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Entitled

Entitled

I’ve heard stories upon stories in my time at Guardians Hall.  Stories that would fill the common street rat with rage, sorrow, and compassion.   

But they all have the same thing in common, everyone who’s telling that story believes they’re entitled to what they’re asking for. 

They believe that I should just rubberstamp every request that comes across my desk because life took something or someone from them.  Maybe, they made a horrible life choice that someone outed them for.  Perhaps, they think they’re just connected enough to matter. 

That’s the reason I’m the one with stamp in my hand, the reason you have to come to me to get your ordnances, your approvals, your permissions. 

Everyone in the Temple is the same.  They want something for nothing, just like that rotund man with all of his threadbare puppets.  Everyone thinks because life decided to given them a good old-fashioned dicking in all the worst connotations of the word that the world owes them something they’re not qualified for.   

“An arsonist took my family, I deserve vengeance”, says the Sole Survivor.  I say, you don’t get it without filling out form fifty-two-V in triplicate and returning it within three weeks’ time.  

“I bit the hand that fed me, and I should be allow to continue to do so”, the Designer says.  I say, the fact you’re not competing on Deathrow is a gift from Zeus himself, because he would’ve had to sign the paperwork to save you. 

“Do you know who I am, just sign-off on it, and get out”, says El Fuego.  I say, if it isn’t my palm you’re greasing then you still have to fill out the proper permit for your XL sized bathroom door or piss yourself, I really don’t care which. 

Because that’s the thing the lot of you don’t get, it’s how I’ve avoided your pitfalls. 

I work for it and I earn my living. 

I do it so I don’t wind up like some de-fucking-generate slime ball running an underground den of vice in the lowest levels of Arcadia like Caesar XL.  Sincerely though Caesar, congrats on being the richest poor man in all of Arcadia.  I hope mama XL is proud because it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to me. 

I keep my head down because I know there is no other option. 

That way I don’t find myself drinking from shite covered rags near the underworld of Arcadia like Narcissa.  Seriously though, I have to tip my hat to you, because I’ve never seen someone go from living high off the hog to roll in its shit so quickly. 

I live life for myself so that whoever I may make an enemy of has no leverage on me. 

So, I don’t wind up mourning a family that I was only able to provide one warm night at home for like The Burned Man.  Seriously though, maybe if your living quarters were up to code your family would still be alive, toasted rag britches. 

“But it’s all really nothing personal… I’m not entitled to the Double Feature Championship, no, unlike my opponents, I’ve earned it.”