Recently, when asked about his own mental well-being in the days following the birth of his first giant, ornery child, a friend related the experience to seeing the inside of Randy Shannon's soul in the wee hours of the night.

"I think it's just a ceiling fan spinning in futile circles against the ceiling of a stifling apartment in Overtown," he said. "And someone crying."

Yep, that's our coach. Of course, we here at The 7th Floor aren't content with heresay, no sir. We used SBN Beta technology to zap ourselves into tiny, blood-cell sized pieces, and entered into Randy Shannon's system via a xanax-and-virgin-blood cocktail. 

Like the Hubble telescope, except in an even darker and forboding space, we have sent back images captured from his innermost being.

Some of them may be disturbing.

Results: inconclusive.