Post by >V< on Aug 13, 2009 10:15:30 GMT -5
A telephone;
Not ringing.
An e-mail inbox;
Empty.
Dozens of beers;
Still sealed inside their cans and bottles.
The man known to the world by his initials (and a rather preposterous amount of self-imposed nicknames,) sits alone in a comfortable deck chair on his back patio. All that can be seen of him in the dark of this moonless night is a faint outline of shadow, and the glowing ember of a lit cigar.
KvK: "Fuck it."
Setting his cigar down in a nearby ashtray, he disappears through the screen door. Reappearing moments later, he cracks open an ice cold can of Miller Lite, taking a long drink before reclaiming his spot and smoke.
He doesn't like doing it, you know. Drinking alone. He'd much rather do it in a social setting, knocking back a few with good friends. Sharing war stories and the same old harmless jokes that are the staple of any group of male friends. Calling eachother gay, insinuating they've had carnal knowledge of one another's mothers and/or sisters. Or both. Simultaneously, even.
KvK: "I couldn't help it. Those bitches were all over me. Does being a whore run in the blood? You sure seem to love the penis. It must be hereditary."
Yes, just like that. Thank you for illustrating my point, and in such a colorful way.
KvK: "No problem. It's what I'm here for."
But when one's friends have all left, what is one to do then? Go out and find new ones, of course. But where can you find another Alan "Vain" Wallace? How can one replace a man like CaRNiVaL? Guys like that don't grow on trees.
KvK: "That's probably a good thing."
Perhaps so, but it doesn't help the fact that you're sitting alone at home and drinking beer, now does it?
KvK: "Excellent point."
How is this man, adored by so many, to go on? Who will drag him kicking and screaming out of a strip club after he busted up the joint when they told him he'd drank all of the Coors and thus could not buy any more?
Who will amuse him by dumping the *CENSORED* World Championship belt in the toilet before dropping trou and emptying his bowels upon it?
KvK: "It was all that strap was good for!'
That's something I think we can all agree on. The man now known as Raenius once did that, back when he was known by a different (and, in my humble opinion, better) name. That man used to be a friend. He used to be fun to be around. He was pretty goddamn handy to have around in the event of a bar fight, too.
KvK: "Oh, man. Did we ever used to stir up some shit. I'm amazed we never ended up in prison."
Well, Michael Vick is a free man. It's pretty obvious that the system has failed.
KvK: "Yeah, no shit."
Those days are apparently over. CaRNiVaL is dead or whatever, Vain is probably out doing gay porn somewhere, and the drunken Irishman in a mask wastes his time naming his roleplays after Italian hookers.
KvK: "Gay porn!"
Your Mom's Favorite Wrestler collapses into a fit of frentic, possibly forced laughter. It's probably true, you know. He did strike me as a little fruity.
KvK: "Yeah, man. Fruit central."
Let's get back on track, shall we? We're supposed to be talking about Raenius, here. You know, the guy who's title you're gonna be taking sometime soon?
KvK: "Oh, yeah. That son of a bitch. All he does nowadays is pretend that the voices in his head are demons or some shit. I tell ya, he's lost his fucking mind. Completely. I need another beer."
Attaboy. Go on, you fuck. Bring me one, willya?
KvK: "You got it, Tony Homo."
Including a sports referance? Brilliant!
Not ringing.
An e-mail inbox;
Empty.
Dozens of beers;
Still sealed inside their cans and bottles.
The man known to the world by his initials (and a rather preposterous amount of self-imposed nicknames,) sits alone in a comfortable deck chair on his back patio. All that can be seen of him in the dark of this moonless night is a faint outline of shadow, and the glowing ember of a lit cigar.
KvK: "Fuck it."
Setting his cigar down in a nearby ashtray, he disappears through the screen door. Reappearing moments later, he cracks open an ice cold can of Miller Lite, taking a long drink before reclaiming his spot and smoke.
He doesn't like doing it, you know. Drinking alone. He'd much rather do it in a social setting, knocking back a few with good friends. Sharing war stories and the same old harmless jokes that are the staple of any group of male friends. Calling eachother gay, insinuating they've had carnal knowledge of one another's mothers and/or sisters. Or both. Simultaneously, even.
KvK: "I couldn't help it. Those bitches were all over me. Does being a whore run in the blood? You sure seem to love the penis. It must be hereditary."
Yes, just like that. Thank you for illustrating my point, and in such a colorful way.
KvK: "No problem. It's what I'm here for."
But when one's friends have all left, what is one to do then? Go out and find new ones, of course. But where can you find another Alan "Vain" Wallace? How can one replace a man like CaRNiVaL? Guys like that don't grow on trees.
KvK: "That's probably a good thing."
Perhaps so, but it doesn't help the fact that you're sitting alone at home and drinking beer, now does it?
KvK: "Excellent point."
How is this man, adored by so many, to go on? Who will drag him kicking and screaming out of a strip club after he busted up the joint when they told him he'd drank all of the Coors and thus could not buy any more?
Who will amuse him by dumping the *CENSORED* World Championship belt in the toilet before dropping trou and emptying his bowels upon it?
KvK: "It was all that strap was good for!'
That's something I think we can all agree on. The man now known as Raenius once did that, back when he was known by a different (and, in my humble opinion, better) name. That man used to be a friend. He used to be fun to be around. He was pretty goddamn handy to have around in the event of a bar fight, too.
KvK: "Oh, man. Did we ever used to stir up some shit. I'm amazed we never ended up in prison."
Well, Michael Vick is a free man. It's pretty obvious that the system has failed.
KvK: "Yeah, no shit."
Those days are apparently over. CaRNiVaL is dead or whatever, Vain is probably out doing gay porn somewhere, and the drunken Irishman in a mask wastes his time naming his roleplays after Italian hookers.
KvK: "Gay porn!"
Your Mom's Favorite Wrestler collapses into a fit of frentic, possibly forced laughter. It's probably true, you know. He did strike me as a little fruity.
KvK: "Yeah, man. Fruit central."
Let's get back on track, shall we? We're supposed to be talking about Raenius, here. You know, the guy who's title you're gonna be taking sometime soon?
KvK: "Oh, yeah. That son of a bitch. All he does nowadays is pretend that the voices in his head are demons or some shit. I tell ya, he's lost his fucking mind. Completely. I need another beer."
Attaboy. Go on, you fuck. Bring me one, willya?
KvK: "You got it, Tony Homo."
Including a sports referance? Brilliant!
