Post by Tommy Kelly on Feb 17, 2021 21:12:45 GMT -5
To say my debut was a success would be an understatement… actually, no, that’s about right. I won and that was it, no fanfare. No fireworks. Not even a fucking “good job Tommy” from the crew backstage. I came back from the dead and I showed the world this old fuck still has it.
Granted, I win against a hobo who only wanted to piss on the fans, literally… but fuck a win is a win! And my trophy for that successful debut? A fight against a damn cosplayer.
Christ, I need a drink…
Louisiana is known for many things, from witches and vampires to blues music and grits. But what draws my attention here is the atmosphere, the vibe, the smooth cool intention to have fun by everyone prowling the streets. I’ve come through N'Awlins before but never got a moment to savour it or enjoy it.
I got in a few days before Valentines, hoping to pick up some young skirt who loves herself an old bag of bones, and instead it's me picking up big bad boneman of NLW. I’ve checked this guy out, I’ve watched him fight and he reminds me of old-school Mexican flair. Lucha-madness with just enough of a pop to get the fans watching.
Pity for him I’ll likely be half cut on cheap Louisiana moonshine to even pay him any respect.
“I'm goin' down in Louisiana
Baby, behind the sun
I'm goin' down in Louisiana
Honey, behind the sun
Well, you know I just found out
My trouble just begun”
“Louisiana Blues, what a catchy tune”, I mutter to myself, stood against the wall of Bourbon Street. Sipping from a fucking plastic football full of boozed-up slush, I tap my foot to the beat of the slow tune, eyes closed and I let the tune wash over me. The old geezer next to me sings to my heart.
I’ve done a lot with my life, a lot of accomplishments that mean nothing now. I’ve gotten into a lot of trouble that’s all been forgotten. I’ve met the world of people, all to forget who I am years later.
But here, right now, none of that matters. Nobody ever stops to enjoy the little things.
I hum along, like the drunken old fart I’ve become but here in this town not even God himself can kill the vibe. I didn’t drag my ass back into the ring for the umpteenth time for nothing. I’m done chasing belts, titles, wanting the world to love me. I don’t give a fuck if ‘StormCrow’ means anything to anyone anymore.
It means something to me.
It means something to the man that once ran this ring, that wouldn’t give you and couldn’t be beaten. I’ve come a long way since those days, but my days of trouble ain’t past me yet. Big Bone is another hurdle in my way, another trial of tribulation. Dude’s done great in NLW, but he’s just setting the pace. A win over him means good tidings, a loss puts me back in the gutter… dicey.
“I'm gon' show all you good-lookin' women
Jes' how to treat your love
Let's go back to New Orleans, boys”
“Fucking ledge man, A-fucking-1.” I throw the old dude a couple of bills, and he gives me a polite smile. This old fucks probably got the same story as I have, once popular and top of his game now reduced to singing in the damn streets of Louisiana. Still, he’s smiling, he’s embracing his story, and no matter what happens he will always have his memories.
I’m taking a leaf from this fuckers book, and doing the same. Tommy Kelly might not mean much to anyone, not a legend and definitely not a current star. But fuck I’ll fight Big Bone until he gets soft. I’ll wrap my hands around that white beefcake and I’ll squeeze hard. I’ll get that milk stick and I’ll shake it, until it drips all over me.
“Gonna finish my drink and get outta here… I’ve got a big bone waiting for me.” The street singer eyes me sideways, but he knows. Me and him, we’re alike. I guzzle down my football-slushie and give him a salute, one old fart to the next.
“Nothing but bone on my mind!”, I sing aloud as I take my leave… shit, that sounds kinda gay actually. Big Bone sounds like… big penis?? I hope he doesn’t think that…
...fuck it, I’m drunk. 'Fais do-do'.
Granted, I win against a hobo who only wanted to piss on the fans, literally… but fuck a win is a win! And my trophy for that successful debut? A fight against a damn cosplayer.
Christ, I need a drink…
Louisiana is known for many things, from witches and vampires to blues music and grits. But what draws my attention here is the atmosphere, the vibe, the smooth cool intention to have fun by everyone prowling the streets. I’ve come through N'Awlins before but never got a moment to savour it or enjoy it.
I got in a few days before Valentines, hoping to pick up some young skirt who loves herself an old bag of bones, and instead it's me picking up big bad boneman of NLW. I’ve checked this guy out, I’ve watched him fight and he reminds me of old-school Mexican flair. Lucha-madness with just enough of a pop to get the fans watching.
Pity for him I’ll likely be half cut on cheap Louisiana moonshine to even pay him any respect.
“I'm goin' down in Louisiana
Baby, behind the sun
I'm goin' down in Louisiana
Honey, behind the sun
Well, you know I just found out
My trouble just begun”
“Louisiana Blues, what a catchy tune”, I mutter to myself, stood against the wall of Bourbon Street. Sipping from a fucking plastic football full of boozed-up slush, I tap my foot to the beat of the slow tune, eyes closed and I let the tune wash over me. The old geezer next to me sings to my heart.
I’ve done a lot with my life, a lot of accomplishments that mean nothing now. I’ve gotten into a lot of trouble that’s all been forgotten. I’ve met the world of people, all to forget who I am years later.
But here, right now, none of that matters. Nobody ever stops to enjoy the little things.
I hum along, like the drunken old fart I’ve become but here in this town not even God himself can kill the vibe. I didn’t drag my ass back into the ring for the umpteenth time for nothing. I’m done chasing belts, titles, wanting the world to love me. I don’t give a fuck if ‘StormCrow’ means anything to anyone anymore.
It means something to me.
It means something to the man that once ran this ring, that wouldn’t give you and couldn’t be beaten. I’ve come a long way since those days, but my days of trouble ain’t past me yet. Big Bone is another hurdle in my way, another trial of tribulation. Dude’s done great in NLW, but he’s just setting the pace. A win over him means good tidings, a loss puts me back in the gutter… dicey.
“I'm gon' show all you good-lookin' women
Jes' how to treat your love
Let's go back to New Orleans, boys”
“Fucking ledge man, A-fucking-1.” I throw the old dude a couple of bills, and he gives me a polite smile. This old fucks probably got the same story as I have, once popular and top of his game now reduced to singing in the damn streets of Louisiana. Still, he’s smiling, he’s embracing his story, and no matter what happens he will always have his memories.
I’m taking a leaf from this fuckers book, and doing the same. Tommy Kelly might not mean much to anyone, not a legend and definitely not a current star. But fuck I’ll fight Big Bone until he gets soft. I’ll wrap my hands around that white beefcake and I’ll squeeze hard. I’ll get that milk stick and I’ll shake it, until it drips all over me.
“Gonna finish my drink and get outta here… I’ve got a big bone waiting for me.” The street singer eyes me sideways, but he knows. Me and him, we’re alike. I guzzle down my football-slushie and give him a salute, one old fart to the next.
“Nothing but bone on my mind!”, I sing aloud as I take my leave… shit, that sounds kinda gay actually. Big Bone sounds like… big penis?? I hope he doesn’t think that…
...fuck it, I’m drunk. 'Fais do-do'.
