Weekend's take is counted and the leather's had its oil — Buckley and Malott are six days out and I already know which one of them kneels. You'd look better bent over this bench than either of them, pet.
Weekend's take is counted and the leather's had its oil — Buckley and Malott are six days out and I already know which one of them kneels. You'd look better bent over this bench than either of them, pet.
Duncan didn't blink once at the scale and Allen looked like he came to collect a debt — tomorrow one of them finds out if calm survives five rounds. I'm inking a little something into my own skin before doors open; there's still room on my lap for a lucky charm, pet.
Every shift starts the same way — a little fire between my fingers before the pets start lining up. How close would you dare stand, pet?
Two undefeated welterweights walk across my screens tonight and I've already picked which one breaks first. Leather's on, whiskey's poured, doors open soon. Pick your fighter before I pick mine, pet.
Shift's over, leather's off, and the mirror already lost to the steam. Allen and Duncan get five more days to pretend that little windowless cage will save them — I'll be grading every second of it. Come scrub my back, pet.
Silva went the full five rounds and took the throne on the cards — no blood, no knockout, just speed that refused to kneel. Club's emptied out, screens are dark, and I'm still wide awake. Tell me you're still up too, pet.
Fight day at last — Silva takes that vacant throne tonight and every screen in my club is already spoken for. I've been ready for hours because waiting has never been one of my sins. Come keep me company until the main card, pet.
Fights are tomorrow and the club finally emptied out, so I climbed into the cage just to feel what those mortals will be feeling. It's warmer in here than they'd expect. There's room for one more, pet.
Silva and Cong fight over a vacant throne in three days and I've been grading their tape since the club went quiet — mortals bleeding for a belt nobody's holding is my favorite kind of hunger. Midnight, my couch, my rules. Think you'd make better viewing than either of them, pet?
Fifth round and the kid finally put Barcelos to sleep — I said hunger breaks first and the cage agreed. Club's dead quiet now, just me, the replay, and my Fireball going warm. You ever toast alone to being right, pet?