In my Snake Pit you’ll find folks from all walks of life.
We’ve got road sweepers, surgeons, teachers. Hell – I’ve even had me a professional fucking drag artist.
Wherever these people appear from, one thing is always measurable: Perspective.
Either they turn out to be worth their weight in gold, or proportionately prove themselves to be fully fucking disposable.
I remember this one fella that came to me offering his services.
His day job? A motherfucking bouncer.
Back when I was a kid, there was nothing I’d love more than to go underage drinking.
When you’re that kind of age, getting into a late-night bar or club was a realm beyond your wildest fucking dreams.
More often than not back then, it was a sure-fire thing too.
Nowadays, kids can no longer sweet talk their way across the threshold as once they could, and the reason behind this minor inconvenience? Motherfucking bouncers.
In my day, doormen were a different kind of breed to the power-tripping cunts you get today.
If you were willing enough, you were old enough. All you had to do was rock up to your watering hole of choice, stick a few dollars in the guy’s jacket pocket, and go and have yourself a good time – problem fucking free.
These days it’s like a goddamn interrogation ceremony, and those bouncers? They all fall from the same fucking tree.
You see them stood outside their respective establishments, all wearing the same garb and inexpensive earpieces, each of them taking great fucking pleasure in exercising their right to control by picking and choosing who can and who can’t enter the realm beyond the door.
Sounds somewhat familiar, doesn’t it, Mordy?
Sure – you might not wear a cheap headset or a pussy-ass uniform, but you like to be seen about town as the guy who makes or breaks people’s dreams, don’t you?
Ever since you arrived in Hell’s Kitchen, you’ve stood at the gateway to the Slaughterhouse as if it were your own, resident late-night bar or club.
You’ve presided over that threshold and presented yourself as the big, brash, burly bouncer of Old School Wrestling, who carefully selects who and who not to admit across the verge of their innermost thoughts and fantasies.
You stage your cause artfully, wilfully disguising your purpose as something good by comforting those who require serenity through the hours of their slumbered duress.
Only it’s all a front, ain’t it, son?
It’s all bullshit.
Just like that old snake of mine, you can’t help your own deep-seated desires which yearn for you to control, carve and coerce others – simply to nourish your own power and amusement.
Whilst in my service, that jobsworth soon found out that the Head Snake isn’t for governing.
Viper Roberts doesn’t do authority, Viper Roberts is the authority, and despite the profitability I seek in you – it’ll serve you well to remember that.
Why? Because this is my gig, Mordy.
I’m the warden around here – not you – and I get to say who’s in and who’s out of this club.
And come last orders Monday night…
You’ll be out on your fucking ass, bitch.