Post by *LIGHTNING* Lucas Felix on Mar 10, 2019 16:20:19 GMT -5
It is a far cry from the backstreets of Brooklyn, New York in which he was born and raised. As opposed to a small flat above a pizzeria, he has been able to afford something far more spacious. What had been two rooms have now been multiplied tenfold. What was once a grimy bathtub has now expanded to become an Olympic sized swimming pool. What was once mould growing on the windowsills is now a luscious lawn that seems to stretch for acre upon acre. Even still, the day is not as perfect as it might seem. In place of the expected sunlight are dark clouds that have rolled in from the coast, bringing with them torrential rain and thunder. Perfect? No. Appropriate? Most definitely.
“My name is Lucas Felix; 2014 Star of the Year, Would-Be Hall of Famer is Chris Page weren’t such a cunt and former World Champion. So, you might be asking yourselves… what have I been doing with myself for all these years? In short, not a lot. Aside from moving on with my life, that is.”
A mirror that is greater in height and width than the man himself is situated not too far away from his bed. Upon managing to clamber out of his pit, reluctantly leaving the warmth and comfort of his duvet that is covered with the finest brushed cotton, he examines his figure with slight distain. Indeed, his physique is nowhere near that of when he was considered to be at his physical peak. What was once a prevailing six pack is now hidden by a ‘beer gut’ that only very slightly overhangs his boxer shorts. He takes a deep intake of breath, sucking in his stomach to appease his own levels of contentedness. Nevertheless, there is still a certain presence about him. It is obvious that, in spite of his flaws, he is at least making an effort to stay in relative shape, as opposed to become the morbidly obese failures that have succumbed to poor diet and other such factors. Sure, the man likes a drink more than the average Joe, but honestly, who doesn’t?
“Life is so less strenuous than it was when I was on the road with the WGWF. It is a wonder why the fuck I decided to be a part of this shit in the first place. I guess my beer fridge needs restocking and I fancy blowing out on an Indian soon.”
He drags his feet straight past his en-suite bathroom and instead heads out into the upper corridors of his manor. Traversing the sinuous hallway, he eventually reaches a staircase that leads directly downwards to the lobby, complete with a black and white tiled floor that makes the vicinity resemble a giant chess board. Upon reaching the bottom, he pivots around the hand rail and immediately turns back on himself. He pushes through a swing-door that leads directly into a kitchen area. This is not a regular kitchen area; more so one that is befitting to be installed within a five-star restaurant. Every appliance is industrialised, from the dishwasher to the microwave. He trudges towards the fridge at the far end of the room.
[/I]“So I like to start my day the same way that I would any other, be it as part of a touring wrestling promotion or otherwise. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so I make sure that I get something that soothes my hankerings every day.”[/I]
Upon flinging the door open, he feels the cool air from within seep out, weaving between the hairs on his chest and onto his skin. He pulls out a mostly consumed can of Stella Artois and places in on the counter, followed by a large, flat square box. He places it down and lifts the lid, pulling out a thick slice of deep pan pizza, complete with a double serving of pepperoni. He jabs the tip that was formerly in the middle into his mouth, taking a big bite out of it as he shuts the fridge door with his foot, trying the lever a loose sliver of Italian sausage from it’s cheesy snare with his teeth.
“Of course, there are those who limit themselves in terms as to what constitutes a breakfast. Some will elect for a measly bowl of cereal, others will go the whole hog and make themselves a platter that will sustain them for the majority of the day. Me? I am not one to waste or squander anything in front of me. Food. Women. Opportunities. The list goes on.”
It is at that moment that a scantily clad woman appears out of nowhere, wrapping her arms around Lucas from behind and kissing him on the cheek. Lucas, perhaps surprisingly, rolls his eyes out of view of his previous night’s lover. She barges past him in an attempt to reach what little amount of pizza remains. With a look of pure distain, Lucas glares her away from his previous night’s prize.
“If you’re asking me why I left the WGWF… I honestly don’t remember. Aside from feeling tired all of the fuckin’ time and being fed up with management, but most people feel the same way about their daily jobs. The fact that I was performing in front of thousands of fans on a weekly basis can’t be considered any different from the schmo sitting at an office desk every day.”
The girl attempts to turn Lucas around so that she may kiss him on the lips. Instead of accepting such an act of devotion and passion, he swats her away like a fly so that he can focus on the sole task of consuming the remainder of his pizza in peace.
“Am I married? Fuck no! Single? It depends what you class as ‘single.’ Am I in a committed relationship? No. Am I in a relationship in general? The answer; several. Why the fuck should a man have to limit himself in this day and age? What is commitment, anyways? Just look at half of the douchebags that have signed their names on the dotted line saying that they‘ll be a part of this shitshow that CCP has orchestrated. You KNOW they‘re not going to put in any effort whatsoever, whereas I, ‘The Stormslinger‘ himself, has been beckoned to come out of retirement to put on a show that the fans will never forget.”
With a huff, the anonymous woman with the battered vagina walks away in a huff.
“Of course, wrestling is an industry that you cannot simply cut ties and walk away from. I’ve had countless offers to appear in other promotions, being called back for one-off reunion shows or general showcases across the country. If I’m not appearing in a wrestling capacity, there are podcasts, conventions and YouTube channels constantly chasing me for my opinions.”
“If opportunities don’t come a-knocking, then there are certainly diehard fans that do. I couldn’t just pop out to the store to buy a packet of Marlboros without some spotty-faced 36-going-on-14 fan-boy wanting me to sign my autograph on a screwed up napkin or a hot single mother out with her child who would strike up a conversation before having to book a babysitter for that night.”
Before things can get any further out of hand, the scene fades to black.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“I thought I was done with this shit.”
“I thought I could finally do what every man dreams of; lounge around at home all day, happily indulging in a lazy and hedonistic lifestyle without intrusion and simply live off the interest of the wealth I had amassed over my highly profitable career.”
“And yet, there is one man who has continued to taunt me. Like the last drop of milk that has been sitting in the bottom of the fridge on the day of its Use-By Date, tempting me to either step out of the shadows or risk experiencing the pungent, sour taste wash over my taste buds.”
“That man is Victor Vega, better known as Vegas-with-a-dollar-sign-on-the-end.”
“Some are saying that this is a match that is six years in the making. Personally, I failed to see how. At least at first. I don’t think we have ever shared a wrestling ring at the same time. Sure, we may have traded glancing verbal shots to one another in passing, but certainly nothing that constitutes a ‘bloodfeud’ like those that I have shared with the likes of Chris Page, Kyle Shane and Darian Dream in the past. The apex moments of our respective careers came during different eras in WGWF history, irrespective of whether they were only a year or two apart from one another.”
“But then it all came flooding back to me. There was a time where you were highly critical about my mantra of being a Fuckin’ Lucky son of a gun and how it somehow plagiarised everything that you had tried to stand for during your tenure here. Not only you, but it seemed like there wasn‘t a week that went by where people were referring to me a ‘the poor man‘s Vega$. The accusations en-mass do not strictly outline a guilty verdict, it merely shows off the calibre of fucking stupidity possessed by people around here.”
“Seriously? Are you really so bitter that I made a name for myself by embracing the factor of luck into my repertoire? It’s been years, Vic. How can you hold such a grudge for so long? Evidently, it is because you have nothing else left to hold on to. What’s the matter? Has the well run itself dry? Has your casino empire collapsed? Or do you simply need an injection of cash into your bank account as drastically an injection into your ass to clear out the gonorrhoea after ’stealthing’ that crack whore you found in that back alley?”
“You know the one. What’s his name? Bill Blakk?”
“I hate to break it to you, but the attributes of one’s fortunes, good or bad, based on chance alone is a concept that cannot be copyrighted. That’s like saying that nobody in the world is allowed to eat soup because you run a fucking soup kitchen. Also, my fixation on luck was more of a curse than something I adopted through choice. You had incorporated ‘luck‘ into your spiel based on the hard-on you have for casinos.”
“They say that successful businessmen are some of the most intellectual people on Earth, but honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen a bigger fucktard than you trying to successfully run a business since Shane Carver.”
“Even though you thought you had brought the grandiose of the ‘Vegas’ experience with you to the wrestling ring, you couldn’t quite personify the glitz and glamour of Sin City in the way that you’d hoped. Indeed, your very presence seems to bring about the levels of bitter dismay that becomes unveiled when one has blown all of their money at the roulette table, trying desperately, in vain, to recuperate what they’d lost.”
“You are the phrase “For fuck’s sake, shoot me in the head’ wearing a cheap-ass suit.”
“Vega$? It’d be more fitting to call you fucking ‘Ren0.’ That’s right; with a ’zero’ on the end.”
“More to the point, Vega-Dollar-Sign’s vendetta against me isn’t because I quote-unquote ”stole” his shtick…”
“It’s because I did it fucking BETTER.”
“You’ve won the West Coast Rumble and couldn’t follow up on it at the subsequent Wrestle Wars. That was seven long years ago. You’ve held the Intercontinental Title twice, whereas I held the Television Title no more than four times, defending the belt against stronger competition than anybody you faced during your era. Not only that; I’m a former Master of the Mat winner… AND I managed to follow up on it by capturing the grandest prize that this company had to offer, something that you have never done. I’ve been voted as the best wrestler on this company’s roster during one particular year. I won gold with Richard Garcia in, what, my SECOND match with the company?”
“And do you know what else? Not even half of that occurred whilst I was categorising my victories as ‘lucky’ or losses as ‘unlucky.’ You see, while you’re quite content to beat the same dead horse over and over again, I learned that not everything boils down to chance. Reinvention is a necessity in this world, so much so that Mother Nature herself adopts this practice throughout all of her designs. Though we may call it ‘evolution,’ it is still ‘reinvention’ nonetheless. When I stopped putting everything down to chance, I found the key to success of my own accord.”
“I had done it! I had been able to capture lightning in a bottle.”
“Hence the name… “LIGHTNING” Lucas Felix.”
“And sure, there was the whole ‘Lucas Felix-Myles’ scenario. The less said about that, the better. Hey, we all make mistakes. Even God has made mistakes. Ever been to Ohio?
“Even you have tried to return to the WGWF in the past to rekindle what little spark your first run had mustered, yet you could not even sustain a flame. The most noteworthy accomplishment you’ve managed in the twilight years of your career is attempt to host a talk show that nobody wanted to be a part of.”
“Ultimately, you have succumbed to the fate that all attention-seeking whores fear above all else; fading into the obscurity of ancient history as nothing more than a forgotten memory. This, then, is your last chance to feel the spotlight shine on your face, embrace the ambience of what had given you fame and fortune even above your personal business ventures, even if only for a brief moment. Remember… you asked for this. I was quite happy to let sleeping dogs lie. Now, it’s about time I put you down for good.”
“You will be remembered, Victor. You’ll be remembered as the man who lost his last match to the man who went on to win The War Games.”
“I suppose Vega-Dollar-Sign might take some solace in knowing that I have a more legitimate reason for wanting to emerge victorious aside from putting an end to this absurd dispute, although it was most likely equally insult him to learn that he is not the only person that I have certain scores of my own to settle with others who are partaking in this ‘one night only’ event. My opportunity to do so will come inside of the War Games match, provided the insolence of those who I wish to face above all others does not obstruct them.”
“What I would give to beat the shit out of some of these assholes one last time. Chris Page; the man who built me up only to knock me down in the same way that he has done with pretty much every single person who has stepped foot through this company’s doors. Then there’s the perennial egomaniac Kyle Shane who continues to exert an air of invincibility about him even beyond his WGWF run, currently reigning as a World Champion elsewhere. What I would give to knock him down a fucking peg! How about facing off against Lunacy in a rematch of that classic Master of the Mat Final from all those years ago, only to beat him again? Hell, I’ve even got a chance of going up against my old running buddy Richard Garcia. The potential to reform GarLix for One Night Only is almost too good to pass up.”
“Even these ‘so called’ legends; MDK, Famine of the Vile, Raziel, John Gambino and Tomoko Hanahara among others, they can turn around and stake their claims all they like. The vast majority of competitors entering the fray will be returning to action after a prolonged period of absence. While I myself fall under this category to some extent, I have at least managed to keep myself up to date with the modern workings of professional wrestling. I am in as good a shape as I have ever been, if not better.”
“But of course, Victor (the loser) is the only obstacle standing in my way before I get my crack of the whip.”
“Many have labelled this as a ‘dream match,’ but for you, Victor, you have entered a nightmare scenario. Once and for all, I’m going to put this matter into the bed that you’re going to lay in, consider you made it. I don’t need to keep an ace up my sleeve when I’m holding all of them in my hand. You’re going to hit rock bottom while I’m walking Easy Street. There will be no luck involved; only pure skill. And you shouldn’t blame your loss as being ‘unlucky.’ Bad shit happens to you because you’re a fucking idiot.”
“This is MY HOUSE! And , as you should know, the house ALWAYS wins.”
“Get the fuck out of MY house, Vegass! Don’t let the door hit you on the way out…”
“Fuck, who am I kidding? I hope you fall down the fucking stairs too.”
“My name is Lucas Felix; 2014 Star of the Year, Would-Be Hall of Famer is Chris Page weren’t such a cunt and former World Champion. So, you might be asking yourselves… what have I been doing with myself for all these years? In short, not a lot. Aside from moving on with my life, that is.”
A mirror that is greater in height and width than the man himself is situated not too far away from his bed. Upon managing to clamber out of his pit, reluctantly leaving the warmth and comfort of his duvet that is covered with the finest brushed cotton, he examines his figure with slight distain. Indeed, his physique is nowhere near that of when he was considered to be at his physical peak. What was once a prevailing six pack is now hidden by a ‘beer gut’ that only very slightly overhangs his boxer shorts. He takes a deep intake of breath, sucking in his stomach to appease his own levels of contentedness. Nevertheless, there is still a certain presence about him. It is obvious that, in spite of his flaws, he is at least making an effort to stay in relative shape, as opposed to become the morbidly obese failures that have succumbed to poor diet and other such factors. Sure, the man likes a drink more than the average Joe, but honestly, who doesn’t?
“Life is so less strenuous than it was when I was on the road with the WGWF. It is a wonder why the fuck I decided to be a part of this shit in the first place. I guess my beer fridge needs restocking and I fancy blowing out on an Indian soon.”
He drags his feet straight past his en-suite bathroom and instead heads out into the upper corridors of his manor. Traversing the sinuous hallway, he eventually reaches a staircase that leads directly downwards to the lobby, complete with a black and white tiled floor that makes the vicinity resemble a giant chess board. Upon reaching the bottom, he pivots around the hand rail and immediately turns back on himself. He pushes through a swing-door that leads directly into a kitchen area. This is not a regular kitchen area; more so one that is befitting to be installed within a five-star restaurant. Every appliance is industrialised, from the dishwasher to the microwave. He trudges towards the fridge at the far end of the room.
[/I]“So I like to start my day the same way that I would any other, be it as part of a touring wrestling promotion or otherwise. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so I make sure that I get something that soothes my hankerings every day.”[/I]
Upon flinging the door open, he feels the cool air from within seep out, weaving between the hairs on his chest and onto his skin. He pulls out a mostly consumed can of Stella Artois and places in on the counter, followed by a large, flat square box. He places it down and lifts the lid, pulling out a thick slice of deep pan pizza, complete with a double serving of pepperoni. He jabs the tip that was formerly in the middle into his mouth, taking a big bite out of it as he shuts the fridge door with his foot, trying the lever a loose sliver of Italian sausage from it’s cheesy snare with his teeth.
“Of course, there are those who limit themselves in terms as to what constitutes a breakfast. Some will elect for a measly bowl of cereal, others will go the whole hog and make themselves a platter that will sustain them for the majority of the day. Me? I am not one to waste or squander anything in front of me. Food. Women. Opportunities. The list goes on.”
It is at that moment that a scantily clad woman appears out of nowhere, wrapping her arms around Lucas from behind and kissing him on the cheek. Lucas, perhaps surprisingly, rolls his eyes out of view of his previous night’s lover. She barges past him in an attempt to reach what little amount of pizza remains. With a look of pure distain, Lucas glares her away from his previous night’s prize.
“If you’re asking me why I left the WGWF… I honestly don’t remember. Aside from feeling tired all of the fuckin’ time and being fed up with management, but most people feel the same way about their daily jobs. The fact that I was performing in front of thousands of fans on a weekly basis can’t be considered any different from the schmo sitting at an office desk every day.”
The girl attempts to turn Lucas around so that she may kiss him on the lips. Instead of accepting such an act of devotion and passion, he swats her away like a fly so that he can focus on the sole task of consuming the remainder of his pizza in peace.
“Am I married? Fuck no! Single? It depends what you class as ‘single.’ Am I in a committed relationship? No. Am I in a relationship in general? The answer; several. Why the fuck should a man have to limit himself in this day and age? What is commitment, anyways? Just look at half of the douchebags that have signed their names on the dotted line saying that they‘ll be a part of this shitshow that CCP has orchestrated. You KNOW they‘re not going to put in any effort whatsoever, whereas I, ‘The Stormslinger‘ himself, has been beckoned to come out of retirement to put on a show that the fans will never forget.”
With a huff, the anonymous woman with the battered vagina walks away in a huff.
“Of course, wrestling is an industry that you cannot simply cut ties and walk away from. I’ve had countless offers to appear in other promotions, being called back for one-off reunion shows or general showcases across the country. If I’m not appearing in a wrestling capacity, there are podcasts, conventions and YouTube channels constantly chasing me for my opinions.”
“If opportunities don’t come a-knocking, then there are certainly diehard fans that do. I couldn’t just pop out to the store to buy a packet of Marlboros without some spotty-faced 36-going-on-14 fan-boy wanting me to sign my autograph on a screwed up napkin or a hot single mother out with her child who would strike up a conversation before having to book a babysitter for that night.”
Before things can get any further out of hand, the scene fades to black.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“I thought I was done with this shit.”
“I thought I could finally do what every man dreams of; lounge around at home all day, happily indulging in a lazy and hedonistic lifestyle without intrusion and simply live off the interest of the wealth I had amassed over my highly profitable career.”
“And yet, there is one man who has continued to taunt me. Like the last drop of milk that has been sitting in the bottom of the fridge on the day of its Use-By Date, tempting me to either step out of the shadows or risk experiencing the pungent, sour taste wash over my taste buds.”
“That man is Victor Vega, better known as Vegas-with-a-dollar-sign-on-the-end.”
“Some are saying that this is a match that is six years in the making. Personally, I failed to see how. At least at first. I don’t think we have ever shared a wrestling ring at the same time. Sure, we may have traded glancing verbal shots to one another in passing, but certainly nothing that constitutes a ‘bloodfeud’ like those that I have shared with the likes of Chris Page, Kyle Shane and Darian Dream in the past. The apex moments of our respective careers came during different eras in WGWF history, irrespective of whether they were only a year or two apart from one another.”
“But then it all came flooding back to me. There was a time where you were highly critical about my mantra of being a Fuckin’ Lucky son of a gun and how it somehow plagiarised everything that you had tried to stand for during your tenure here. Not only you, but it seemed like there wasn‘t a week that went by where people were referring to me a ‘the poor man‘s Vega$. The accusations en-mass do not strictly outline a guilty verdict, it merely shows off the calibre of fucking stupidity possessed by people around here.”
“Seriously? Are you really so bitter that I made a name for myself by embracing the factor of luck into my repertoire? It’s been years, Vic. How can you hold such a grudge for so long? Evidently, it is because you have nothing else left to hold on to. What’s the matter? Has the well run itself dry? Has your casino empire collapsed? Or do you simply need an injection of cash into your bank account as drastically an injection into your ass to clear out the gonorrhoea after ’stealthing’ that crack whore you found in that back alley?”
“You know the one. What’s his name? Bill Blakk?”
“I hate to break it to you, but the attributes of one’s fortunes, good or bad, based on chance alone is a concept that cannot be copyrighted. That’s like saying that nobody in the world is allowed to eat soup because you run a fucking soup kitchen. Also, my fixation on luck was more of a curse than something I adopted through choice. You had incorporated ‘luck‘ into your spiel based on the hard-on you have for casinos.”
“They say that successful businessmen are some of the most intellectual people on Earth, but honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen a bigger fucktard than you trying to successfully run a business since Shane Carver.”
“Even though you thought you had brought the grandiose of the ‘Vegas’ experience with you to the wrestling ring, you couldn’t quite personify the glitz and glamour of Sin City in the way that you’d hoped. Indeed, your very presence seems to bring about the levels of bitter dismay that becomes unveiled when one has blown all of their money at the roulette table, trying desperately, in vain, to recuperate what they’d lost.”
“You are the phrase “For fuck’s sake, shoot me in the head’ wearing a cheap-ass suit.”
“Vega$? It’d be more fitting to call you fucking ‘Ren0.’ That’s right; with a ’zero’ on the end.”
“More to the point, Vega-Dollar-Sign’s vendetta against me isn’t because I quote-unquote ”stole” his shtick…”
“It’s because I did it fucking BETTER.”
“You’ve won the West Coast Rumble and couldn’t follow up on it at the subsequent Wrestle Wars. That was seven long years ago. You’ve held the Intercontinental Title twice, whereas I held the Television Title no more than four times, defending the belt against stronger competition than anybody you faced during your era. Not only that; I’m a former Master of the Mat winner… AND I managed to follow up on it by capturing the grandest prize that this company had to offer, something that you have never done. I’ve been voted as the best wrestler on this company’s roster during one particular year. I won gold with Richard Garcia in, what, my SECOND match with the company?”
“And do you know what else? Not even half of that occurred whilst I was categorising my victories as ‘lucky’ or losses as ‘unlucky.’ You see, while you’re quite content to beat the same dead horse over and over again, I learned that not everything boils down to chance. Reinvention is a necessity in this world, so much so that Mother Nature herself adopts this practice throughout all of her designs. Though we may call it ‘evolution,’ it is still ‘reinvention’ nonetheless. When I stopped putting everything down to chance, I found the key to success of my own accord.”
“I had done it! I had been able to capture lightning in a bottle.”
“Hence the name… “LIGHTNING” Lucas Felix.”
“And sure, there was the whole ‘Lucas Felix-Myles’ scenario. The less said about that, the better. Hey, we all make mistakes. Even God has made mistakes. Ever been to Ohio?
“Even you have tried to return to the WGWF in the past to rekindle what little spark your first run had mustered, yet you could not even sustain a flame. The most noteworthy accomplishment you’ve managed in the twilight years of your career is attempt to host a talk show that nobody wanted to be a part of.”
“Ultimately, you have succumbed to the fate that all attention-seeking whores fear above all else; fading into the obscurity of ancient history as nothing more than a forgotten memory. This, then, is your last chance to feel the spotlight shine on your face, embrace the ambience of what had given you fame and fortune even above your personal business ventures, even if only for a brief moment. Remember… you asked for this. I was quite happy to let sleeping dogs lie. Now, it’s about time I put you down for good.”
“You will be remembered, Victor. You’ll be remembered as the man who lost his last match to the man who went on to win The War Games.”
“I suppose Vega-Dollar-Sign might take some solace in knowing that I have a more legitimate reason for wanting to emerge victorious aside from putting an end to this absurd dispute, although it was most likely equally insult him to learn that he is not the only person that I have certain scores of my own to settle with others who are partaking in this ‘one night only’ event. My opportunity to do so will come inside of the War Games match, provided the insolence of those who I wish to face above all others does not obstruct them.”
“What I would give to beat the shit out of some of these assholes one last time. Chris Page; the man who built me up only to knock me down in the same way that he has done with pretty much every single person who has stepped foot through this company’s doors. Then there’s the perennial egomaniac Kyle Shane who continues to exert an air of invincibility about him even beyond his WGWF run, currently reigning as a World Champion elsewhere. What I would give to knock him down a fucking peg! How about facing off against Lunacy in a rematch of that classic Master of the Mat Final from all those years ago, only to beat him again? Hell, I’ve even got a chance of going up against my old running buddy Richard Garcia. The potential to reform GarLix for One Night Only is almost too good to pass up.”
“Even these ‘so called’ legends; MDK, Famine of the Vile, Raziel, John Gambino and Tomoko Hanahara among others, they can turn around and stake their claims all they like. The vast majority of competitors entering the fray will be returning to action after a prolonged period of absence. While I myself fall under this category to some extent, I have at least managed to keep myself up to date with the modern workings of professional wrestling. I am in as good a shape as I have ever been, if not better.”
“But of course, Victor (the loser) is the only obstacle standing in my way before I get my crack of the whip.”
“Many have labelled this as a ‘dream match,’ but for you, Victor, you have entered a nightmare scenario. Once and for all, I’m going to put this matter into the bed that you’re going to lay in, consider you made it. I don’t need to keep an ace up my sleeve when I’m holding all of them in my hand. You’re going to hit rock bottom while I’m walking Easy Street. There will be no luck involved; only pure skill. And you shouldn’t blame your loss as being ‘unlucky.’ Bad shit happens to you because you’re a fucking idiot.”
“This is MY HOUSE! And , as you should know, the house ALWAYS wins.”
“Get the fuck out of MY house, Vegass! Don’t let the door hit you on the way out…”
“Fuck, who am I kidding? I hope you fall down the fucking stairs too.”