If you were aiming to bring my life to ruin, it worked. And I'm glad it worked. Through your actions, you made me the custodian of your own undoing. The terror you've brought on me was not your mistake—it was allowing me to remain conscious and close by. Yeah, you may smile. It may validate your 'strength' as you perceive it. But I don't believe you inhabit a conscience-free existence. Your sweet, sweet pretensions. With their high, high walls built from false steel and pulled threads from daddy's ersatz tough-guy regalia. No, you won't fully understand this—should've better marshalled your mongoloid focus at school. This brew will not be your tonic. I'm vividly picturing your face with these words and all over it the surplus of muddle, BUT, back to your various conceits. Which I'm counting on. Banking on. Feasting on! The years I've spent aroused and prostrated at the altar of your ego—surreptitiously reckoning, betting, even! That betwixt those flaky, rosacea-stricken lugs lies a corrupted power that isn't quite absolute enough to keep you safe. You see, if you were a true tyrant without a chink or genuinely strong—which you aren't—ot a mote of self-doubt could get through. Such a character would care not how they're viewed. Or how their portrait truly looks in the minds of those nearest—and everybody is near in that town. That much, you know. But, NO! I know the ramparts of your insular pretensions are not so built. I KNOW, because I know YOU. I know you're self-aware—socially. Why else would you be trying to prove your 'toughness'?
You see, your evolution has marked you without your ken. You may as well have been sleeping whilst you dispensed those beatings. A narcoleptic thuggery that has labelled you, scored you, branded you! Could snap. Has. Will. Again. Snap, snap, snap. And what exactly triggers these trivial displays of false might?
'You, sir, I doth declare your bicycle to be substandard and is therefore justifiably subject to ridicule.' This, you take as an abomination. An affront not just to your inanimate chattel but to your very status and personhood itself!
Marked man, you are. The standards you've set. Brittle. Brittle as the oak! It's quite the reputation you've built there, is it not? 'Well hard!' I suppose. Although somewhat inflexible, I'd say. Unbending... I suppose also. Yes. Your physical tirades (duh... how many you've decked. Smh), whilst a rich source of dopamine and testosterone, are nonetheless maladaptive to your current environment, i.e., I will garner more clout from this one post than all of your pathetic scraps combined!
I COULD tell you all about yourself. The things that plague you... About how nature selected those of your ilk to fight fiercely for resources in order to signal strength. I could cite scholarly papers from evolutionary psychology and other texts from the many, many hours I've spent studying the wonder that is YOU! But... I won't. I have something different. Better. Of much more value. I know all about YOU! I have the key to YOUR shame: the tightly locked filth that you shelter, the links, the pictures, the comments. Suffice it to say, overall, dear Fucker: brains will now shit on your dismal brawn.
To tell the world over what you wank? And how and where and why... Kind of sounds tuneful, doesn't it? 'The goods' I've got on you, Fucker. Ha, ha, ha... To nourish the town with your dinkum desires? Hmm... No, perhaps not. Not yet, anyway. Later, later. Gotta be perfect! Sip, sip, sip. Such standards, you see. FRAGILE. To tell? Will! To draw it out—SLOWLY. Don't want to want to stop obsessing over revealing all your LITTLE details. Drip, drip.
How might his lordship receive the news that our very special township might soon be privy to your ever so niche predilections? Whilst you thought you were cementing your image about town as some kind of tough nut, like Daddy before you, your victims had other thoughts entirely—you didn't think the sobriquet 'TEN MEN' was in respect, did you? Ha! That's priceless… And you derive great joy from being in the centre of the circle, don't you? Being the centre of attention? Centre of the circle, circle jerk. For the encircling onlookers, fists at the ready—wrists at the ready. Never being stopped. Never dropped. Dropped to your knees on the pitiless concrete. Dropped like a helpless piglet. The nights they watch... A proud little swine indeed!
Well, you've got their attention now—wholly! An effigy to them, you have become. Your face is all slick with spit and shit in a grotesque stance. That's how they see you, truly. What's that? No, no, it's still not the time, dear boy. Mustn't breach the primary bylaw of Ten Men's Shit Club. It's gotten quite a large viewership already! I must consider the feelings of the other members.
Now, let me ask you—because there still remains around town conjecture aplenty about your condition—many still maintain that at the root of your aggression lies a certain untended tendency, correct? Perhaps you could publicly reply to this post in order to disabuse any doubters? But a word of advice: don't protest your innocence too vociferously, or they'll just think you're compensating for something. Were you under the impression that your 'toughness' is the only metric by which you're measured? Or if that, in itself, would disqualify all inquiry into the root cause of your behaviour? But, hey, no matter. You've still got their attention; that's all that counts, right? You're famous in that town! Soak it up. Choke on your pride, little pig.
Can't imagine how such deference feels. Notice the smirks. Notice the smiles. The sneers, the laughs, the simpers. Hey, come on, don't think us ungrateful. They kindly mixed their shit into your tin of paint. We thought that WOULD be just your cup of tea. Remember? Yes, you do! Didn't she nag and nag to paint the room? You paid for the pot of paint, specially mixed, and then took it home. I saw you. You opened it up and slapped it on. We saw you. It was darker than you thought—the colours are rarely a spot-on match; it happens to the best of us. It smelt a bit weird, but you continued daubing it on. Remember? The mind boggles at those paint mixers, does it not? Ten Men's walls tinted with turds—the missus like the colour?
Did you think we'd just let it go? Do you think I will let it go? Hate IS the appropriate response. You've occasioned it, forged it, earned it. So, yes, indeed, it is gladness that I feel. I'm entirely glad. It's what you deserve, precisely—the warranting of at least one heart in this world held purely black with condemnation for WHAT YOU ARE. It's there, in my possession. The honour is mine! All such entities like you should have, no, REQUIRE, a sacrificial element such as I to take up the noble task of never fully emancipating yourself from such a ruinous dominion. To hold it in mind, always. You in mind, always! To never forget or forgive your violations. Who better to expose the truth of your fickle nature? To immortalise your laughable 'manhood'? Rising like an ashen relic to stand giant over you—a long-fermented and righteous agent of your demise. Ripped, winged, and chiselled. Grey, flaming, dripping.