Post by Tommy Kelly on Feb 18, 2022 17:04:52 GMT -5
THE STREETS HAVE NO NAMES
Endless.
Night after night, the same routine. The sun sets on the Bayou, the denizens of New Orleans crawl out from wherever they remaining during the light hours, to cavort, drink, party and fornicate in the streets. The endless carnival of fun, youth and freedom.
Little do they know the danger lurking alongside them. The deplorable and the lost, waiting for them to leave to their bed so that we can emerge, like rats feeding on the remains. Like roaches, scurrying to eat. For some of us we blend into the crowd, perfectly hidden amongst the intoxicated. For others we are too far gone, unable to show our faces without drawing attention.
I dance on the balance; I remain on that fence. A known face once, a popular brand name, a beloved character perhaps. But now? I have become nothing, I have adopted that truth, and I am running with the ratpack. Tommy Kelly, legend of the ring?
Nah, fuck that. Crow, King of the Streets.
“Hey guys, wait up, I just need to rock a quick piss here…”
The tourist doesn’t know his luck tonight, stumbling down my alleyway with his cock in hand, to piss behind a dumpster. But here I stand, mere feet from him with a freshly drained bottle of Jack in one hand, and malicious intent on my mind. I could split him open with ease, I could crack his melon and nobody would even notice me.
I AM the streets.
I stand there, lurking in the darkness, watching this drunken youth who I could so easily, rob, maim, kill if I wished… but that would be too much, too soon. I kick a stone on the floor next to me, enough of a disturbance for the man to look up and see me.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a word, he just turns and flees the dark alleyway. Good, may he remember this.
“Who needs a fuckin’ mask when you look like this”, I say to myself. My face grimy and filthy, added facepaint and filth add to my charm as I stand in the darkness, blending in. “Halloween is over... but every night here belongs to the Crow now.”
Thespian might have flair on his side, a bit of added pizzazz, but he doesn’t have my presence. He doesn’t have my knowledge, my skill. Fuck professional wrestling, I was raised fighting bareknuckles on the backroads of Ireland. I moved to the streets of Seattle to continue. I fought for this fuckin’ country, I bled I screamed and I died a thousand times.
And now I’m facing a fucking mute for the key to these streets.
Ironic, how my voice is no longer being heard so they offer me a mime. It matters not, he might not speak, but let’s see if he can scream. He served a purpose on my team when we took on Arjen and Cage, but his purpose is over now. I’m reclaiming these streets, and New Orleans is just the beginning.
Southern States? Sure. Why stop. If Hyperion could amass a following like he did, fuck if Trump could get the support of these rednecks, then why can’t I get the voices that were lost to listen to me? The down-and-outs, the lost brothers and sisters of the country, the fucking rats of this town.
“Hey, you.”
That voice, familiar in tone and pitch. I turn expecting someone I know, but the hard pipe across the head catches me off guard. As I look up in pain, between wincing eyes I see him. The homeless kid from before. And he’s not alone.
“Thought you could be funny, huh ‘Crow’? Thought you could try to rough me up or freak me out? Bet you didn’t think I had friends.”
He swings again but misses, allowing me a perfect moment to swipe his weapon and roll to my feet. The half-dozen of them step back, not expecting the rapid twist of events.
“Now now, I only wanted to get a message across. I only wanted you to know that there was a new face on these streets, and that I would be running things.” They look at me, confused, but more concerned about me brandishing their weapon. “You can come to New Orleans, but if you wish to stay here… these streets are mine.”
Nobody moves, nobody makes a single motion.
“Boys, I have a bigger fight ahead of me, against a much better fighter than any of you. But… I think this is a good place to start. See, I’m looking to take this town back, for us. For all of us. For the nobodies of this city.”
One of the guys lunges for the pipe, but is met with a perfect backhand-swing to the skull, dropping him to the hard floor.
“Silly move. Next time that happens, I’ll keep on swinging. Now see, I have a proposition for you, if you are ready to listen?” I roll the man onto his back, so that he can look up at me through the crimson claret flowing from his newly-split skull. “We can tear each other apart or… we can truly become a pack of rats.”
Each face before me looks tired, looks hungry, strung-out, lost and abandoned. But at least they show who they are. They don’t hide behind masks, Thespian. They don’t pretend to be something they are not. These are the real rats of the Southern States.
And I will be their champion.
“No objections? Good… I’m thinking, this town has a sickness. This town has a disease. Afflicted with freedom, broken from wealth and luxury… might be time we show them who really runs this place. Who really runs these streets.”
Nobody speaks, but all eyes are on him.
“These are my streets… but I’m willing to share. You just need to follow the Crow.”
Murmurs, whispers. But it’s obvious.
They will follow their Crow. Their new leader.
King of the Rats.
Endless.
Night after night, the same routine. The sun sets on the Bayou, the denizens of New Orleans crawl out from wherever they remaining during the light hours, to cavort, drink, party and fornicate in the streets. The endless carnival of fun, youth and freedom.
Little do they know the danger lurking alongside them. The deplorable and the lost, waiting for them to leave to their bed so that we can emerge, like rats feeding on the remains. Like roaches, scurrying to eat. For some of us we blend into the crowd, perfectly hidden amongst the intoxicated. For others we are too far gone, unable to show our faces without drawing attention.
I dance on the balance; I remain on that fence. A known face once, a popular brand name, a beloved character perhaps. But now? I have become nothing, I have adopted that truth, and I am running with the ratpack. Tommy Kelly, legend of the ring?
Nah, fuck that. Crow, King of the Streets.
“Hey guys, wait up, I just need to rock a quick piss here…”
The tourist doesn’t know his luck tonight, stumbling down my alleyway with his cock in hand, to piss behind a dumpster. But here I stand, mere feet from him with a freshly drained bottle of Jack in one hand, and malicious intent on my mind. I could split him open with ease, I could crack his melon and nobody would even notice me.
I AM the streets.
I stand there, lurking in the darkness, watching this drunken youth who I could so easily, rob, maim, kill if I wished… but that would be too much, too soon. I kick a stone on the floor next to me, enough of a disturbance for the man to look up and see me.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a word, he just turns and flees the dark alleyway. Good, may he remember this.
“Who needs a fuckin’ mask when you look like this”, I say to myself. My face grimy and filthy, added facepaint and filth add to my charm as I stand in the darkness, blending in. “Halloween is over... but every night here belongs to the Crow now.”
Thespian might have flair on his side, a bit of added pizzazz, but he doesn’t have my presence. He doesn’t have my knowledge, my skill. Fuck professional wrestling, I was raised fighting bareknuckles on the backroads of Ireland. I moved to the streets of Seattle to continue. I fought for this fuckin’ country, I bled I screamed and I died a thousand times.
And now I’m facing a fucking mute for the key to these streets.
Ironic, how my voice is no longer being heard so they offer me a mime. It matters not, he might not speak, but let’s see if he can scream. He served a purpose on my team when we took on Arjen and Cage, but his purpose is over now. I’m reclaiming these streets, and New Orleans is just the beginning.
Southern States? Sure. Why stop. If Hyperion could amass a following like he did, fuck if Trump could get the support of these rednecks, then why can’t I get the voices that were lost to listen to me? The down-and-outs, the lost brothers and sisters of the country, the fucking rats of this town.
“Hey, you.”
That voice, familiar in tone and pitch. I turn expecting someone I know, but the hard pipe across the head catches me off guard. As I look up in pain, between wincing eyes I see him. The homeless kid from before. And he’s not alone.
“Thought you could be funny, huh ‘Crow’? Thought you could try to rough me up or freak me out? Bet you didn’t think I had friends.”
He swings again but misses, allowing me a perfect moment to swipe his weapon and roll to my feet. The half-dozen of them step back, not expecting the rapid twist of events.
“Now now, I only wanted to get a message across. I only wanted you to know that there was a new face on these streets, and that I would be running things.” They look at me, confused, but more concerned about me brandishing their weapon. “You can come to New Orleans, but if you wish to stay here… these streets are mine.”
Nobody moves, nobody makes a single motion.
“Boys, I have a bigger fight ahead of me, against a much better fighter than any of you. But… I think this is a good place to start. See, I’m looking to take this town back, for us. For all of us. For the nobodies of this city.”
One of the guys lunges for the pipe, but is met with a perfect backhand-swing to the skull, dropping him to the hard floor.
“Silly move. Next time that happens, I’ll keep on swinging. Now see, I have a proposition for you, if you are ready to listen?” I roll the man onto his back, so that he can look up at me through the crimson claret flowing from his newly-split skull. “We can tear each other apart or… we can truly become a pack of rats.”
Each face before me looks tired, looks hungry, strung-out, lost and abandoned. But at least they show who they are. They don’t hide behind masks, Thespian. They don’t pretend to be something they are not. These are the real rats of the Southern States.
And I will be their champion.
“No objections? Good… I’m thinking, this town has a sickness. This town has a disease. Afflicted with freedom, broken from wealth and luxury… might be time we show them who really runs this place. Who really runs these streets.”
Nobody speaks, but all eyes are on him.
“These are my streets… but I’m willing to share. You just need to follow the Crow.”
Murmurs, whispers. But it’s obvious.
They will follow their Crow. Their new leader.
King of the Rats.
