Post by Sin City Saint on Jul 18, 2005 22:10:22 GMT -5
The room is pitch black. A small yellow light is seen from a distance. Its incadescence flashing through the blackout. The sound of a can being crushed and dropped to the floor echoes in the room. The sound of a slight sniffle and a throat being cleared. The room remains in darkness. But the sound of a sarcastic laugh and of a familiar voice can be heard, as he begins to speak.
[Sin City Saint] Heh...heh...heh. Sunday Night Slam has come and it has past. The new day has dawned, but not without controversy. For Sunday Night Slam brought about a day of reckoning. One of which has been a long time coming. For the last few years, I have watched countless hours and read countless articles about the so called "Assassin". A legend among legends. All this, while I busted my ass across the country, sleeping in a VW bus and eating tuna right out of a can. While Brandon Bailey wined and dined, having to decide whether he would have the steak or the lobster. I was forced into drive thru, trying to decide between the number 3 or the number 6.
The sound of a can being popped is heard. A slight spritz into the air and a release. The sound of a man drinking, gulp after gulp.
[Sin City Saint] At one time, Brandon Bailey. At one time this was your nectar. This was your pleasure. This was what you sought for solice. But according to you.....those days are gone. You have reformed. How sweet? And all because of the love your little baby sister. So touching? You say you do not need it. No beer. No Jack. Not scotch, bourbon, vodka, rum, or even schnapps. Nothing. You have suceeded in defeating the addiction. You don't need alcohol to live anymore. Are you better than me, Brandon? Are you better than me, because I like to enjoy a cold one or two or three or four?! ANSWER ME!!!
The Sin City Saint finishes the rest of the can, crumbling the can and smashing it against the wall.
[Sin City Saint] Go ahead Brandon. Tell the world. Tell all who will listen on how you are drug free. How you are alcohol free. How you are better than ME! You're not Brandon Bailey! You are not better than me. One win. One single win and all of a sudden you think you are on a roll? Think again. For my goal was to come out of Slam with a victory. My goal was to take a piece of you away. The same thing that the mighty Brandon Bailey has done for a decade now. The same thing. This past Sunday, it was my turn. It was the turn of every single person that you have sqaushed underneath your boot. It was for MY fellowship. The fellowship that follows a soldier like me into a battle. A solider like me. No one super special. I drink beer. I play cards. I smoke cigars. I associate with prostitutes. Those who were without a voice, now have one. They have the voice of The Sin City Saint. Hear my voice, Brandon. Hear my voice.
The sound of another beer can being popped is heard. The flick of a zippo and the room becomes lit. The Sin City Saint is seated in a black leather chair, holding a cigar between his lips. He takes the zippo and holds it against the cigar, waiting for the cigar to light. The cigar lights and The Sin City Saint takes a puff, blowing smoke into the dark room.
[Sin City Saint] Heh...heh...heh. Sunday Night Slam has come and it has past. The new day has dawned, but not without controversy. For Sunday Night Slam brought about a day of reckoning. One of which has been a long time coming. For the last few years, I have watched countless hours and read countless articles about the so called "Assassin". A legend among legends. All this, while I busted my ass across the country, sleeping in a VW bus and eating tuna right out of a can. While Brandon Bailey wined and dined, having to decide whether he would have the steak or the lobster. I was forced into drive thru, trying to decide between the number 3 or the number 6.
The sound of a can being popped is heard. A slight spritz into the air and a release. The sound of a man drinking, gulp after gulp.
[Sin City Saint] At one time, Brandon Bailey. At one time this was your nectar. This was your pleasure. This was what you sought for solice. But according to you.....those days are gone. You have reformed. How sweet? And all because of the love your little baby sister. So touching? You say you do not need it. No beer. No Jack. Not scotch, bourbon, vodka, rum, or even schnapps. Nothing. You have suceeded in defeating the addiction. You don't need alcohol to live anymore. Are you better than me, Brandon? Are you better than me, because I like to enjoy a cold one or two or three or four?! ANSWER ME!!!
The Sin City Saint finishes the rest of the can, crumbling the can and smashing it against the wall.
[Sin City Saint] Go ahead Brandon. Tell the world. Tell all who will listen on how you are drug free. How you are alcohol free. How you are better than ME! You're not Brandon Bailey! You are not better than me. One win. One single win and all of a sudden you think you are on a roll? Think again. For my goal was to come out of Slam with a victory. My goal was to take a piece of you away. The same thing that the mighty Brandon Bailey has done for a decade now. The same thing. This past Sunday, it was my turn. It was the turn of every single person that you have sqaushed underneath your boot. It was for MY fellowship. The fellowship that follows a soldier like me into a battle. A solider like me. No one super special. I drink beer. I play cards. I smoke cigars. I associate with prostitutes. Those who were without a voice, now have one. They have the voice of The Sin City Saint. Hear my voice, Brandon. Hear my voice.
The sound of another beer can being popped is heard. The flick of a zippo and the room becomes lit. The Sin City Saint is seated in a black leather chair, holding a cigar between his lips. He takes the zippo and holds it against the cigar, waiting for the cigar to light. The cigar lights and The Sin City Saint takes a puff, blowing smoke into the dark room.
