well, at least there is that

By: Brandon Moore

Writing Prompt: No

Date: 25th Aug 2021

“alright, let’s just get this shit out of the way real quick. you know how i am the baddest mother fucker in those garbage blood drenched mayhem death matches? and you know how i am also the best smoothest yet nastiest fighter out there and everywhere? well here’s the thing, i just happen to be the greatest tag team wrestler of all time. there, i said it. and it is the fucking truth.”



what, you think my name j mont?

shut the fuck up clown


“already won tag warz number one with none other than tyler fucking knowles as my partner. and if you’re asking yourselves “who?”, which i know y’all maggots just did, then you should know that is one of my biggest flexes on that whole original outlaw pro wresting roster. they knew then what they mostly and you should know by now. if brandon moore want it, like really actually give a fuck and wants the sumbitch, he just goes and fucking takes it. like just on a whim, ‘oh i wanna win another tag war just to wipe my balls all over your chins and crow.'”






“to further your attention on my being the best tag team wrestler on top of all that other bullshit im just stupid brilliant at, it really should be one of the two best tag team wrestlers. fighters? whatever gets X hard while calling us. like 1a and 1b. that other man, we shall call him 1b, was/is Paul Montuori. we were Wrecked and Worthless. if you ain’t heard the name Dub Dub then you’re a pathetic nerd who doesn’t sit with the cool kids. and rightfully so. i mean, just look at ya. dweeb.”




“oh, and dub dub won tag war numero dos. we beat em all so fuckin bad that the natural born killers, vinny black and vhodka marie for you uninitiated, fucking quit for like two whole minutes. i could go on and on about the many headlining names we had maimed and tamed to win that one, but i don’t think i got the mental capacity to sit here and remember em all. im literally fried my friends, and not in the dorky and fake way that WWF bro dude is fried. my brain is the literal scrambled egg from those anti drug PSA’s from the nineties. you remember those? all they ever did was inform me of the more dope ass drugs out there than Marijuana. but i digress.”


“but brandon!?” the audacity to interrupt the despised one while he was verbally smashing on his so called contemporaries. “dub dub is in the past and you guys lost the outlaw pro tag belts in your last match as a team.”


“that is part of the politics involved with being a v.ip. superstar that you bucktooth phoneys would never understand. because you simply ain’t fucking good enough. i was once again the one true xkore god, and i was the last after 4 defenses and miss f under order of X took it away upon my first steps into that fascist tower. truthfully though, paulie and i were already on the outs. we’re so damn good we were able to lose even though we tried real hard. we tried stupid hard. right paulie? oh, and by the way, remind me of what i just asked you right before i back hand you across your beautiful mouth while warstein is busting the paper champs head open and playing operation. that is.. if you weak ass motha fuggas even get far enough to see us in this shit.”





“ands we is going to hurtcha when we get our grimey paws on ya. you don’t seem to understand why these goof’s try to crack some jokes that I am the boogeyman with a halloween mask. their mommies taught them to try and take the piss outta their fears with slapstick humor, but all of these chumps lack the chops to properly convey just the simplest of comedy that it is a comedy in and of itself. just face the truth you marching human cattle, you are scared of FIGHTS! boogeyman, and it ain’t cuz of the way i look. no, no my friends, you are scared because of the latent ability to mangle your bodies and tangle up all these words until you join me in my realm of disbelief that you fear. just beware of my prophecy, i will be the ruler of this reality.”





“i used to not like any of you needy ass maggots, not a single pathetic cow among you. didn’t want to. didn’t care to. but i gotta admit, i have come across a few of you little pukes and you’re cool with me. if you are questioning it, or don’t know, then you ain’t one of the chosen.”




“but i look around at the list of names who are in the way of my clean sweep, and i see not one single name that evokes any sentiment from yours truly except one, and that is dane preston. i touched on the complicated mess that is our relationship a little last week. well, a lot actually. so i won’t beat a dead horse, but i will offer up a little something different. dane, i am only looking at you in this sea of predators as a true challenge. yeah, yeah paulie, shut up, i am talking to dane, you already had your time in the sun. dane, my oldest and dearest friend, it is a shame that we may end up meeting in this thing on uneven footing. while i have a partner who carries a reputation of badass and kick your assery, you are saddled with the relic of outlaw pro’s participation trophy philosophy. a man who was in a position of power and abused that power to position himself quite nicely into obtaining some gold belts to wrap around his waist. a little something to make him seem important because his skill couldn’t carry him past the front door, and then he put together a kliq of talent for him to coast off their successes to further pump value into a dead and forgotten relic of wrestling’s past, FoCuS, the dick’s he rode while running roughshod on that pathetic company i helped build carried him when his seat of power was useless. yeah, that’s right. the formation of this company was only, at least partly, in thanks to the blood and sweat i poured into its previous incarnation.”





“and the shmuck who did it, yano the one, the one too shook to show his face here, did such a good job of scrubbing me from the history that not too many of you knew this.”


“brandon..” you say while trying to fathom what point i am trying to make. “why would i, dane preston, or whoever you are hearing these words, give a damned fuck about that?”


“and the answer, you imbecile miscreants, is that you can draw one very fucking clear parallel between that phooking mook and little joey montuori himself. don’t believe me? do some real research on the dichotomy of this here special little cult of wrestlers, barbarians, fighters, whatever, and you will find that perceived differences are nothing but lies and everything and everyone is just a caricature of the next. maybe one of them left and learned a new hold, i don’t fucking know, but what i do know is that i am the exception to this rule of thumb. and dane, that is the one very simple reason why i will always be your superior, and you, along with little joey montuori and the rest of these toxic tag maggots, will all fall on your hands and knees blessing me.”





“and while i am on dane, let us throw in the words for his miserable adventure seeking promiscuous wife, my niece allison, the bitch chasing lame dick, sahara, and one of the only two members of that now new jersey based compound i ever really liked besides my wife, the enviable jam tart (look it up you idiots), lovely and ready to make any man beg and plead please, ms. anicka swan. outside of sahara, who is somehow my wifey’s bestie, but whatever, i know y’all so fucking well. you could say i know the two of you almost better than any other single person walking this earth other than the rest of the compound. and i love you guys. i hope you know that, even though none of you did a damn thing to stop my exile, or attempt and reach out during the decade plus since it happened. and i want you to know now that, i forgive you. i didn’t become your uncle until after allison, and you were so little at the time, and to you anicka, i was just another in a long line of damon’s projects. i get that, and you are forgiven. but that is where the pleasantries end, and now is where i tell you what i really think. allison, you don’t belong out in that ring living off of your father’s hard earned success while pretending to be something special. even now, you’re only half of the tag champs because a punk is trying to play homewrecker while using my profession to further his twisted agenda.”






“and anicka, a multi time outlaw pro immortal champion. what a fucking feat. no, really, i mean it. but the truth is, without me, it never would have happened in the first place. while everyone was still sleeping on the mighty ani, i saw you, and i knew that we had to have our belt around you as the company’s statement. a statement that the business was changing and we were the ones leading the way. so i paved the road for you, and you played your part to perfection. nobody can take that last part from you, you kicked a lot of names and as you do, took a lot of fucking ass. but don’t think for one single second that you are in any type of way an obstacle for me. not here in the tag war, and not in my conquest to the top of not only this company, but this business as a whole. i will crush you beneath my boot like a bug. and your partner? apathy?”




“we may have played nice when our mental processes lined up in a shared belief or goal, but that is not the case here in this WAR! i have but one goal, one thought process, and that is my clean sweep. any type of alliance or hand shake deal of you leave me alone and i will leave you the fuck alone unless we gotta kick some ass is tossed in the trash, and it is your neck i will plant with the Everblack if it comes to that. so, no hard feelings, except the aforementioned instance of your neck snapped on whatever lay beneath our feet when i hit you with the most treacherous and devastating move in all of professional wrestling. then that is nothing but an extremely rough and hard feeling.”




“shit, i forgot to throw in voodoo with the rest of the riggs clan. but there ain’t much i can say to ya except what i told the other two. and it applies to you more than them voo, because you of all people could have talked the sense into the old man and prevented my excommunication. but ya didn’t. and you’re probably still mad at me for falling prey to my passions and beating the leftover life outta that old man. but we were close at one time, red. countless nights spent lost deep in conversation while the people surrounding us in our lives at that point were jealous of the connection. but i guess you forgot about me while you were busy building your empire of filth and corruption that you preside over today. so maybe keep your eyes peeled for me, cuz i forgive you not and paint a beautiful target on that wonderful crimson head.”






“and now history will repeat itself vhodka. you more than anybody have desperately tried to bring me into their fold, into their bosom and under their thumb. offered friendship and a hand in solidarity as if it were just for charity. and with each pathetic attempt at wrangling in another who was a threat to your immense talent and skill, you were met with a crushing dose of reality. like a blow to the sternum that leaves you breathless, you failed miserably each time trying to forge a connection. we are two widely separate beasts wandering this toxic wasteland, snatching the loose change and cashing the grand checks handed to us on rightfully deserved silver platers. the only difference is, you had to socially climb up to the big table to get offered your place setting. me? i did and do what only brandon moore can and will do, and that is to absolutely wreck every faceless body lumped in front of me. like i was their starved fighting dog, the pit bull on the four foot chain outback, and they tossed out my meal from behind a steel reinforced barricade so i never bit the hand that feeds. my point is, vhodka, that i am going to beat you black and blue, cuz i ain’t nothing like you and you ain’t nothing like me.”



just do me a favor and don’t run away mad this time when you realize you will never be on my level.. just run away.


“vinny black, same goes for you. but wait, there is more..”


“MORE!?” you grumble as you grow sick of listening to me spew the epitaphs and tired of my greatness. “just shut the fuck up already, we get it!!”


“but that is just it, you don’t get it vincent. you never have. in outlaw pro, i longed for the day i got the chance to stand across from one of the legendary names of our business, and i was always denied the opportunity. i get it, you were terrified of losing then, more than just a match, but losing your spot. but now your spot is secured, ain’t it vinny? big brother X is the one signing the checks, and no matter what the relationship is between two brothers of actual blood, he will always keep you around. only thing different now is if you even give a fuck enough to put in any actual effort to advance your career off your own merits or if you’ll just wallow in your brother’s shadow and cash those checks. my money is on the latter, but i am wrong all the damn time so who knows. well, except when i am spitting prophecy that is. but there is no need for a prophet in this War, just fighters ready to rip the heads off of their opponents. and whether it be you, or that creepy little fuck dollface, a head will be lopped off and placed onto my mantel where the rest of my victims reside. you will be given one last final accolade vincent, you will have earned the privilege of being..”




“and there are a few others that i won’t bother giving a shout out, except maybe Dru, but haven’t i already slapped you around silly twice now? in separate promotions? that alone should tell you all that you could possibly need to know. you just aren’t on the level you witness with your eyes locked on my every movement, as you hang from every word that drops from my mouth or is beamed from my head. you are nothing more than another in a long line of brandon moore groupies. the funny part is, you were offered a spot standing by my side whilst i massacred all of our peers. what irritates me is the nerve to first accept my offer and then renege on the deal when you thought a better opportunity was presenting itself to you. how did that turn out for you ya pathetic dime store ‘witch’? yeah, still a directionless nobody kicking herself in the ass every waken moment for blowing her one shot at the true meaning and perception of relevancy. sorry little one. you did this to yourself. and now they have pulled a decent partner away from you and gave them the boot, replacing that cuck clauson that i humiliated, and give you one of the spoon fed protťgťs? asher fucking julez?”





“the powers that be, X, who and what ever the fuck, knew exactly what they were doing when they paired the Despised One with a man hellbent on proving he is one of the absolute bests no matter what company he is treading and trodden head first into. they put together two of the absolute best at the tops of their respective games, and pointed us in our favorite direction. beating the riff raff until they are senseless and our hands are raised victorious. because children, many of you may sing the tune of just trying to put on a show, spitting phrases about how it’s all about the passion of our business, and dismissing the thoughts of wins and losses. but such acts are reserved for one type of person, and a whole fucking bunch of you fall into this category along with the rest. winning only doesn’t matter to losers. no, not the big dogs who slip up and lose one here and there. not them. shit happens. but i am pointing my bloody finger at those of you who are the embodiment of the term LOSER! because losing is the only thing you are any good at.”






“but your preferred stench of disappointment carries on, and there is nothing new for trash like you. just the endless roller coaster ride of near falls and ultimate defeats. you pale in comparisons towards two heaven sent men they call Moore Warstein, the margin growing further and further apart every single week as your truths betray you and give the real bad boys all of the ammunition we could ever need to perform drive-by after drive-by on your miniscule and worthless careers. i can rip you all apart with my bare hands or with the visceral and literal tongue lashings i dole out that not a single fuck around can match. so maybe grab yourselves some paper, a sharpened pencil with a good eraser to wipe away your inevitable mistakes, and shut your stupid mouths and pay attention. let your egos die right here, right now, so maybe you can finally learn what it means to be successful, to be a legend, and to have legions of fans, at least half of them being the very people who are supposed to be shutting you up and dropping you. but the real ones are too few and far between, so i guess it is up to us to handle cosplayer mop up duty.”


you were probably expecting a continuation of last week’s epic drama of my abandonment issues. but we shall save that for another time. my friends, i wanted to use this opportunity to introduce to you the brand new manager of brandon moore. he is the absolute most hated man in all of professional wrestling, and many a diner nationwide. ladies and gentlemen, the one, the only, MR. JIM CORNETTE!


“hello folks, you probably weren’t expecting to hear from me being involved in a place like this, and to that i say FUCK YOU! i turned on my interwebs not too long ago, signed onto twitter, and you know what happened? it was flooded with mentions and short videos of this new promotion called FIGHT! NYC! the cult bombarded me with the stuff. and after watching it, i gotta say, this is some good shit pal. the action has an incredible pace that doesn’t go too far into the phoney territory. and this performer instantly caught my eye. he was just that good. like a bigger version of beautiful bobby eaton, God rest his soul. but watching brandon while he worked his way across the ring methodically had me hooked like i have not been hooked in a long time. this kid has got it all. and to think he spent the majority of the past decade doing nothing but the ultra violence and having just a merry old good time. but then you could see him start to not only take this more seriously, but he pushed aside his demons long enough to let his true character shine. and the kid is fucking brilliant. brandon moore ladies and gentlemen.”


“jesus christ, can the two of you shut the hell up already and tell me what you think of this cute little polo outfit for the baby?” michelle interrupts, annoyance on her face from us shooting on wrestling while out shopping for baby moore. “isn’t it just the cutest thing you have ever seen?”


“well i like it michelle.” corny sucks up.


“Thanks Jimmy. I knew I could count on you.”


Michelle said back to Cornette before glaring at Brandon out of the corner of her eye.


“What? I already told you, if you like it, I like it dear.”


Brandon responded before giving Cornette a look. She rolled her eyes and continued to browse through the racks of baby clothing, but was interrupted by Brandon.


“Don’t you think he has enough clothes though?”


She turned around to face him and he jokingly moved behind Cornette, using him as a shield of sorts.


She paused for a moment.†


“I mean, yeah, he probably does..” she responded.†


“At this point you’re going to have to change his outfit three times a day and throw the damn clothes in the trash to get him into everything.”


She ran her hand along the top of the clothing rack, her eyes trailing off over towards the travel section.


“I guess you’re right..”


She slowly headed off towards the furniture/travel department as Brandon dramatically fell back into Cornette.


“Mark that shit in your day planner, Corny.. My wife just said I was right. That shit will never happen again.”


Him and Cornette shared a laugh before they took off behind her.


“You know as I was saying before, I was sitting at home in my big ass house, at my desk that is probably way too big for what I need it for and I was watching the videos that all these scumbags were sending me, watching brandon do what he does best and owning these worthless maggots, week in and week out and I knew I had to reach out, I knew I had to do something to be a part of this, because mark my words assholes, brandon moore is the hottest thing in wrestling right now.”


Michelle turned around and gave Cornette another dirty look before looking back to Brandon.


“Is he going to do this the whole time?” She asked.


Brandon shrugged his shoulders and laughed.


“I can’t help it, baby girl. The man thinks I’m great and I can’t say that I disagree.”


“Thats fine. You are great..” she stopped in front of a stroller/carseat combo. “But I thought you were going to spend the day with me getting last minute things for our son.”


She turned her attention back to the set.


“Do you like this one?”


Cornette speaks up before Brandon can.


“I love it. He loves it. Buy it and let’s get the hell out of here. The kid has enough shit and if he doesn’t, your rich friends who aren’t really your friends but pretend to be your friends will buy it for you to prove that they like you even though they don’t..”


She stopped dead in her tracks,† looked Cornette in his face before looking at Brandon who was as shocked as anyone that Cornette said that to her. She pushed her way between the two of them before walking out of the store, leaving them standing there.


“I’m going to hear about this later..” Brandon said.


“She does look good walking away though.”†


Cornette responded, the two of them chuckling to themselves.


“Corny, send this text for me.” Brandon says as he hands him a phone.


óMr. Warstein, I request your presence at my home. Saying no is not an option. Either you show up willingly, or we take you by force and youíll see the inside of my shed. The car is waiting. Choose wisely, I wouldnít want to hurt your lovely friend. B.ó




The lightning crackles across a dark skyline, dimly lit by a moon shrouded in cascades of cloud puffs. Brandon Moore is sitting at a table inside of his home on Eulogeo Island, an empty chair across from him as if he knew a man would be joining him soon enough. On the table sat an unopened bottle of Jewel of Russia Ultra Black Label vodka, the finest of pure Russian vodka, and two highball glasses. Something obscured lay in Brandonís lap, but it was large and metallic in nature. All that was clearly visible to the naked eye was an engraving of a headless eagle on a wooden grip. Brandon looks over into the darkness, a smile coming to his face. He reaches forward, and begins to open the expensive bottle of vodka, and drops three fingers into each highball glass.


A lightning strike blasts off in the distance as a man covered in shadow walks in and approaches the table. A steely glare and a sigh as he sat down across from Brandon. “So Iím here. Whatís this all about?” Shawn says while leaning forward elbows on the table top and finally coming into frame fully.


“Mr. Warstein..” Brandon, whose attention is now on the man that has been at odds with him for a short while. But that short while feels like a lifetime now that he is sitting face to face across from him. He slides Shawn one of the glasses of Black Label, taking the other into his own hand. “Shall we cut the shit and get straight to business or do ya wanna jerk each other off first a little? The night that Iíve had, I could go either way bubba.”


“You do have a way with words donít you?” Shawn reaches for the glass and slides it away. A small smirk comes across his face. “Sorry, I donít do vodka. Prefer bourbon. You asked for me here, so why donít we just cut to the chase.”


Brandon snaps his fingers a couple of times, and out of the shadows from nowhere appears none other than Jim Cornette. But not the Jim Cornette you are probably familiar with seeing. No, this man is different. In his hands, a bottle of some standard bar brand whiskey, and he sets it on the table next to his master, along with another glass. Brandon reaches across the table and grabs the turned away glass, pulling it to himself as Cornette just up and disappears to which he came.


“You see friend, here in my world, desire is a concept that does not exist. What you want, you will get. And buddy, for future reference, for your safety, where I am from, when a man offers you a drink in his home, you abibe, especially if you join him at his table.” Brandon lays out the law of his land as he proceeds to throw down three more fingers of alcohol into a glass and slide it Shawnís way. “For safety of course.”


A side smile from Shawn as he grabs the glass. Holding it up to the light. Itís not the first time heís been offered a drink and probably not the last. “You see Brandon, when it comes to desire.” While rolling his wrist with the glass. “I have a certain way about getting what I want. You say that I came and sat at your table. That itís rude of me to turn down a drink. You know what isnít?” Shawn takes the glass and empties its contents directly into his mouth in one large gulp. “Manifesting what you desire. What I want, I always get. Thereís no denying that. Iím sure youíve done your research on me, but let me let you in on a little secret.” Shawn once again leans forward. “You should know that anything told secondhand is just a myth. Neat trick with Jeeves.” Shawnís gaze never leaves the unimpressed Moore.


“Bubba, truth be told, I havenít done a damn thing in trying to discover who in the fuck you are. Or where the fuck you came from. I can look into your eyes and see all that I would ever need to know. Since you have done your homework on me, you should know that I have been playing the long con. I was just biding my time until the correct opportunity presented itself to me. That was before Fight absorbed the company called Outlaw Pro Wrestling, which was part mine in the beginning, but I wonít get into that detail again. Just know that your research could not tell you the true story of the man sitting across from you, because the darkside had clouded the reality of my being in a way you can not fathom. It wasnít until two weeks ago that I truly stepped out from that darkness. And my friend, you should know that the darkness hasnít stepped out from me. And you more than anybody should know the meaning behind what I am going to say next.”




Brandon follows Shawnís lead, and takes one of the glasses of vodka into his hand. A second later, the glass is empty and turned upside down on the table. He takes the other glass and slams it too. Brandon throws the glass at the wall of his makeshift house. “ANOTHER!”


Cornette returns, his eyes locked on Warstein and an almost snarl on his lip. He removes the remaining dirty glass from in front of Brandon before making his way over to Shawn. Cornette gives him the stinkiest of stink eyes before taking his glass and replacing it with another. Corny returns over to his liege, and leans down against his ear whispering. “I donít like this man boss. Heís hiding something.” Cornette stands back straight, his eyes peering back at Warstein before he completely returns his focus on his present task and disappears.


“Corny doesnít like you Shawn. Maybe I should check into what youíve been up to before now. I canít be teaming with some cosplayer whoís just happy to be here. But those eyes, I look into them, and itís almost romantic in a sense. Not romantic in the way of physical and mental adoration. Romantic in the fact that the eyes are a window into the soul, and as I sit here now, I find myself hypnotized by the gaze of a man who, like me, has seen some shit. A man who has been in the shit. But most importantly, I see a man who, like me, prospered in the shit and emerged as more myth than man. A living legend.” Brandon adds more Black Label to his glass, and rolls the whiskey bottle across the table to Shawn who stops it in front of him. “But donít take my words as friendly Shawn, because although you may not truly know the man who you are sharing this table with, you should believe everything you have heard about him. For all that I have waxed poetic onto you, you are looking at the embodiment of a living legend. You are looking at the last prodigy of this business. And whether you are with me or against me, I will be winning this Tag War. The ill golden twine of Fate has twisted it as so.”


“Has anyone ever told you that you talk, and you talk a lot about nothing? Brandon you can look me in the eyes and get all the reads you want. This isnít poker. You say youíve been playing the long con?” Shawn glances over to Cornette and smiles. “This whole thing about Toxic teams is nothing more than a ruse to drum up drama. Look me right in the eyes. Iíve stood across the ring from GOATs, Gods, Antichrists, the second-comings, and they all felt what youíre feeling right now. Trepidation. I walked into your home. Calm, cool and collected.” Shawn quickly cuts his attention back towards Brandon. “Youíre playing the game. Iím playing the board. This isnít chess, there are no right moves. There is only the outcome. Thatís what we have in common. The outcome. I donít like to lose and if I have to go through you to win, I will.”


Brandon scoffs. “Playing the board? I thought better of you Shawn, but disappointment is an old friend. Take a look around you bud, do you see the pawns? Do you see the knights and rooks? I am about building the board the others are forced to play upon, while the weaker are the ones holding it up in the first place. You talk as if you are a man of substance, but your words just dismiss any other notion that what your little noggin has bouncing around in it. Open your eyes to the real world, my friend. Do you see it? Can you smell it? Can you taste it in the air? Seriously consider what it is that you perceive, because you are looking at the one thing in this world that you will never be able to conquer. The one person who can hold your head beneath the water and make you drown. I offer you respect, and you verbally attempt to spit in my face? Why even bother walking in here all nonchalant with your dick swinging like you are something if youíre just going to end up like every other man, woman, and child who has had the gall to metaphorically try to smear their shit into my face?”


“Do you listen to yourself? Like at all? Or are you simply content with beating the same people, over and over again. Iíve said it once and Iíll say it to your face.” Shawn leans back in his chair. “Gods donít govern over one, they govern over many. Everywhere I go, I dominate. I go somewhere and doors open for everyone. I take down the established. Itís not my fault you think that itís you.”


Brandon sighs as he pulls the .45 caliber Colt Model 1917 revolver out that had been sitting in his lap. He lays it out on the table before him. “Pay Sheila no mind, my family draws a lot of enemies you see, and one can never be too careful.” He finishes the rest of his glass before flipping it over as well.


“So you say then that you have come to conquer? I have not had the privilege of being anywhere as I am before you today. If we are measuring our dicks, then you should know that everywhere I have been, I enter unknown, and before they know it, it is a massacre and the blood flows like one of these opponentís monthly when they forget to pop in a kleenex. I was the king of the death match. But I wasnít always that way, Shawn. I was once like you, many years ago, when I was brand new. Now, nothing is new and I find myself living in the past. Not metaphorically. But for real. Always doomed to repeat itself, history is.” Brandon pick the revolver up into his hand, giving it a hard once over.


“If you think that is going to rattle me, you have to try a little harder.” Shawn lifts up the bottom of his shirt, revealing two small scars. “One. Two. Nine millimeter, point blank.” Shawn lowers his shirt and cracks a smile. “Guy was honestly a shit shot.”


“No, no, no. I will never shoot a man unless I have failed otherwise. No, this.. well, Sheila is calling out to us Shawn. She wants her favorite game to be played.” Brandon unclicks the cylinder, and kinda flicks his wrist to pop it out to the side, revealing not six, but seven chambers with each housing a .45 caliber round. Brandon looks up from his weapon at Shawn. “Have you ever played?”


Shawn tilts his head to the right. “I have. Undefeated champion.” Shawn reaches for the weapon, as Brandon quickly pulls it away. “Thought you wanted to have fun?”


“First, the rules.” Brandon interjects as he begins to allow every round but one to fall from his revolver, and they each hit the floor and scatter in a different direction. The one that remained had landed in his hand. “Before each pull, you open the cylinder, and give it another spin.” Brandon pops the single round into a chamber and slams the cylinder closed. “Iíll go first.” And without hesitation, Brandon Moore puts the firearm up square with his temple, and squeezes the trigger. Crickets from outside. His demeanor does not change, he just simply slides the weapon across the table to his, whether he likes it or not, tag team partner..


“Okay.” Shawn releases the chamber and gives it spin. With the flick of his wrist the chamber closes. “So. Just like this?” Shawnís finger hovers over the trigger.†








“When you do something more, it takes a second.” Shawn smiles and slides the firearm across the table. “Youíre up big boy.”


Brandon snatches up the weapon as it slides his way. His eyes donít leave those of Shawnís. He flips open the cylinder, and stops. He looks at the bullet resting in itís chamber, and looks back at Shawn. Brandon reaches down at his feet and scoops up another round, and without looking at the weapon, adds it to a chamber before slamming it shut. “My kind of man.” And he pulls the trigger, his eyes locked onto his partners. Brandon goes to slide it across the table but stops, a smile permeating his face. He returns the barrel to himself, this time into his mouth, and pulls the trigger. Mumbled, “Well, damn, would you look at that?” Brandon removes the barrel from his mouth and slides the revolver back to Shawn.


Shawn grabs the weapon and once again lifts up his shirt. This time wiping the remnants of saliva off the barrel. “Can never be too careful.” He opens the chamber and gives it a spin. Placing it right to his left temple.†






Shawn points the weapon towards the wall pulling the trigger. A shot echoes in the room, causing glass to shatter. He places it on his temple once again.†




Shawn smiles and slides the weapon over to Brandon. Neither man has broken their glare at the other.


“God Damnit, I love it!” Brandon shouts as he gets up quickly to his feet, knocking his chair over backwards in the process. “We are going to be unstoppable!”


“Listen. Iím only going to say this once, so listen closely.” Shawn stands up from the table and holds his arms out to his side. “Iím in this to win it. If I have to take the head off of Watson to do it, oh well. He will get over it. If I have to castrate or spay each and every one of them I will. I value nothing more than me winning. Unstoppable? No.” Shawn pulls his hands down and shrugs. “Unbeatable.”


Brandon looks back to Shawn, a sarcastic look on his face. “My friend, we are going to completely wreck every last piece of crap that advances right along with us.” Brandon quickly picks up the revolver and puts it to his head without checking the cylinder. “And the only thing I like more than myself is winning.. myself. Ah, fuck it. You get it.”