Post by Nick Hunter on May 28, 2018 3:39:52 GMT
This is it. This is Night of the ImMORTALS! This is the shit that we fight all year for. This is the shit that other people throw friendships under the bus for. This year, we made it different. This year, two Nola boys made it here BECAUSE of our bond. We overcame, and we overcame, and brother, we shall overcome one more goddamn time before it's done, 'cause that's what we do. We're the underdogs, we're the bracket-busters, we are the Bourbon Street Saints, and we got ourselves a Sin City party comin' here.
This tag team tournament is what we fought for. This is why we're here, this is why we've busted our asses for months, keeping our names on your lips. Don't matter who we've faced, don't matter the odds, we never stopped fighting, 'cause we had something to prove. This is our time, this is our moment, and nobody, no matter the accolades they got to their name, was gonna keep these boys from takin' what we got comin'.
When people drew up their predictions for this here tournament, I bet they called one half of this final. They didn't know the greatness yet, so I forgive this time. This time. But the Age of Gods? Oh, all y'all were bustin' a nut over the idea of the Age of Gods and the Masters of 1,000 Holds in the final. The epic rivalry, coming to a head at the biggest show of the year!
Nah. We had other plans.
What about the Pack? The Age of Gods and the Pack been at each others' throats for months. Watch Caleb and Warren go after Angel and Spike, or watch Dean finally get his hands on them and drag Ulf Hednir's ass along for the ride. Wouldn't that have been something?
Nah, homie. Other plans. Our plans.
On paper, most everyone's gonna call this a mismatch. Sure, we got guts and talent, but the Age of Gods? Man, they're main event! They're Hall of Famers! They're fighting for the World Title on the SAME SHOW! How we gonna measure up to that? Real simple: THEY don't measure up to US. They gotta step up to OUR level.
"But Nick, you handsome motherfucker, what do you mean the Age of Gods have to step up to your level?" Well, my beautiful fans, I mean they ain't half the tag team that we are. Sure, they got lots of titles between them. Sure, they're in the Hall of Fame. But what do they actually know about being a team with each other?
See, I've been watching this show for a while, and I know me some Spike Kane. He's a power-hungry, vain, glory-hounding, backstabbing ho. But apparently, he's got this whole thing going now where the Archangel Michael got all up in him. Like, I've sat in on houngans doing their thing before. Spirits get all up in that business, ain't my place to step in. But when you gotta gotta get it put it in you, and the tag-along wants to beat me and my boy's faces in? Now, now we got a problem.
Spike, you weren't ever gonna be my favorite. Little too crazy, not enough funny. Plus, you ain't got any loyalty. Brothers, comrades, everything takes a backseat to the God of Xtreme, or the Blood God, or whatever name you gotta call yourself to feel big this week. I ain't gonna pretend I'm a god, and neither is my boy. We're just men. We're two men with a whole lot to say, a whole lot to do, and a whole lotta anger issues we're more than happy to take out on y'all.
You're gonna try to find a way to make this on your terms. Make it one on one, make it as violent as you can get. You're gonna witness the strength of street knowledge here, Mikey-baby. We didn't survive fighting our way up 'cause we were soft. We had to fight hard for everything, and this ain't gonna be any exception, old man. You got twenty years of fucking people up, but that's twenty years of getting fucked up. Your ass made it across the finish line, and me and Nate? We gonna make sure you're finished. For good.
But now we go from the good son...to the Father himself.
"Mama." Nick grins, pulling his mother into a hug. The rest of his family filters into the room behind her, Nick's little sister Trina immediately lighting for one of the beds and throwing herself onto it with a dramatic flop. "Y'all make the flight okay?"
"We almost left your sister behind because she couldn't finish packing." Nick's father remarks, voice a baritone, nearly bass rumble. He grins at Nick, offering a hand. "My boy. Always knew you had it in you."
"Yeah, that's why you been carrying around a nametag with my name on it ever since I left high school." Nick deadpans, taking his father's hand and shaking it. "Good to see you, Pops. You close the store down when you left town?"
"Your uncle's keeping an eye on the place while we're gone." he looks around the hotel room. "Two beds, very nice. I assume you're staying with Nate?"
"Yeah." Nick nods. "Came over here to help y'all get settled. Plus, I ain't seen you in a minute, and y'all my family, so..." he shrugs. "Figured it was worth it?"
"Absolutely is." Nick's father chuckles, patting him on the arm before releasing the handshake. "Trina! You ain't about to fall asleep, right? We got dinner reservations, and I don't care how tired your behind is, we are going to make them!"
"Already made dinner plans?!" Nick blinks, bewildered. "Man, you don't waste ANY time, do you?"
Nick's father replies over his shoulder, checking his phone as he hauls his suitcase behind him in the other hand. "Son, this is my first vacation in five years. You best believe I'm not wasting a minute."
His mother sighs, shaking her head. "James, can't you ever stay still?"
"Nah, Mama." Trina pipes up from the bed. "Daddy's like a shark. He stops moving, he starts suffocating. Why you think he's always pacing in his office at work?"
Their father levels a finger at Trina, voice betraying his bemusement at the comment. "Well you better watch yourself, little guppy, or the shark's gonna come get you." Trina laughs, and even Nick grins, shaking his head. His father turns around, grinning right back, an infectious mirror of Nick's own. "Still got it, baby."
"Never lost it, though not for lack of trying." Nick's mother replies dryly, looking back to her son. "Nick, any chance you could join us for dinner?"
Nick pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'ma have to give Nate a call. We were gonna do a little last-minute something-something before the show. Give me a few minutes to get ahold of him?"
"Of course, baby." Nick's mom walks over again, hugging him. "I'm just happy to see you." She pauses, pulling back and looking at Nick with worry in her eyes. "You be safe, okay? Those men you're fighting, they're dangerous. I don't want my baby getting hurt."
"MAMA!" Nick protests, groaning as Trina cracks up from the bed. "I'm gonna be fine. We gonna be fine. We know what we're doing. This ain't some street fight, it's a sanctioned match. There's rules, we know how to work 'em. We gonna be fine."
"You convinced yourself yet, boy?" Nick's father comments, not looking up from the phone. "And should I expect a party of five?"
Nick pauses, looking up from his mother's eyes to stare at his father for a long second. "I don't know. Let me make the call." He looks back down at his mother, forcing a smile onto his face. "I'ma be right back. Love you."
"I love you too, baby." Nick turned to step out into the hall, but his mother called out to him. "And Nick?" Nick paused in the threshold, cocking an eyebrow. His mother paused before letting a devious grin slip onto her face. "Knock their asses out." Nick returns the grin, winking before stepping outside. As soon as the door clicks closed, his mother turns, fixing her husband with a death glare. For his part, Nick's father just seems to ignore the look, continuing to check his phone as we fade to black.
Look, I'll be the first to admit I ain't ever had a particularly healthy relationship with God. I loved the choir, I loved singing, but it's hard to believe when you see things going to shit and ain't anyone steppin' in to do anything about it. Hard to keep the faith when there ain't anything that gives you reason to believe. Job's a dumb motherfucker is what I'm trying to say.
"On earth as it is in Heaven." That was the deal. We believe in You, we pray to You and obey Your commandments, and we're promised Heaven on earth. Paradise for following your will. Man...no paradise is worth what you're asking us to do.
You're fucked up. You take people with issues, people that need to be accepted, are desperate to belong, and you break them around your damn finger. JayMat, Abby...y'all take some desperate motherfuckers and use them. We ain't desperate enough for that divine booty call. The Pack already came knocking with the pamphlets and the recruitment pitch, and we told them to go fuck themselves. My Jesus is black and my better angels sure as shit don't look like Irish History X over there.
Maybe you are God. Maybe you really are Him that is called I Am. If you are, then shit, I owe Nate ten bucks, 'cause I bet him God wasn't a total asshole. Even if you're not, even if you're just an egotistical white boy in facepaint with delusions of grandeur, you're still an asshole that's standing in the way of the Saints finishing the takeover we started all those months ago back home. You talk shit, you act like hot shit, but the fact of the matter is, I don't give a damn what belt you got holding your pants up. Get in that ring, I'ma beat your ass just like anyone else.
Is that blasphemy? Maybe. Depends. I remember this story from Genesis, see. Jacob wrestling with God. Or an angel, the story wasn't super-clear. Man's been grappling with the Almighty since before Jesus. This ain't no different. Two men standing up against God and an angel. Numbers seem good, and I know my boy. I know what he's willing to do to get shit done. We ain't gotta look over our shoulders, worried we're gonna backstab the other. We ain't gotta worry about anyone else comin' after us, 'cause we ain't spent the last five months pissing in everyone else's Cheerios. Nah, we got this shit on lock.
God, Spike, Age of Gods...y'all over. This ain't the Age of Gods. It's the Age of Saints. Clock starts at Night of the Immortals. Y'all can fight among yourselves, just remember who it was that laid your asses out, remember who it was that brought the divine down to earth:
My name is Nick Hunter. His name is Nate Harris. And we got one question for you.
Who dat?
Who dat?!
WHO DAT SAY THEY GONNA BEAT THEM SAINTS?!
'bow on up. Let's go.
Well howdy there pardner.