Post by James Edwards on Feb 24, 2019 0:16:55 GMT -5
"You did quite well in the tournament, Mr. James."
The translator, I still don't know his fuckin' name, smiles at me. I want to grab the rag the bartender is wiping the mahogany serving surface down with and stuff down his throat.
"The final match was such a spirited contest. I was on my feet at the conclusion!"
And I was layin' on my back with staring up at a Mountain with the belt I was sure would be mine. I jingle the tumbler full of half melted ice and watered down ginger ale to get smiley to change the subject.
"Do you need more drink, Mr. James?"
It's an asshole move to ignore him, but I don't care. I've earned the right to one. Three wins for a wake and one loss for a funeral. Should've been four wins for a funeral. The funeral for my reputation not for my ambitions, but there I lay ready for the casket while a Mountain celebrated my fuckin' win.
"Are you sure you don't need any more drink, Mr. James?"
Why does he keep up with the questions? Does he not realize I don't give a shit about him or anything else right now? God damn, he's stupid.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my knuckles turning white. My grip inches dangerously close to shatterin' the glass. I honestly wouldn't mind it. Pain leads to irritation. Irritation leads to anger. Anger is the fuel of a champion, a destroyer of Mountains and goofy ass Mountain Men.
I wasn't angry enough to win the belt. Scratch that, I wasn't furious enough. I was going on the ghosts of my failures. I was trying too damn hard to keep the fire lit off the smallest shit. In a way, I needed this loss, even though I ain't going to admit it to anyone, and it won't change the fact that I'm still fuckin' bitter about how close I came to finally becoming the man I'm supposed to be in Max-J. A champion, one who makes people piss down their pant legs when they see him coming.
"Mr. James--"
I raise a finger finally shut the translator up. I'm not letting this loss go in vain. It's one small humiliation on the road back to me becoming a killer. I have to let the embarrassment burn within me. I have to bottle it and master it. When I master it, then I'll master Mountains and Mountain Men. Then nobody can say shit but me while the James Edwards they used to know is laid in the ground and the new one rises from the plot.
The translator, I still don't know his fuckin' name, smiles at me. I want to grab the rag the bartender is wiping the mahogany serving surface down with and stuff down his throat.
"The final match was such a spirited contest. I was on my feet at the conclusion!"
And I was layin' on my back with staring up at a Mountain with the belt I was sure would be mine. I jingle the tumbler full of half melted ice and watered down ginger ale to get smiley to change the subject.
"Do you need more drink, Mr. James?"
It's an asshole move to ignore him, but I don't care. I've earned the right to one. Three wins for a wake and one loss for a funeral. Should've been four wins for a funeral. The funeral for my reputation not for my ambitions, but there I lay ready for the casket while a Mountain celebrated my fuckin' win.
"Are you sure you don't need any more drink, Mr. James?"
Why does he keep up with the questions? Does he not realize I don't give a shit about him or anything else right now? God damn, he's stupid.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my knuckles turning white. My grip inches dangerously close to shatterin' the glass. I honestly wouldn't mind it. Pain leads to irritation. Irritation leads to anger. Anger is the fuel of a champion, a destroyer of Mountains and goofy ass Mountain Men.
I wasn't angry enough to win the belt. Scratch that, I wasn't furious enough. I was going on the ghosts of my failures. I was trying too damn hard to keep the fire lit off the smallest shit. In a way, I needed this loss, even though I ain't going to admit it to anyone, and it won't change the fact that I'm still fuckin' bitter about how close I came to finally becoming the man I'm supposed to be in Max-J. A champion, one who makes people piss down their pant legs when they see him coming.
"Mr. James--"
I raise a finger finally shut the translator up. I'm not letting this loss go in vain. It's one small humiliation on the road back to me becoming a killer. I have to let the embarrassment burn within me. I have to bottle it and master it. When I master it, then I'll master Mountains and Mountain Men. Then nobody can say shit but me while the James Edwards they used to know is laid in the ground and the new one rises from the plot.