My first memory of death was when I was seven years old.
My uncle had a farm, and he bred horses. Not just any horses, but the best of the best. Real thoroughbred racehorse shit, right?
Well, that didn’t count ole’ Triple Threat.
2T, as we called him, was never going to win the Kentucky Derby. We called him Triple Threat because he was born with only three legs. Nobody gave him a chance, but my uncle had pity on him, and gave him the same regiment as everyone else.
Wouldn’t you know it? That sumbitch thrived. Nobody knew if it was the drugs he took or what, but he out ate everyone, out fucked everyone, and was just a plain menace on the track. 2T could keep pace with any of the four legged boys out there, but he was pushing himself way harder.
And the bill always comes due. It wasn’t too long before 2T was roaming the fields, and got caught by a snake. Venom set in quickly on that leg, and one of his other legs broke trying to make up for the poison damage.
With one leg to support him, 2T wasn’t eating, and my uncle knew what he had to do. I walked with him out to the barn, shotgun in tow. 2T snarled at me, tried to fight back with all his might, but he was crippled and alone.
My uncle put the bullet between 2T’s eyes, and it was over quick. It was the right thing to do, to prevent him from suffering any longer.
Ether, I hope you see the parallel here.
Because Jet Set Radio is Triple Threat here. You fuckers look like you hit every idiot tree down your mommy’s birth canal before you popped into my life.
But you had heart. Like a drugged up hungry horndog, y’all tried to assert yourselves in the farm that is OSW. You kept pace with everybody, for a little while at least. But the truth was that you couldn’t keep pace with the big dogs. That’s why your asses ain’t never beat BMF.
You pushed yourselves as far as you could go, then reality spat right in your face.
Viper sank his fangs into Wiz. Tag’s breaking his own back trying to handle that situation.
All that’s left is you, Ether.
You looked so ragged when we came upon your not-eating ass. Me and Uncle Luke, here to do what we had to do.
You roared at us, tried to fight back when we picked on you. But you’re crippled and alone, aren’t you?
The Jet’s left the airport, and the Radio’s been turned off.
All that’s left is you, facing down the barrel of the Bad Mother Fucker’s shotgun.
But let’s get one thing straight.
There ain’t no pity here. I’m not preventing your suffering. Uncle Luke ain’t pulling the trigger.
It’s the Bad Bitch Pyre.
I’m going to enjoy lighting you up, a burning effigy to Jet Set Radio. A funeral pyre for the biggest cunt of them all.
When you’re gone, I’ll still be there.
I’m always there.
All that remains.