a stick and stalls out. You’re that stick, Quinn! You’re the STICK IN MY BLADE!”

The crowd had no clue who Quinn Fleetwood was, but they loved the line. They chanted it back at him: “STICK! STICK! STICK!” Again, none of this was rehearsed at all. It was completely natural.

Lawnmower Man III yanked his pull-cord, convulsed, and snapped back into fury. “But I’m high enough now to see the truth. You’re not crabgrass. You’re not dandelions. You’re not even MOSS! You are nothing but WEED, and I’m gonna EAT YOU ALIVE!”

He stumbled, nearly fell, then caught himself on a railing. He pointed at the sky, gas can swinging. “Miami, you’ve given me strength. You’ve given me GRASS. And now I give you a promise. Quinn Fleetwood’s losing streak doesn’t end with me. As a matter of fact, it’s only BEGINNING.”

Lawnmower Man spun in place, marijuana spit and unleaded dripping from his zipper mouth. “Your ass is grass, Quinn Fleetwood,” he bellowed, voice shredded, “AND I’M THE LAWNMOWER!”

The party hoisted him onto their shoulders. They didn’t know who he was, they didn’t know who Quinn Fleetwood was, and it didn’t matter. He was theirs now. A suburban demon who had eaten a bag of weed onstage, baptized himself in Twisted Tea, and promised to mulch a man none of them had ever heard of.

“…MAN THE THIRD!”

They carried him across the sand, chanting “MOW-ER! MOW-ER!” into the humid night until even the Atlantic Ocean seemed to chant with them. And for that night, in Miami, Lawnmower Man III wasn’t just a wrestler. He was a high and drunk wrestler.