- Messages
- 55
- Points
- 18
Raylan Brees is lounging on his apartment’s patio overlooking downtown Lexington, Kentucky. His eyes are buried in a commemorative hardback, original Portuguese edition of Paulo Coelho’s O Alquimista (The Alchemist). However, his attention is split between the novel and the tumbler filled with three fingers of Kentucky’s own, Bulleit Bourbon. He holds the book with his left hand while the fingers on his right hand tap around the rim of the glass; his feet are comfortably propped up on the ledge of the balcony as the sun is just beginning to set. Raylan Brees is a man who is certainly, and unashamedly, driven by his ambition; a man with big goals. But even he cannot dispute that right at this moment, god damn he feels content.
Raylan breathes deeply, taking in the view, soaking in the bourbon, and lets his book settle on his chest, resting open on his most recent page. He lazily rolls his head to the right, towards the EAW camera.
“You speak another language, Jon Kelton? Asks Raylan. “That’s fine. I’m always keen on meeting a man who can speak more than one tongue. French, Portuguese, Spanish? Hell, I speak all three. Kinda comes with the territory with that ‘other company’ I do work for.” Raylan sets his feet firmly on the ground now, pivoting in his chair so that he is facing the camera and the sun is setting over his right shoulder.
“So you’re ‘returning’ here to EAW, eh, Jon?” Raylan asks with a slight head nod, as if he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to. “Well I take it as a kindness to be a part of your welcoming committee. I’ve looked over your past achievements in the ring.” Raylan nods again as he bends his elbow to indulge in another gulp of bourbon. “Impressive.” He sets the tumbler back down and fixes his gaze at the camera. “And behind all of the wet hair and machismo, you seem to be an educated man as well.”
Raylan’s eyes flicker and the beginning creases of a grin start to form on his face. “Well then, let’s talk, Jon. You are clearly a talented athlete, and you seem to have yourself convinced that you’re driven. Let me guess, in your mind, this makes you some kind of ‘unstoppable’ monster of chaos, right?” Raylan is full-on smirking at this point. “Well Jon, a lo hecho, pecho, as they say. It essentially means that you need to face up to what ‘is’. In laymen’s terms, what’s done is done. Six years of shame, jealousy, doubt, and rage. It’s over. Your failures happened and it is up to you to own them. I’m sure that you’re angry. I don’t doubt that you’re bitter. I know that it has been a long time. But the thing is, that doesn’t make you special and it doesn’t make you scary. Until new actions and accomplishments dictate otherwise, you are still the guy who has been stewing in anger and self-hatred because of his own shortcomings.” Raylan runs his left hand over his lips and strokes his chin, as if he is reconsidering his words. “I’ll put it to you this way, obras son amores y no buenas razones. Hopefully the translation reaches you; ‘actions speak louder than words’. You’re a talented fighter, I can tell that. But this Sunday it is going to take far more than your words of shame, envy, and anger, or even knocking over a chair to rattle me.”
Raylan’s eyes momentarily flash towards the tumbler or bourbon but instead, the muscles in his hands begin to tense. He doesn’t move his bowed head, but his eyes raise to meet the camera. “You want to bring everything you’ve got? Good. I expect that; hell, I welcome it. But be assured that it is going to be your actions in the ring that define you here, not your empty ‘stay the HELL out of my way’ threats. Or to continue our elevated discourse, Jon, Dame pan y dime tonto. Think of me however you want. It doesn’t matter as long as I get what I want.”
Raylan briefly glances down at the copy of The Alchemist, still resting on his chest. He takes another long sip of bourbon before continuing. “We all have big dreams, Jon. And talented as you are, you’re far from the only person in this match who is in the ‘regrets’ or ‘redemption’ game.”
Raylan Brees gets up out of his patio chair and downs the last bit of his bourbon. It momentarily burns, sure, but it’s ultimately rewarding and slightly…euphoric. He pivots and rests his back and elbows against the balcony. Perhaps it is the bourbon…it likely is…but in this moment Raylan feels and acts like the Lexington skyline, the camera...even the sun, are bending to his will.
“I’m speaking to you of course, Jon, but this can just as easily go out to Alex, Ashley, RYNX, and Cameron. Hopefully they can all understand this as well as you can. Come, bebe y diviértete, porque en cuatro días todos ustedes morirán. By all means, eat, drink, and be merry, because in four days…you die.”
Raylan continues to lean back against the patio balcony but he slowly lifts his elbows off of the railing. Raylan Brees points his fingers directly at the EAW camera before curling his fingers into a “trigger fingers” posture. “Bang!”
Raylan breathes deeply, taking in the view, soaking in the bourbon, and lets his book settle on his chest, resting open on his most recent page. He lazily rolls his head to the right, towards the EAW camera.
“You speak another language, Jon Kelton? Asks Raylan. “That’s fine. I’m always keen on meeting a man who can speak more than one tongue. French, Portuguese, Spanish? Hell, I speak all three. Kinda comes with the territory with that ‘other company’ I do work for.” Raylan sets his feet firmly on the ground now, pivoting in his chair so that he is facing the camera and the sun is setting over his right shoulder.
“So you’re ‘returning’ here to EAW, eh, Jon?” Raylan asks with a slight head nod, as if he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to. “Well I take it as a kindness to be a part of your welcoming committee. I’ve looked over your past achievements in the ring.” Raylan nods again as he bends his elbow to indulge in another gulp of bourbon. “Impressive.” He sets the tumbler back down and fixes his gaze at the camera. “And behind all of the wet hair and machismo, you seem to be an educated man as well.”
Raylan’s eyes flicker and the beginning creases of a grin start to form on his face. “Well then, let’s talk, Jon. You are clearly a talented athlete, and you seem to have yourself convinced that you’re driven. Let me guess, in your mind, this makes you some kind of ‘unstoppable’ monster of chaos, right?” Raylan is full-on smirking at this point. “Well Jon, a lo hecho, pecho, as they say. It essentially means that you need to face up to what ‘is’. In laymen’s terms, what’s done is done. Six years of shame, jealousy, doubt, and rage. It’s over. Your failures happened and it is up to you to own them. I’m sure that you’re angry. I don’t doubt that you’re bitter. I know that it has been a long time. But the thing is, that doesn’t make you special and it doesn’t make you scary. Until new actions and accomplishments dictate otherwise, you are still the guy who has been stewing in anger and self-hatred because of his own shortcomings.” Raylan runs his left hand over his lips and strokes his chin, as if he is reconsidering his words. “I’ll put it to you this way, obras son amores y no buenas razones. Hopefully the translation reaches you; ‘actions speak louder than words’. You’re a talented fighter, I can tell that. But this Sunday it is going to take far more than your words of shame, envy, and anger, or even knocking over a chair to rattle me.”
Raylan’s eyes momentarily flash towards the tumbler or bourbon but instead, the muscles in his hands begin to tense. He doesn’t move his bowed head, but his eyes raise to meet the camera. “You want to bring everything you’ve got? Good. I expect that; hell, I welcome it. But be assured that it is going to be your actions in the ring that define you here, not your empty ‘stay the HELL out of my way’ threats. Or to continue our elevated discourse, Jon, Dame pan y dime tonto. Think of me however you want. It doesn’t matter as long as I get what I want.”
Raylan briefly glances down at the copy of The Alchemist, still resting on his chest. He takes another long sip of bourbon before continuing. “We all have big dreams, Jon. And talented as you are, you’re far from the only person in this match who is in the ‘regrets’ or ‘redemption’ game.”
Raylan Brees gets up out of his patio chair and downs the last bit of his bourbon. It momentarily burns, sure, but it’s ultimately rewarding and slightly…euphoric. He pivots and rests his back and elbows against the balcony. Perhaps it is the bourbon…it likely is…but in this moment Raylan feels and acts like the Lexington skyline, the camera...even the sun, are bending to his will.
“I’m speaking to you of course, Jon, but this can just as easily go out to Alex, Ashley, RYNX, and Cameron. Hopefully they can all understand this as well as you can. Come, bebe y diviértete, porque en cuatro días todos ustedes morirán. By all means, eat, drink, and be merry, because in four days…you die.”
Raylan continues to lean back against the patio balcony but he slowly lifts his elbows off of the railing. Raylan Brees points his fingers directly at the EAW camera before curling his fingers into a “trigger fingers” posture. “Bang!”
Last edited:
