Hour-OOC

It was here our dear Monty carved himself a living, through tenacity, ruthlessness, a sharpness that could easily slit the throat of many a doe-eyed secretary, did he climb through the ranks to be one of the most respected, (and feared) servants of the people. 

And how did he do this? Through the systematic annihilation and destruction of seedy secrets that filled the pockets of every man in parliament. 

Monty didn’t consider himself much of anything, maybe he was oddly talented at the spot of racquetball, maybe he could cook a panini that would win the hearts of middle-aged women world over.

I ache for a release.

My greed for the rushing, choking, vomit-inducing fear of the mortality-ender seizes me.

Wild destruction, the feel of rushing asphalt, shrieking rubber and pain.

Screaming steel dominated by seething, white-knuckled, uncontrollable rage, an indomitable desire for horrible, victory.

The stink, the rot, the stench of whiskey and tobacco, overpowered by the pounding metal pistons of the beast, the waft of oil that boils like blood.

The wail of electronica, the singing cries of a crowd, each face I long to twist into my rage for loss.