Saints and Sinners
On-Camera | 30/06/2022
“It perplexes me, Finn. You seem so close to understanding yourself. You seem so close to understanding how the world works. Yet in moments of faltering, in moments of failure. You slip away, you slip into your own mind. You slip into your own failures. Excuses, Finn. I hate the excuses. A loss is a loss, regardless of how much you wish it wasn’t. A streak of failures stain my record recently, and I hate it. I hate it with every fibre of my being, but in failure, revelations. Revelations about where I should be and where I will be. Focus comes with an understanding of the failure. That is why you lost Finn. Not because you didn’t try, as you so often claim. Half effort is still your full. I hate it Finn. I hate that you think anyone cares. Yet the thing I hate the most, is your dishonesty. I thought we were more alike than the surface would tell. Men driven by anger, and frustration. Yet it seems that is the entirety of your similarities. A truly false idol. A Saint of Lies. A true saint of this city of sin. Sin City’s true Saint if you will. Any which way works, and the truth remains the truth. You are nothing but a liar, hiding behind insecurity and excuses.”
“It wasn’t half effort that caused you to lose. It wasn’t half effort that threatened to end your reign on your first defense. It wasn’t half effort, it’s excuse. You are full of them, Finn. I see the things you post. Talking about wanting the best, yet refusing to put in the effort? You don’t deserve the best, Finn. You a petulant child stomping their feet and banging their hands. Screaming for change yet refusing to be the change you seek. Excuses Finn, they boil my blood, and you, boy. You are full of them.”
A group of robed figures are seated at a round table. Wooden dining chairs for each, and then at the opposing top end, an armed wooden chair, a far reaching back. An intricate carving of birds and vines wrapped up in a war with each other. Sitting in the chair, Alexander Raven. The roulette championship belt laid out in front of him. His eyes are locked with it, his head tilted down, body leaning forward. His hands grip either side of the face plate, focused.
“Climax Control was meant to be my crowning moment, Finn. My chance to shine. My assent to the top of my mountain top. Adulation, surprise and a becoming of truth. My reality as I’ve painted it, becoming such. Yet you scorn the acts, and in doing so rain upon my coronation. I am the king of chance, the gambler with all the odds. I am the King, Finn. I am the false prophet and the broken messiah. And now, I have the crown to prove myself the One True King. Reality as it is, will be the reality that comes. I refuse to let you take my crown back. The War of the Roses, if you will. The Saint weeps, and the king turns his back. Assume this, the reformation of this Sin City. Purged of the virus that is your lackadaisical attitude. Weep, Finn. Weep and cleanse the feet of your saviour. Are listening to me, Finn?”
Raven releases his grip upon the belt slightly and raises his hands. The figures around the table all in unison raise red candles, flickering flames illuminating the immediate air in a fiery yellow glow. Raven himself reaches for a glass to his left, and lifts it to his lips, drinking deeply of the dark brown liquid within. His gaze still firmly focused upon the face plate of the belt.
“Yet as much as you boil my blood, Finn. As much as you sicken me to my core with your dis-enthused lamentation and falsified words there is a solace gifted to me. A gift to the False Prophet, and the One True King over the Saint of this city of sin. I need not worry myself with you. I need not concern myself with your past. For your future is now mine to fix. Your future is now my prerogative. For come our clash upon the high seas, truth reigns supreme. Elimination at my hands, at the hands of your own wolf or by the feisty bulldog who aims to seek your head. The truth of the matter is thus Finn. Bulldog doesn’t see me as a threat, due to our past. Miles is cocky, but he knows you well. Friendship would dictate that Mr Miles would aim to bring it down to you two. However, intelligent play would be to hedge his bets. Knowing himself lesser than the Saint, he would be best to risk it against unknown adversary. Particularly, the mouthy Broken Messiah who belittles him. Anger at the mouth patriarchy, and the champion himself. What greater symbol of growth and success, but to dethrone the King himself.”
“Finn, I am to be your target, this is clear. Yet Miles would want my throat too. Do you cross each other to push for your own gains? Friendship ends when battle starts, and the battle has already begun to rage. War takes no prisoners and neither will I. I know I can beat you Finn. I have reason to take down both Miles and Bulldog. I fear not leaving you to your own devices because I know you won’t be able to do it. The excuses are far too powerful, aren’t they? Why put in full effort, when you can half it and let others do the work? Your past dictates your future, and whilst I am the guiding light of yours now. Whilst I am the one that will ordain your failures and cast you down to feed the ravenous plebeians of my kingdom, I know you, Finn. You will fail, because your past, present and future is painted with the failures of your lack of effort. Nobody to blame but the anger that bubbles within you. Nobody to blame, but the angry virulent Saint of Sin City. Do you understand me Finn?”
The cries of a baby shatter the scene. The figures placing their candles upon the table as they raise to their feet and turn away. Alexander Raven drags his hand across the face plate a little bit before grabbing the edges of it again, and lifting it up to his forehead. The cries continuing to ring out, twitches of frustration pulling at his lips.
“New life is an interesting thing, Miles. Your mind is elsewhere, family controls the thoughts and now. Now you have something to prove. A need to have a success to point to, to say ‘I did that. Aren’t you proud? I did that.’ Less than a year is what it has taken me to ascend the top of one of the mountains in this Sin City. Roulette Champion, and venerated for the musings of those who think me a wobbly starter. Success dictates reality, and the reality is this. Despite my ‘wobbly’ start, despite my shortcomings, acknowledgement has always been my reality. Understanding of changes needed, ways to affect where I stand and what I needed to do in order to succeed. Success has been granted to me, for I deserve the success I’ve taken. Less than a year, Miles, and I’ve managed to ascent to the top. Failure of length speaks more than my failures of short. How long have you dwindled and scrambled to become better? Seeing those you surround yourself with succeed where you have not. Depending upon others for strength that you lack, for the lacking is not something you can fix.”
“No amount of training with those better than you. Working out in the gym. Trading verbal barbs with those who have made a career of crawling into the skin of their opponents. None of it matters, for you cannot build that strength. You’re less than the best, and it takes the best to stand at the summit. Untoward focus will change where you stand in life, Miles. Family is as important as you assign it to be. Your focus is elsewhere and it will be your undoing. Untouchable is the focus of the Prophet and Messiah who must bring the truth to his Conspiracy. Unbreakable is the focus of the One True King who throws the stones of truth to shatter the stained glass lies that shroud this city of sin. Focus is our differential, Miles. And focus will remain our differential, because you are lacking in the strength requires to have clear focus. Two things in this world matter most to me. My success in spite of the broken promises I’ve made to get to it. And the forgiveness I shall receive on the other end by the only one that it matters from. My focus is on the here and now and this crown. This is the most important thing in my life. For with it, I am granted the forgiveness of the broken reality I’ve left behind.”
Once more Raven places the championship down on the table before pushing his ornate chair back slightly, rising to his feet. The cries of the baby being to dim, before silence fills the now seemingly empty scene. Alexander Raven alone, surrounded by candle flame and an empty glass. Reaching into the right side pocket of his coat he removes a cigarette and a lighter. He puts the cigarette to his lips and ignites it, taking a deep drag. Turning on his heel he aggressively throws the lighter into the darkness beyond the reach of the candle flame and the single handing lantern. The sound of glass shattering, followed by the sound of waves. The lap of water and the rush of the wind.
“The Ultimate X match, is my focus, Miles. Reality continues to be as I state it to be, because that equates to my focus. Are you listening Miles? Are you following? I need you to listen to me. I need you to understand what I’m telling you. You, Miles, are the weakest member of this match, and in that you have the least to lose. The most to gain, but the least to lose. Which means, just like your fellow wolf Finn Whelan, you too can fall on your excuses. A field too strong, your mind elsewhere. Cheats and disreputable opponents. People who would forsake their own mothers to win, and that’s just not your style. A world of excuses to hide the fact that your focus was elsewhere. Your focus was unfocused on the only thing that matters when we ride the high waves of the ocean blue. Both on land and sea, I am the king. I am the truth, I am the reality bringer. The breaker of stained glass lies and disconnected truths.”
“Miles, I pity you. So confident in yourself over me, yet with nothing to back it up. Nothing to accentuate any level of future in yourself. Take yourself home, Miles. Take yourself back to your sister, and your nephew. Take yourself away from the cruel seas, and the unforgiving brutality that awaits you on that ship. For I make no qualms about it. I lie no longer, and the truth is this. I care not for sending you home in a state good enough to hold your newborn Nephew. I care not for ensuring your safe escape from the seas that would drown you beneath the tireless waves. Go home, Miles. Go home and stay there. Otherwise, I will send you home. The only transition, is your transition away from my kingdom.”
Raven allows the cigarette to hang loosely from his lips, about half burnt through. A deep breath, a long exhale and smoke wisping loosely around his head. A stomp followed by another and then more from the darkness. The sound of flames igniting and braziers light up the space. A shattered window sits in a stone wall, and a burning effigy in the shape of a Bulldog head burns in the space between. Raven picks the championship belt up off the table, and holds it aloft in his left hand, facing the effigy.
“The man who eludes me. Who rattled my confidence and put me down in my pursuit of this very crown, twice. The man who I fear beyond the wolves in this match. The mutt in need of being neutered. I think it almost symbolic that the two matches that put me here, in this position. As not only a member of this Ultimate X match, but also as the defending champion walking in. I think it’s symbolic that the success of these two matches comes from rending low the jewels of two men. And not but a week earlier, in the decree of the Greek King, the man who resembled the Men, Women and Non-Binary friends of my world rent me to the grave with the same. Everything has a meaning, and nothing is left to total fate. Symbolic of your neutering, Bulldog. For the truth is in the circumstance. A man of symbolism, metaphor and analogy yourself, you would understand. Just like I secured my crown by ruining the jewels of would-be rulers. Just like the neutered Saint that walks in, lacking enthusiasm. Just like the man focused on anything but the crown we fight for. You, Bulldog. Will be brought low, and eliminated. My redemption achieved in blood and violence. And truth that maintains. The truth, that this doggy has been fixed.”
“But there is many things to look at. A man who holds the wins and none of the failure. A man who holds our host, the double bird man Griffin Hawkins in such esteem. A man I would rather spit upon. One who dances and avoids, betrayed by the man I once betrayed. One who shares my namesake, Alexander Remington. You see, Bulldog. Those you respect are those I despise. Hawkins, Fenrir, Finn and yourself. Momentary allegiance and alliance. Sticking your nose in my business. Your incestuous mixings in this city of sin, like the Wolves that demand to enter every aspect. Everything about this Sin City that you hold so aloft, is filled with it. It seeps into me as well. My obsessions trickling into a world I don’t wish to be in. I don’t care for your connections with Senor Vinnie. I don’t care for your connections with Goth. I don’t care for your connections with my past, and I don’t want you to be part of my future.”
The stomps continue to echo through the room. The burning effigy beginning to burn out. The flames slowly dying out and flickering their last parts of life before a burnt wire frame remains. Raven continues holding the championship up high. He then spits the cigarette from his mouth towards the effigy.
“This is a tale of us, Bulldog. A bulldog and a raven. The wolves will bark and fight, yet starving, they’ll kill each other. This is on us. The bulldog seeking his favourite toy once more, yet the toy now sits in the home of most proud of black raven birds. The messenger of the dead, ready to bring the end to you. I will send a message to the double bird man. I will make him acknowledge me, and I will throw that gauntlet down once more. You, will be my banner of challenge Bulldog. The man who thinks himself anything but an arrogant, oversized and bullheaded old man. You will be the way I announce my way into the world. You will be the next step on my path to forgiveness. Though the crown of her king now rests upon his temples once more, blood to be spilled remains. Those who forced the breaking of his promises to her, need to be put down. You, Bulldog, are the start of my path. You are the beginning of my journey to total forgiveness. She will forgive me. Do you understand me, Bulldog? She will forgive me. I just need you all to listen. I need you all to understand. I need you, Bulldog to know.”
"I will neuter you, bitch.”
Stomp, stomp, stomp. The sounds reverberate through the space. Alexander Raven slowly lowers the championship, and turns it over, holding the face plate towards himself once more. Staring down at it. The braziers and candles slowly extinguishing one by one. The lantern too. Slowly everything being cast into darkness.
“The Conspiracy descends upon us. The truth of my word becomes the reality of this Sin City. I will purge the incestuous nature of this place. I will purge all those who have wronged me. I will show the broken truth, and the return of the False Prophet shall be. False is this stained glass house of lies. I will cast the first stone, and I will rattle the foundations. Listen, follow and understand and you will know. You will know the truth I speak. The One True King of this Sin City is here. The Roulette Champion, the King of Chance and the Master of Games. Whelan, Kasey and Barnhart. Listen to me.”
“This is my path to the summit. You will be the flesh, blood and bone that builds the pathway to forgiveness. You will be my salvation, and in that I thank you all. But I remind you of this. I will be king, now and forever. Finn, I expect your best. Miles, focus up, or stay home. Bulldog, I will avenge myself, and your blood will pay for the damage to my reputation. That is the final truth of it.”
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothingness.
“Alright, alright. Masterclass starts in 10 everyone. Gather in close, make sure you’ve got eyes on the bar top. We’ve got some classics, some you might not have heard of, and one of my personal favourites. Bring it in.”
Alexander Raven, dressed to the nines, black tuxedo with a bright red bow tie and a pristine crisp white shirt, hair tied back tightly, and beard shaved down to a rough stubble. For all intents and purposes, looking a far different man than normal finds himself in a room surrounded by people of various ages and backgrounds. A few SCW stars with a keen eye for good spirits and liquor also taking residency. Alex smiles as he walks the bench, his array of tools at hand. Shakers, strainers, a multitude of cocktail classes, rose glasses, pony pots for those willing to sample but not wanting a full ride. Behind him a fully decked out bar, reaching at least 5 shelves deep, and then another 5 deep in a top section above him.
“Ladies and Gentleman, I am Alexander Raven, and I will be your Master of Spirits for this evening. As someone very acquainted with pain; from evenings of heavy drinking and evenings of heavy beatings. We’ll be starting with something a little bit boozier than your standard, but a perfect one for a sprightly cruise like the one we’re on.”
Alex smiles and stretches his hands out as he turns to face the wall behind him, the throng of people gathering inwards. Alex grabs a bottle of Pusser’s Navy Rum, placing it upon the bench top. A bottle of pineapple juice, and some orange juice freshly squeezed adjoin it. A double jigger placed beside them.
“We start with ‘The Painkiller’. First made in British Virgin Islands, we keep it authentic with Pusser’s Navy Rum. Depending on the strength of the hangover, two ounce may be plenty. However, with the Ultimate X Over the Pool match ahead of us, and the brutality and violence awaiting us. I think we are looking at a Painkiller #4. If you like Pina Coladas, ladies and gentleman, and seeing wolves get caught in the waves, this is the one for you.”
Raven smiles widely, as a few chuckles emanate from evident fans. He shovels some pre-crushed ice into his shaker, free pouring the rum as he measures out the pineapple and orange juice. Smiling he pulls another bottle from under his bar, pouring an ounce of cream of coconut. With a flip of the bottle, he replaces it on the counter, and slaps the top shell of the shaker down onto the bottom. Pushing them together tightly, he bounces the shaker back and forth across his palms before shaking vigorously over his left shoulder.
“As an extra treat for you ladies and gentleman. Tonight you’ll get not only a masterclass in cocktails and history. But you’ll also get an insight into the mind of the Broken Messiah himself. The Painkiller, so aptly named. Pain is a wonderful emotion in our industry. In this, the place of sin and debauchery. Where every wolf is bedding every dog. Where every bird is mocking said beasts. The incestuous mixings I’ve spoken of, they remain to keep us distracted. Distracted from the truth that we are so unwilling to see. The Wolves of this company are deeply rooted in its festering depths. They cause a deep pain, a migraine of the soul. Agony emanates because people like Miles and Finn. Gripping the leg of freedom in their jaws, they force a pain and agony into our existence. Alas, ladies and gentleman. Whilst I am the One True King, and a master of spirits the same. I’m afraid this boozier take on a Pina Colada, may not suffice in being a potent enough Painkiller for the pain that we suffer at the hands of these wolves.”
Discontented murmurs echo, as some people begin to heckle. Telling Raven to get on with it. Scoffing, Alex finishes his shaking, and twists the shaker apart. Placing a strainer over the top of the filled half, he begins to pour the liquid into a cocktail glass.
“Will a fan of the wolf known as Miles, step forth and sample, please?”
As the final few drops fill the mid size glass to the rim a rather squat looking man pushes his way to the front. Alex smiles as he pours a generous helping of nutmeg on the top, and sliding an orange wedge into the glass. The man stepped forward, and Alex reaches across the bar and pulls the man onto it. Gasps from the surrounded onlookers, but a few instigators shouting ‘get ‘em!’ ‘show them what happens Raven!’. Alex smacks the mans face into the bar top, and flicks his head back.
“Miles Kasey. You didn’t listen did you? Do you see Miles? The focus? You’re lacking it. You’re a loud and obtuse man, this is for sure. You’ve got new blood waiting for you at home, and yet, here you are. On the seas, waiting. Ready to be thrown from the top into the pool and eliminated. To fail once more. To fail to reach the standard that wolves have given you. Like this man, Miles. Full of arrogance, bravado and misplaced machismo. Like this man, you step to a master with all the confidence in the world, and yet. Just like this man. You’ll be needing a painkiller, Miles. Are you listening? Do you understand?”
Alex smiles, and loosens his grip allowing the man to slide and stagger back. Blood pouring from his seemingly broken nose.
“Your drink, sir.”
Raven holds the glass out to the man who takes it limply and walks away, a few attendants moving to help stem the flow of blood. Drops of blood lay on the desk. Raven holds his hand out, a crew member handing him a towel, bright red. Raven allows it to be draped over his arm holding it out far to his side. Reaching into a pocket he pulls some fine sand from the pocket and sprinkles some into the blood upon the bar top. Taking the towel he wipes the sand and blood free from the bar top, before laying the clean side face up on the bar.
“Blood and Sand, is a Scotch cocktail named after the Bullfighter film from 1922 of the same name. Blood and Sand is a personal favourite of mine, and aptly named considering the events we’ve just experienced. Fret not ladies and gentleman. Theatrics and drama are all parts of the bartending experience. Whilst some will flip and flop bottles, and spread fire and flames to enhance the danger, I prefer a much more individual experience. The drama and theatre so real it is indistinguishable otherwise. Blood and Sand ladies and gentleman.”
The crowd once again murmurs and gather in closer to watch the show once more. Alex smiles grabbing a bottle of Glenfiddich Cask Collection Single Malt, and placing it upon the bar, coupled with a vermouth, coupled with a Cherry Heering liqueur. Alex grabs a smaller shaker this time.
“Whilst normally a far less boozy cocktail, to sit upon the deck, sip and stare into the world beyond. There is none better than this classic. Much lighter than the Painkiller, Blood and Sand will have you ready to fight upon the sandy beaches of wherever you frequent.”
Raven pours an ounce of the scotch, three quarters of that in liqueur and vermouth, as well as some orange juice. Smiling he also squeezes a couple of lemon wedges into the tin followed by some ice.
“Lemon is an often excluded ingredient, but to stay true to the classics of the world, it is a must inclusion. I like to see myself in the Blood and Sand, as without Alexander Raven this cruise would be missing a crucial element. Without the Conspiracy keeping all in check and focused, there would be a sense of classical integrity missing.”
Shaking vigorously, frosting slowly engulfs the tin. Alex places the shaker tin upon the bar top as he slowly removes the top half and allows the waft of the ice to emanate from the top of the glass.
“Like the iceberg that sank the titanic, I changed the course of history just a few weeks back. By sinking the good ship The Virulence, I put the blood in the sand and marked my truth upon this cruise. To walk in as champion, I was the iceberg that changed history. Unlike the Titanic however, I will not be sunk by an unknown chunk of ice. Unlike the titanic, I will not be thrust from the top of the world into the icy depths below. Blood and Sand is a fantastic analogy for the truth that I intend to bring to this Summer. The Summer of Raven, if you will. The Summer of Truth. The Summer of flames.”
Placing a strainer over the top, Raven pours the brownish red liquid into a frosted glass, a whiskey rock floating inside. With a smile, an orange twist is hooked over the rim of the glass and it is handed to a well dressed man standing near the bar. Hesitantly he takes it, and when no violence follows a wash of relief flows across the crowd. A ornate Georgian glass is placed upon the bar top. Another person places a small glass of steaming hot coffee, and then a prepared shaker filled with a cream float.
“For a man who flies off the handle at the smallest irks. Who shows very little care and effort in his actions, Finn Whelan comes from a land that would be well acquainted with this next one. The Seamstress Irish Coffee, created by a wonderful aficionado Pam Wiznitzer of the Seamstress, an elegant spot in Upper East New York, is aptly named. A velvety smooth experience that will have you coming back over and over. Whilst Wiznitzer swears by drip coffee, I am more partial to espresso. The taste is different, and whilst the coffee itself will be a slightly more bitter experience, bitterness is what I seek here.”
A bottle of Irish Whiskey, a sugar syrup squeeze bottle are pulled from the back shelf and held in hand. Carefully pouring out near two ounces of the whiskey, a small helping of the sugar syrup to follow and then just over two ounces of coffee.
“You see, this Irish Coffee is about controlled, and delicate detail. Unlike the aggressive natured and quick to excuse poor form Finn Whelan, this requires careful, careful detail. No amount too much or too little. Perfect and delicate balance. Our resident Saint of Sin City could do much to listen and learn here.”
‘Shut up nobhead!’ shouts one of the onlookers, a few people turning around to expose said person. Raven shakes his head slightly, and gestures with his hand, indicated that the man come forward. As he does, he pours a thin layer of cream on top, before grating some fresh cinnamon over the top of it.
“Like the man he idolises, a temper as quick as his time in the sun will be. Sir, please. I invite you to sample this.”
Suddenly a lot less confident, the man steps forward as Raven hands him the glass. A Cheshire smile stretched across his face. A small sip, the steaming hot coffee making the person hiss, before tilting their head. ‘It’s damn good.’
“Sometimes, the gentle hand is the one that leads to greatness. Something that both the wolves could learn to understand. You see, Ladies and Gentleman. The strength of a bartender comes from his ability to serve with the correct form. The twists and changes he makes along the way, serve to fulfil the grand design. To be the Master of Spirits, you must be willing to slow yourself down. To temper yourselves, like the mightiest of steel. Finn is a man who lives bound by his own set of rules and emotions. Yet unlike the masters who have come before, and those journeyman developing their craft now. Finn is a lost lamb who refuses to listen to the greater words of those above him. Excuses, failures and forgetfulness. It was not a mere fluke of luck that put him beneath me. It was not a mere gesture of dumb chance that ensured that I was the iceberg of his voyage. Finn needs to be an Irish Coffee, yet he is little more than a shot of whiskey in his morning brew. Quick, haphazard and serving to soothe demons. No, ladies and gentleman. Finn is no Saint, but that of the failures and tears that fall as a result.”
Raven tips his head slightly to the man, who nods a little to himself looking a little less certain of himself than he did a moment earlier. The ship itself appears to have begun to rock slightly, being so far out to sea resulting in some rather nasty waves.
“The next is something that any, and all bartenders need to have in their back pocket. Something that will determine how much people love your work, and how many negative yelp reviews you’ll have to deal with.The Old Fashioned is one of, if not the oldest cocktails in existence today. Just like former champion himself, Bulldog Bill Barnhart. The Old Fashioned is full of bitters. Unlike the bitter and old man himself, the Old Fashioned will have a far sweeter overall taste, that actually gets better the more time you spend with it.”
This time most people seem to join in on the laughter erupts, clearly Raven having begun to win people over with his poor taste jokes at the expense of his opponents. A bottle of Bulleit bourbon is pulled from the back shelf, and a small bottle of Angostura bitters placed beside it. Two glasses are put side by side, one containing a very large round ice cube, the other with a few smaller cubes.
“The Old Fashioned is a simple thing to make, but incredibly hard to get the nuance correct. Your first one may be the best one you ever make, but you’ll never have the luck of making two the same. There is extra flavour held by allowing the drink to sit. Unfortunately for most of us, the longer you are forced to sit with Bulldog Bill, the worse the taste left in your mouth. No ladies and gentleman, it is unfortunately the case that whilst he may be a throwback and as old as the cocktail itself, Bulldog is never going to satisfy a single person on any given night. Poor Bea.”
Again another round of laughter as people have finally begun to loosen up. Raven claps to bring the attention back as he pours the bourbon, bitters and adds a small amount of syrup to the glass with the large cube. Placing a steel stirrer into the glass, he strikes it around the edge, stirring the ingredients only twice, before sitting it on the bar top once more.
“Miles, Bulldog and Finn are all kindred spirits. Angry, aggressive and quick to be blinded. Hyper focused, yet wearing blinders that stop them from seeing the greater picture. No patience means that they cannot be granted the sweeter pleasures in life. There is two pathways of thought when it comes to the traditional Old Fashioned. One is to stir for almost two minutes straight, stirring the entirety of the ice from existence and into the bitter sweet bourbon mix. Brash, bullheaded and with no patience, whilst the end result is serviceable, the experience is less than ideal. No, I am much more akin to the patient and cautious approach. Two stirs, no more and no less. Just enough to blend your bitters and bourbon. Unlike, Miles, Bulldog and Finn, I do not rush into things. Mistakes, ladies and gentleman, are costly. Elimination is something I cannot risk, and so. Even with the target painted upon me, I will wave the red flag. Like the bullfighter of Blood and Sand, the red flag will wave. The nuanced touch of the Irish Coffee will lend itself to me, and I will be the Painkiller that ends the anguish and distraction of this business for these men.”
After a few minutes have passed, Raven slowly pours the liquid from the large cube glass, to the other with small ice cubes. Entwining an orange and lemon twist, he rests this upon the rim and holds it aloft. The crowd of onlookers looking up at it.
“Just like that, patience pays off. A sweet, yet bitter, yet ever evolving taste. Patience lends itself to this masterpiece, and that is why it is one of the oldest cocktails in the world. From times of patience and understanding. From times of Kings and Queens. From times of Messiah, Prophets and alike. And yet, none are willing to wait. So…”
With a sharp rock of the boat, Raven releases his grip upon the glass and allows it to shatter upon the floor. Murmurs of confusion move through the onlookers, and Raven shakes his head a little, turning his back.
“I am, Alexander Raven. The One True King, the Broken Messiah and the False Prophet. I stand before you the current reigning Roulette Champion, and I will walk out of this match still the reigning Roulette Champion. My past walks before me once more, and I will not falter. We appear to be in for a Dark and Stormy evening ladies and gentleman. Something of a homework task. A simple drink, but one that can only be made with the specific rum of British Sailors of the early 20th century. That concludes tonight’s masterclass. I shall see you all, when I retain my championship, and solidify myself as the defending king of this City of Sin.”
Claps, cheers and whoops come from the people who had been attending. Those of which who hadn’t had their noses likely broken, or their basis of support shattered the same. Raven looks over the bar behind him, as some crew members begin to clean the broken glass, and prepare for typical bar service. A dark evening on deck likely to bring them more business than normal. And then…
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.