Let me tell you, cabron’, there’s only one thing I love more than a blue filete.
Lightly seared on each side, and then still breathing on the inside –
Mooin’ for its fuckin’ abuelo – and if it ain’t breathing, it’ll sure be bleeding with just one fine rodaja right down the center.
Mi ex mami used to give me shit for eating it like this – we were gonna sick and shit, but look at me now. What it comes down to, esse’, is that most of these motherfuckers don’t understand people like you and I.
They think we’re so disgusting for liking our meat just a little more fresh off the fields than most of the swine that strut their shit around here.
For that reason? We’re alike, Blacktooth.
Where we seem to divide, cabron‘, is in our methods of obtaining what we desire.
For me, I have my own private dining service delivering me my filete.
I can satiate my appetite with a flick of my cigar, and never get a fingernail dirty in the process.
But life can’t be beautiful for everyone, of course.
For some, they’ve become big game hunters – eager to pull the trigger just to get a little bit of meat in their diet.
Out there in that part of our world, it’s nothing but chaos and blood – and the only true survivor is the one that gets the most sustenance.
You’re hungry, cabron‘.
All you motherfuckers are hungry as fuck.
But the steak you want to eat isn’t the one that’s on my plate – because this vaca is dead and ready to be consumed.
You’re looking for some top-shelf USDA that’s a little more alive than I prefer, esse’ – and it seems like I might be the hijo de puto that’s next on your menu.
And why wouldn’t I be? A blue filete like Caesar XL could feast all of you for a long, long time – and just think of the legacy I’d leave behind in this torre de mierda.
Sadly for all you, this vaca isn’t dead.
It owns the fucking prairie that you’re huntin‘ and slaughterin‘ on.
It’s frollicking about with a big, full belly – laughing at all of your bloody struggles and waiting…
Because it was only a matter of time before you couldn’t resist what I got.
It’s that temptation to bite your teeth into the most succulent meat you’ve ever tasted – a kind of meat that you’d have to travel to high places to find, cabron’.
By the wasteland of bodies behind all of you, I’d be estupida to think that to you, I’m unlike any other specimen you’ve prayed on.
It doesn’t appear that most tend to bite back.
But then again, what if one did, esse’?
What happens when you decide to move in on your hunt, on your great quest to conquer the blue filete, and you become victim for a change?
Because of this impasse, it appears that we must figure out the answer.
Bring your own utensils, papi.