Get your minds out of the gutter. For one, what you’re thinking of is a swordfight. For two, I’m talking about the Sport of Kings. No, not that one. The other Sport of Kings. The one that involves two roosters tearing themselves to shreds for the amusement of drunken, howling bettors. Right, that one.
So anyhow, it was a good night. Every cock I bet on won. What’s more, I spent the winnings on the ugliest Mexican whore I could find, then gave her a savage beating in a roach-infested motel strategically located behind an abortion clinic. What can I say? I was on a bad side of town. People live like animals over there, and they deserve what they get.
Alright, I gotta split — I shit my pants on the drive home, and need to wake the houseboy and tell him to go scrub down the Hummer’s interior before feces soaks into the fine Corinthian leather seats. Then it’s straight to bed for me. I would take a shower first, but I’m beat, and what do I care if my sheets get shitty? It’s not like I’m the one who has to wash them, right?