Post by Tuxedo Max on Feb 23, 2021 22:14:23 GMT -6
It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.
Not just the beating I took from Church, but being beaten.
When I started this tournament I was terrified of losing.
So much rode on me winning.
I need that million dollars.
My people need it.
Las Vegas is feeding on itself and dudes like Conrad Dukes and Corey Bull and whoever is paying Julian Mercury are taking the choice cuts for themselves.
This is not sustainable.
The whole thing is going to come crumbling down and those guys I just listed, they’ll be fine.
Honestly, I’ll probably be ok too.
Might have to sell the business and retire to my condo in Jackson Hole, but I’ll live comfortable enough that I won’t have to pick up a few shifts at Target to pay the bills.
My kids, well, that’s a different story.
If I can’t figure out a way to fucking course correct they’re about to be exposed to the dark side of the service industry where your boss doesn’t care if your kid has an ear infection on account of the fact he isn’t blood.
And the rest of my employees? I shudder to think what could happen to them if this lockdown continues and Las Vegas stays a glorified fiefdom for Ramses and its shareholders.
Fiefdom. I think that’s right. I should look it up to make sure.
Eh, close enough.
My people are vulnerable and pretty soon are going to be friggin’ statistics because who needs a car service when there’s not much reason to go anywhere and it’s safer to stay home anyway?
I should be mad. I should be filled with piss and vinegar like I was a month ago when I shocked the world by beating that carpet-bagger Juli Murk and Corey Fucking Bull back to back.
I gutted it out to wins against those two and I proved that Tuxedo Max was no has been novelty act day trippin’ dilettante weekend warrior only interested in making headlines.
Now, I’m complacent. I’ve taken my foot off the gas and exposed myself.
I’m no badass. No fuckin’ killing machine. I’m just a tough ol sumbitch who was too stupid to quit.
Now though, even as my body is getting used to the lifestyle of mortal combat, my mind and will are failing me.
Can’t say the same of my opponent. This Nakamura kid entered the tourney one down on account of inheriting another man’s record, but he hasn’t let that stop him.
He’s got fire. He’s got passion. He’s got a mission.
Rumor has it he’s got a taste for the strange too. Like, the real strange.
Strange from a whole other goddamn galaxy.
And that’s fine. I ain’t here to yuck anybody’s yum.
Hell, I’ve been married five times to four different women and my wives ran the gamut: from childhood sweethearts to midlife crises.
So, Remy, my man, you go get yours. Have some fun during this frigging Apocalypse.
I only regret I can’t give you a decent scrap tomorrow.
I’m tired.
So very tired.
And I’m sorry about that.
To everybody.
Not just the beating I took from Church, but being beaten.
When I started this tournament I was terrified of losing.
So much rode on me winning.
I need that million dollars.
My people need it.
Las Vegas is feeding on itself and dudes like Conrad Dukes and Corey Bull and whoever is paying Julian Mercury are taking the choice cuts for themselves.
This is not sustainable.
The whole thing is going to come crumbling down and those guys I just listed, they’ll be fine.
Honestly, I’ll probably be ok too.
Might have to sell the business and retire to my condo in Jackson Hole, but I’ll live comfortable enough that I won’t have to pick up a few shifts at Target to pay the bills.
My kids, well, that’s a different story.
If I can’t figure out a way to fucking course correct they’re about to be exposed to the dark side of the service industry where your boss doesn’t care if your kid has an ear infection on account of the fact he isn’t blood.
And the rest of my employees? I shudder to think what could happen to them if this lockdown continues and Las Vegas stays a glorified fiefdom for Ramses and its shareholders.
Fiefdom. I think that’s right. I should look it up to make sure.
Eh, close enough.
My people are vulnerable and pretty soon are going to be friggin’ statistics because who needs a car service when there’s not much reason to go anywhere and it’s safer to stay home anyway?
I should be mad. I should be filled with piss and vinegar like I was a month ago when I shocked the world by beating that carpet-bagger Juli Murk and Corey Fucking Bull back to back.
I gutted it out to wins against those two and I proved that Tuxedo Max was no has been novelty act day trippin’ dilettante weekend warrior only interested in making headlines.
Now, I’m complacent. I’ve taken my foot off the gas and exposed myself.
I’m no badass. No fuckin’ killing machine. I’m just a tough ol sumbitch who was too stupid to quit.
Now though, even as my body is getting used to the lifestyle of mortal combat, my mind and will are failing me.
Can’t say the same of my opponent. This Nakamura kid entered the tourney one down on account of inheriting another man’s record, but he hasn’t let that stop him.
He’s got fire. He’s got passion. He’s got a mission.
Rumor has it he’s got a taste for the strange too. Like, the real strange.
Strange from a whole other goddamn galaxy.
And that’s fine. I ain’t here to yuck anybody’s yum.
Hell, I’ve been married five times to four different women and my wives ran the gamut: from childhood sweethearts to midlife crises.
So, Remy, my man, you go get yours. Have some fun during this frigging Apocalypse.
I only regret I can’t give you a decent scrap tomorrow.
I’m tired.
So very tired.
And I’m sorry about that.
To everybody.
