It's no wonder that you're a fat ass loser working in a junkyard Nick. Are you smart enough to understand now that it was not a very bright idea to hand out Photog's private cell phone number to the jigaboo scam artists? A phone number I might add that I did not even know about. You can talk all the shit you want but Photog knows who had his number and who didn't and this situation went down the same way it always does with a dullard like you. You got the number off of Photog during one of his misguided attempts to offer an olive branch to a smoldering turd (that's you) and your boyfriend Angkor immediately sweet talked you into giving it him, probably with offers that involved promises of disgusting butt sex, in which he passed it around to all the 419 scam artists. Now you get to take the heat while your buddy Angkor stays safe and snug in the background. Once again you've been used like a rented mule Nick and once again it also proves that you'll be crawling under grimy wrecked cars in the rain to obtain defective parts you can pass off on suckers who go to your Euromerc Ebay site. How does it feel knowing that if you don't die young from AIDS or heart failure from lugging around that fat ass of yours you'll be doomed to living off the dole in some filthy council estate and begging the young hooligans in the neighborhood to stop pelting you with garbage.