We, the Sad (hookers, heroin, and road head from decapitated whores brah!)

By: Brandon Moore

Writing Prompt: No

Date: 18th Mar 2022

Now let’s flip a coin. Where do i go tonight? My failure to die is my kryptonite, no refill. This life doesn’t come with a sequel. Might die by a needle, dilated pupils. I try to stay tranquil but bitches are deceitful, so I ain’t peaceful. Diabolic individual tired of it all. I fuckin hate people. Whoever shot up my whip, you missed.

Sorry

I still exist

Even when i’m shooting up dope

Motherfucker

 I don’t miss

NICE TRY

YIPPIE KAY YAY

Touché. I also wanna be mute, long gone like the fucks I once gave. I know you wanna see me die but I wanna be the one taking my life. I’M ROCKIN DO NOT RESUSCITATE. UNO REVERSE CARD. MIGHT OVERDOSE ANYDAY.

People will say bad things happen in 3’s until they meet me. As i piss I’m sippin on a 40. In chaos, there’s opportunity. You should know that I’m the hell spawn epitome of Murphy’s law. Engulfing alcohol by the crack of dawn. No one will miss me when i’m gone. Imma die young with LSD TABS UNDERNEATH MY TONGUE. TAKING HITS FROM THE BONG. Going out like Chris Farley if he was introverted and unfunny.

Fuck a filter, Imma blunt motherfucker. Imma tell you how it is, never a sugarcoater. Fuck euphemisms  You’re a cunt, that’s an aphorism. Belligerent, prime example of alcoholism. Middle fingers are my mannerisms, walking cataclysm. Fuck the system. Fuck the catechism. Fucks given in the minus, coke up in my sinus. Actavis school bus, drugs are my favorite apparatus. My brain is a circus mixing chemicals like it’s science.

Getting so high you can’t even see my iris. Wanna escape this crisis.  Turning down the brightness, fuck a bias. Never been pious. Fuck the self righteous, they’re annoying as tinnitus. People have always pulled a judas, so spineless, better practice silence. Nothing is priceless.. We all pay a toll with our soul. Feelin like Daniel Victor Jones, feel failed by everything that i know. Just wanna take a round to the dome.

Clouded mindset like a cataract. A 9 millimeter round salad sounds immaculate. Always remember, don’t put all your eggs in one basket. I’m bound for a premature casket. Kindness is something life doesn’t practice. We all get shoveled in the end, doesn’t matter if we like it. Needa goth bitch, but for now my switchblade stays my sidekick.

Not much

of a difference

Cause they both cut shit.

When it comes to acid, better know i’m loving it like McDonald’s, but we talkin psychedelics. Bitch ya know i’m strident, but ironically I fucking hate being conscious, it’s not contentious, y’all make me so nauseous. Hit the blunt so i’m not anxious, I’m precarious.

Voices in my head are nefarious

 

Hey, listen up motha fugga. I think I am losing my mind with each passing second, and it’s lost in the vastness of sand filling up our hourglass. Just that thought alone is enough to make me get started on a path of self destruction. But for now I must resist. And I must FoCuS after having prevailed over that washed up has been, Little Joey.

 

Mean swing kid, but, come on man..

 

And now I have yet another defense in the form of Centurion.

 

Alright. Alright. Alright..

 

A higher fish in the deep end, but your fate is already closely wrapped up with the same one as Little Joey. I’ve noticed you watching me since you decided to wade through the muck to get a nice little spot on this here roster at Fight. And I mean.. I can’t blame you for looking in my direction in awe and being inspired, because I truly am a beast cut from a different cloth. Sadly.. They don’t make this type of fabric anymore, and it is a damn shame.

 

WE ARE NOT THE SAME

IMMA BEAT YOU BLACK AND BLUE

TO KEEP IT THAT WAY

 

Come on ahead pal, and take a seat right there. Take a deep ass look inside of what you have gotten yourself into, a long look in a fractured mirror with an unrecognizable face nose to nose with yours. What is this lunacy? And why are we all so fackin’ enthralled by the intoxication? On the Twitter machine, you compared me to Dane Preston.

 

Ahhhhhhhh…

 

…..

 

…..

 

………

              ………HaAahaAahaAa hahAaaAaaAaa!

 

Hold on, let me find my sharpie. And then trace the lines across my hairline so you can take that scalpel over there and play follow the leader. Come on now boy, scalp a fuggin disgusting caveman like you mean that shit, will ya? Don’t make me have to school you on proper skin removal along with the finer details of pro god damn wrestling, alright!?

 

ALRIGHT!?

 

And maybe learn how to write a fackin’ apology, bro. Cuz what kind of a man would even breathe another man’s name in the same breath as that fucks? You cut me Cent, you cut me real deep. And for that, I might just have to make sure you go to night two of that Cannibal or whatever Cup in the main event as just a shadow of your former self. A husk of leftover dawgie scraps they’ve also left to rot. Go ahead and try n’ call my bluff, Centy.. It’s just another burial plot.

 

Are you even listening?

 

God damnit..

 

Let me grab your face real quick and pull you on down in here through that sticky scuffed up screen of yours and show you what you are really getting yourself into.

 

SNATCH!

 

SLAP!

 

STOP CENT!

THAT TICKLES!

AHEM..

 

Now sit your ass down right fackin’ there and get all cozy. Get you some snackies and a drink. I’ll wait. No, really Cent, I’ll wait. No, no, go ahead. JUST FUCKIN GO MAN, FUCK! I AIN’T GOT ALL DAMN NIGHT TO FACK WITH YOU! And now I am waiting, but then I look over and the son of a bitch ain’t never left. What? Alright, seriously.. Shut your damn mouth and try to just listen for once.. I got a story for your dumb ass.

 

Ahem..

 

CHAPTER 4

                 WE, THE SAD (and a dead hooker riding passenger, my 16 year old behind the wheel, and then me and my best friend Poptart in the back seat watching the stars fly by like hyperspace. It’s pretty. And the hooker was alright I guess. Don’t dump me Dru. Such a Bitchelle thing to do.. 😒)

 

Look at Brandon Moore my friends.. Sitting all alone on a raggedy ass couch in a deeply secluded cabin in the Missouri wood. On a surprisingly nice coffee table before him lies a spoon. Yep.. Yano where this one is headed.

 

Disclaimer..

 

Don’t read if you ain’t down for some REAL shit.

 

A baggie and rig are laid to the side, and there’s a lighter somewhere. Or there damn well better be, yano what I mean? Like.. who gonna shoot some smack without making sure they get every last little speckle of that off white powdery goodness, am I right? No? Just me?

 

WELL FUCK

Y’ALL THEN!

THINK YOU’RE

BETTER THAN ME!?

 

Look at the blank expression on Brandon’s face. This man has been through a lifetime of endless conflicts and war. His skin is tougher than chewed up and spit out Montuori children from Bitchelle’s crusty and scabbed lips. (Get that checked out honey.) His will fortified by the humbling he experienced every step of the way on his journey to end up where he is now. And before him is the only thing keeping him from just giving up and letting the lights go out. Dude better hurry up and cash out all his winnings that still remain. The house would still pay from deep pockets for this soul.

 

Too bad it’s already sold.

 

Brandon has the rig in hand, pulling back on the plunger with the needle tip dipped deep in a glass of water. Ten units.. twenty units.. thirty units.. forty units.. fifty.. wayment.. He looks over at his pile of goodness on the bowl of the silver spoon. He puts the fifty back to forty, deciding to turn this one into a thicc bitch. Always gotta love them thicc bitches, you know what it is I am sayin’? Our man has a slick strip of rubber, taking it and tightly wrapping it around his bicep just above the pit of his arm. And boy, did this sumbitch wrap it extra tightly. He is slapping the shit out of his arm, doing all he can to ensure a vein or two rises. You always need a backup vein, just incase some dumb shit goes down. I mean, some pretty fucking dumb shit is already going down, but trust me, missing is a lot more fucking stupid than this. Ah, fuck it, lames can never understand. Back to the dope, our one and only true friend.

 

The syringe is back in hand, water slowly squirting out atop the heroin in his spoon. The pupils of his eyes already dilating, longing in his stare down of the poison within his personal love spoon. A million fractured thoughts are racing across the canvas of his mind, each bit of information a wrecked mess that he can never quite piece together no matter how hard he tries. The only thing that registers for Brandon Moore is the smack and where it lay, along with the demand to force himself to be stuck within it’s never ending quicksand. He is breaking down the dope as we speak, using the back of the plunger to mash n’ smash the goodness into a soluble solution so that it may enter into his body right and proper. You want my advice, children?

 

If you’re gonna do something..

 

Do it fucking right.

 

No half measures.

 

Cuz there ain’t no such thing as a halfway crook..

 

Don’t be a shook one like Paul Montuori and his whore.

 

Brandon slowly pushes his thumb on the plunger to make it even at the end of the syringe. A little trickle comes out from the tip of the needle, so he quickly wraps his tongue around that son of a bitch. A junkie never wastes even a tenth of a fricken’ unit, that could be the difference between a beautiful nod and an hour of sitting cross legged and picking holes into your body. Believe me, I am not glorifying this disgusting bullshit. If you watch this and decide that it too is for you, then there is something wrong with you, and you need professional help. But lookie, Brandon’s eyes are enthralled by the self torture device held in his hand, and I am shocked that the needle isn’t already playing wack a mole with his busted ass veins. Very shocked, but a closer examination of his face reveals a battle is being raged within his noggin.

 

Was he really everything that others state him to be? Or was he in control of his own narrative, and doing this because he is a wrecked and worthless scumbag piece of shit? Is anybody really in control of their lives, or is it all preordained and written to come to pass as the author depicted it beforehand? An addict who gets stuck in this endless circle of a trap never escapes, and we, I mean Brandon, are no different. Not only was he trapped in this loop of doubt, he was also a slave to the transparent nature of his very life. Almost constantly exposed with a surreal vividness, as if it were perfectly constructed. Did this mean that he was exactly where he was supposed to be, or where he wanted to be? The illusion of choice, of safety, had become what disillusioned this man to the fabled mediocrity of normalcy, and has held him on this devastating path of annihilation.

 

Who gives a fuck how many of you we gotta take with us..

 

You’ll be missed for two seconds and replaced with another forgettable face.

 

Are you starting to get the picture yet, Cent? Or do we need to dive even further into this disgusting underbelly all of you above us scoff at and turn your nose to? Alright, come here then. Look closer.

 

The needle point is steady aiming at it’s target, a semi exposed vein with a growing red bullseye around where it’s begun to get a little bit of an infection. This is where dreams are broken, laid out to die for all the world to point and laugh at. BUT THERE HE GO, with the “Yeah, well, I may be broken, but I’ll beat the shit out of you any day” type of vibe, the look on Brando’s face singing the praises. Acupuncture, HE NAILS THE LANDING! JESUS CHRIST HIMSELF WOULD BE PROUD!!! 

 

And his thumb gently applies the pressure to the plunger, sending the narcotic bliss swirling in descent towards the promised heart. Slowly, reality becomes but a fleeting dream for the Faded One, his eyes turning Chinese and flushed red. A big kadunk expands his chest and diaphragm, inhaling the last little bit of free air that he can, before giving way to the chains that have kept him enslaved to the game for all of these years.

 

The images flashing before his closing eyes consist of the past filled with so much pain and heartache, with little bright flashes of brilliance sprinkled throughout. The first image is of his wife Michelle, a smile so beautiful that it was imprinted on the faces of angels. Where had it all gone wrong? We are pulled into various cascading moments frozen in time by Brandon’s ruptured and bleeding mind. Behind his eyes lies the truth, just another failure at this wicked game we call life. The words, “I do.” are gasped from her amazing lips before they were locked with his. Streamers are falling from up above, and covering the couple standing center stage. As we begin to adore this moment, it is ripped and taken from us, and we are sent on down the line.

 

Brandon is carrying Michelle across the threshold of their first apartment that they had ever owned while truly on their own. The air is musky with the strongest scent of love this planet had ever been graced with holding atop its crust. Smiling faces, taken for granted, and missed to this day. This is the price that extraordinary men must pay to get to their proper place in the pecking hierarchy in whichever field they wander. The price of losing it all, no matter the cost, and no matter the body count. Looking on at this moment, the reminder flashes in neon, the word FAKE scratched into the scene with some bright pink blood. Hey Cent, don’t you think it’d have been better if he bashed her head right there into the wall over and over again until she bled completely out through her nose?

 

No?

 

Just me?

 

That’s why I’m the Bareknuckle Champion, bitch.

 

Where to now? I can’t see anything but a sheet of absolute black, but a dangling light up above ignites to bring into focus some cold and dreary like back alley in an unknown city. A woman carrying a bag of groceries in both of her arms is walking down the alley, so cold.. all alone.. Oh.. Oh no.. I remember this.. RUN BITCH! RUN! SAVE YOURSE..

 

CRACK!

 

And the dumb cunt’s head just about damn flew off from the ping of that sigature chrome baseball bat of Brandon’s across her damn head. This was the first one he had supposedly ever gotten, and she was an absolute BEAUT! Look at her as she lay on the rough pavement in that alley in a pool of her own blood. And we see this Boogeyman’s hand reach down to take hold of the blond slop of hair on top of her busted ass head, Freeze here please. Zoom in.

 

Thanks.

 

Look pal, push your geek ass face all the way into the screen so you can feel this raunchy ass stank in the air around this damn stupid shit. He’s gonna harm this woman, and I seriously mean fucking harm the poor gal, and look at that freakin smile on his face Cent. Fuckin’ look at it man. You really want to get inside the ever so fuckin’ sacred circle and play some fisticuffs.. with US? God damnit, they told me you were smarter than that,  but hey buddy.. I am fucking down. I am down for this shit to get as disgusting as it possibly has to, if that will make you feel any better about your chances. I mean, I guess I can’t really judge whether or not you can stand the trials of a thousands blasts of the chrome ball bat or in the ocean of thumbtacks, and still stand ten toes tall screaming..

 

FUCK YOU ALL!

 

But is your ego really worth sticking out your scrawny pathetic neck on the chopping block? Is that ego ready to be slain like the dragon, or some resurrected mummy fucking emperor like this is just make believe too? I went all out for you Mr. Centurion, whatever the fuck that name means. It doesn’t matter, and quite frankly neither do you. You nor anything that you stand for or represent matter. The only thing that matters is you are coming into my world, putting your eyes on my trophy, this Championship Belt, and claiming it as your next prize. Not only that, but you broadcast your thoughts on social media like I am just some joke obstacle you have to manage to get across. I’m not the elementary school monkey bars your dumb ass kid self fell from growing up, I am the looming void iu every dark crevice of the world around you.

 

OH MY GOD!

I FOUND YOU!

 

You may not know it yet, I may not have been forthcoming in showing it. To you and all of the rest of the new blood too. You all had your fun in the beginning, parading around my company like your dick was dragging the gutter and Paul Montuori could barely find a word to utter, and ended up in ya’ll dig dick gutter. I shudder. But listen man, you’re a world champion elsewhere, and some other type of belt, whatever, and you decide to approach this company’s low card champion? I am either disappointed or very flattered, and I’ll explain.

 

The great ones seek out competition, and attack it head strong along. That’s why I would call out a man of your caliber, even if I have no recollection of doing so.. I don’t do it because I think I am some major big shot star that can’t be defeated. Nah, nah, I do it because I need y’all’s help in beating me senseless over and over again until I strike back and you all begin to fall one after another. I need the few worthy of making me feel that uncomfortable sting of defeat to come and slap the shit out of me, so I can finally grow as a person and become who I claim to already be. That’s right. I just admitted to not being shit. Or wasn’t, rather.. So I’ll leave it up to all of you as to why he chose to pursue me over Dickie or Paulie.

 

Ahem..

 

Shit Cent, it might already be too late for you to get your obligatory pin of Brandon Moore in! I can feel something inside of me slowly seeping itself back out and into the forefront of this business. Something is just different this time my friend. And I could tell you what it was because of, but then I’d have to kill ya. Like, really, really, kill ya, like the bitch frozen on screen. And mista.. I don’t play. I’ll point my finger at your nose like a dog and have you beg. Beg little puppy, beg.

 

BEG FOR APPROVAL

 

SUCK MY DICK

 

Spits.

There is a reason why I was chosen to have this championship put around my waist, and it was almost as if it were a reminder from some power that be, to remember who the fuck it was that I am. What it is that such a depraved maniac like Brandon Moore is willing to do to have another cold body dropped at his feet. It’s a god damn feast for all the neurotic fans that get off on the sound of flesh tearing between two beasts in a pit. You want a real damn mud show? Then I’ll give it to ya boy, and I’ll give it to every single one of ya next. I don’t give a fuck. I already tried to do it y’alls way and try to fit in so maybe somebody would just give me a chance to shine and get mine. But when that didn’t come I just went and fucking took it And now I am taking it straight to whatever unlucky cuck decides to call dibs next.

 

I will stop at nothing to get the job done, when it needs done. There is no such low place that I will not personally go to drag you through the very depths of the hell in your soul and leave your body to just plant and splat. Already praised, and my chaos reigns with a trickle effect, my curse seeping down onto all the few who are beneath me in the bullpen so they may feel my warmth too. And all will rise up by my side as I reclaim all of this business for its rightful owners. Though my brethren may have all fallen before me, I’ll reach down and drag their limp bodies back to the mountaintop by my damn self. And it all begins with this here Bareknuckle strap around my waist. Wouldn’t it look pretty with the Empire snuggled up right next to it?

 

Manhattan too?

 

Boy.. we really got ahead of ourselves there didn’t we Cent?

 

Here boy.. Come here boy.. Back to your history lesson of Brandon Moore. The rest of ya can just fuck off, fricken losers. Losers just like Brandon Moore there, now dragging that sexy ass street walker from the alley and into his little studio apartment that sits on Gravois in South City, St. Louis. She was actually probably just some poor single mother trying to get home after her shift with some dinner for her two small kids at home. Man..

 

FUCK THEM KIDS

(fellow parents, AM I RIGHT!?)

 

 The address was.. Wayment, hold on. Somebody is calling me.

 

“Aye, what the fuck man? I’m cutting a fuckin’ promo on this mother fuckin’ Cent punk bro. He compared me to Dane Preston! Can ya believe that shit Poptart?” I bombarded the pastry as soon as that phone came alive.

 

“Yeah I know man, you’re fricken’ live!” From the toaster to the airwaves, Poptart fucking speaks.

 

“What? None of this is real, I’m out in the cabin fuggin blasted off heroin man. I ain’t fuggin LIVE!” This asshole was trying to ruin my high man, can you believe this shit?

 

“Exploitively deleted.” his garbled speech is all I heard as well.

 

“Oh really? You ain’t lyin?” I turn and look to all of you out there unfortunate enough to have to read this trash.

 

“Plausible deniability? Right..” Blah, Blah.

 

“Oh..” Hey, he’s got a point here.

 

I look over, you look back.. Holy fuck. That doesn’t make any damn sense. Uh.. CUT!

Ahem..

 

Back to reality..

 

But which is which?

 

Honestly..

 

Do any of you even really give a shit?

 

And he’s alive! Brandon slowly sits himself up properly on that raggedy ass couch, slowly slipping his Galaxy 9kXSFUCK 3000 out from his jean pocket and bringing it up to his face. There were several missed calls and texts from Druscilla, Uncle V, and Momma. A couple odd ones from Michelle too. Like, damn bitch, you made your choice. Leave our guy here alone, hoe. Brandon is most concerned with the texts from Druscilla. They had begun with her normal, sweet and sexy sass shit, the flirting shit. But looking upon further review, you can start to see the pattern form of her falling into some sort of darkness. You could now recognize the growing cloud that hung up above her head. She had been on the bad side of the coin flip as late, as the losses just kept continuing to pile up. Brandon was beginning to think that it had to do with him.. It wouldn’t be the first time he had held down and held back people that he considered to be close to him and that he loved. But he was able to fight through these negative emotions because of the heart that resided within the chest of his one true love, Druscilla White.

 

Brandon works his way up to his feet, ready to get back to that love and the world that was waiting for him outside and through those woods. He didn’t even want to come out here, but after what had happened with his sixteen year old new found son had put him in a place in which he had never been before. And that my friends, is fucking rare. Because, this dude? Have you been paying attention at all? You think there is much of anything this maggot hasn’t seen or done? Please.. But, a few days ago, Brandon had found himself in that peculiar situation we just got done alluding to. He brought his best friend Poptart along, and picked up his son Preston from the small shit hole town from a previous chapter. And they were all set to head up to the city that Momma Moore and Uncle Vladdy dumped him in, because his son had wanted to see where it was that half of him had truly come from.

 

He was never going to meet those two monsters.

 

And they were to spend a weekend there, and fell just a day short out of three from completing that goal before shit got way out of hand and they had to flee the city. What happened that caused Brandon to ditch the world and head out to the woods to get higher than Paul Montuori’s pussy when he rode in to Venom on that giraffe? I guess you could say it all started when Brandon opted to rent a cheap ass motel right aroud the corner from where he had grown up. There weren’t any 5 Seasons around these parts fellas. Weird flex, but yeah.. And Brandon and Poptart had left the boy in the room so they could divide up tasks to get shit done faster, like food and marijuana n’ other necessary shit. And the sight they had both walked in on at separate times about five minutes apart.

 

First, Poptart had opened the door with arms full of pizza and other snacks. But as he raised his head, the sight of the blood alone caused him to become stuck like a deer in headlights, dropping the boxes of pizza and other crap allowing them to smash into the floor. Luckily, his instincts were sharp enough to close the door behind him. But he just stood there, mortified at what was transpiring before him, and didn’t do a damn thing about it. To Poptart, the next few minutes had to of lasted a lifetime. The preppy pastry was far too soft for this hardcore shit, but don’t let that sick bastard tell you he doesn’t enjoy watching. He is Brandon Moore’s best friend, afterall..

 

Brandon then walks into the room, already looking ahead, the scene barely registering in his mind as he goes about bringing shit inside with a fat blunt already in between his lips and lit. As he heads for the fridge across the room, he stopped, looking over at his son on the bed. He’s covered in blood, on his knees atop some bloodied up pulp of woman laying on the flat of her back on the bed, still alive and whimpering. A soft, trembling voice can be heard saying, “Please.. Help.. Me..”

 

“POPTART!”

 

Poptart doesn’t budge until Brandon’s hand takes hold of his shoulder, and he looks up at Brandon who nods towards the wall. Brandon goes to his son, placing the same hand on the shoulder of his son, who has a fairly decent sized blade in his hand. Brandon takes the knife away from his son, and helps him up from the mess below him. Dazed, lost in the bliss of a fresh kill, and perhaps his first, Brandon’s son gets nervous, looking around almost frantically.

 

“What is going on?”

 

His son turns, seeing the woman on the bed covered in blood and various depths of knife wounds, still alive, and has to be in a tremendous amount of pain. Her panting had steadied a bit as hope had flooded her body with endorphins. Brandon redirects his son, bringing him over to Poptart who had sat facing towards the wall with his ears plugged. The boy looks at his uncle, and then to his father, before joining his uncle on the wall, ears covered. Brandon turns to the bed, and at the work of his firstborn child. No thoughts were able to break in to his psyche, as the only thing of import at this time was the task at hand. A task Brandon had sworn off, but was beginning to realize was the only future that awaited him. The chiming of the collar around his throat a reminder of that fact.

 

So in sadness, Brandon dragged himself over to that bed, telling himself that it was okay because it was out of mercy. But this bitch didn’t wanna die. So I will take you away from this scene, and what transpires next to spare you the trauma of having to witness that. It’s not exactly like you can take yourself over to the wall and cover your shit up. I’m also guessing a few of y’all would be like those two sick fucks over there who can’t help but turn aroud and peak every time they hear the slash, the gash, the screams, and the final shrill when the energy finally released from her body, and she was no more. When Brandon was finished, he sat back on his heels on top of the bed to the side of the now deceased random bitch his son had snatched from outside. Brandon wipes the sweat from his face, blood smearing accidently across it. He looks over to his son and best friend, both who are getting up and coming over to him.

 

“Grab your shit quickly son. Preppy.. get the tarp from the trunk and back the car up to the door. Let’s go.”

 

And that was that in a nutshell. Brandon was devastated to find that the curse had been passed on to his son, even though he had grown for sixteen years without his father’s influence. And this had driven Brandon to the verge of self destruction, which he had begun to commence. But then something had happened later on this day after he had returned to the realm of his dearly beloved. His Druscilla. They had moved in with one another, the thought being, why wait? Yano? But as Brandon had entered into their newly shared home, he could feel something wasn’t right immediately. A sinking feeling consumed Brandon, and he rushed quickly to find his dearest Druscilla. Busting through doors, room after room, and he couldn’t find her. He approached the master bedroom bathroom door, and it was locked. He wasted no time in kicking it open, finding Druscilla cold on the floor beside the bathtub.

 

A syringe stuck out from her arm and a spoon sitting on the toilet lid.

 

But that’s a story for another day, from another face. My story ends here for the day. I hope you were able to learn something, Cent. You may indeed win this match, and take this championship from me with force. Anything is literally possible. But it’s also possible that you end up on another special list, one with many names rather than the short ones you usually reside on. You may just end up another piece of crap that was fortunate enough to become…

 

VICTIMIZED BY

BRANDON MOORE

 

See you next time, friends.

 

P.S… Chapter Five, The Divorce, coming soon to not make any fucking sense to trash like you!