Alligator mouth, and a hummingbird ass

::The camera fades in. The streetlights are on, except for the one in front of the building that we are focusing on. We're taken to a building that, quite frankly, has seen better days. There's a faded sign above the double front doors that says "Gibbs' Ribs." A well dressed man of about 35 years old comes to the blacked out glass front door, takes a quick look up and down the street. He needn't worry. There doesn't seem to be a soul with a half mile of these doors. He takes a deep breath, and opens the door.::

::It's as though he stepped into a different world. The room has red carpet, and a small lobby area with 2 more blacked out glass doors directly in front of him. However, he now stands face to face with 2 similarly well dressed men. These particular men are the kind of men who keep people out of where they aren't welcome. Close cropped hair, 6 feet tall, a slight bulge under each armpit, and just the outline of batons visible through their suit jackets. They trade a look at the visitor, and then at each other. Our visitor produces a credit card from his wallet, which he turns over to the larger gentlemen. The card seems to have a red diamond on it, and a magnetic strip on back. The card is swiped through a reader. The 2 men take a slight glance at a computer screen, and after a moment's pause, a pleasant sounding "DING" is heard. The credit card is handed back, with a small nod and smile.::

::The doors are opened for our visitor. He looks around, from left to right. On the left is a small crowd of people, huddled around a table. Towards the center of the room, are 2 long tables, with a bit bigger crowd around in it. Right of that, is a bar that takes up 3/4 of this large room. Lastly, on the right, are 2 tables, with 7 or 8 men around it, playing cards. Yes, this is a back-alley casino.::

::In the center of the room, are the craps tables. The action is a little hot and heavy here tonight. The action is centered around the shooter, a local named Remy. Remy hails from New Orleans, and is a bit loud.::

Remy: Let them fuckers fly!

::Yeah, loud. The dice fly, and bounce off a stack of chips. One dice is hidden for just a second. The Dealer calls '7', and the chips are collected. Remy, however, does not agree with this call.::

Remy: Cmon, the chips interfered with my roll. Gimme them dice back!

::Enter Marvin. Marvin is what you might consider the pit boss of this establishment. Marvin may be small, and balding, but around here, Marvin's penchant for knowing numbers, and for being the point man in a huge skimming operation in Las Vegas, have made him the stuff of local legend. However, Marvin and Remy have never really seen eye to eye.::

Marvin(matter of factly): Remy, you know quite well it doesn't matter if the dice hit the chips. The dealer made the right call.

Remy(drunkenly, and angry): Looky here, Tiny. I said it don't count.

Marvin: Remy, I don't want a problem here. Remember a couple of months ago? I would hate for that to happen again.

::Marvin turns slightly toward the bartender, now observing the commotion. He folds one hand over the other, forming a small diamond in the center of his hands. The bartender winks, and silently hits a button on the bar. Remy is now ranting, raving, and has not noticed Marvin's signal.::

Remy: I want a free drink! I want a comp! I want someone to make this right!

::From the roulette wheel corner, a back door has opened, and closed quietly. There is a large figure coming through. A black cowboy hat can't hide the 6 foot 6 inch figure slowly walking towards the crap table.::

Marvin: You know I can't do that. The boss will go crazy if I reverse that call. You know this is all on video, Remy!

Remy: You get that big sunavabitch out here. I'll whoop him from here to Austin. I'm tired of his shit, and yours.

::All of the patrons cringe at this remark. Clearly, Remy has gone overboard. The 6 & 1/2 foot man, who looks to be in tremendous shape, clearly is not someone who you'd want to be in a fight with. Remy is not a small man himself, just a bit smaller than this giant.::

Remy(now starting to slur a bit, spins around to face off):: I don't care how big ya are, I'm tired of getting robbed in there 'ere joint. Ya washed up old goon, hows 'bout I show ya how to really brawl...

::Remy unwinds and throws a haymaker. The 6'6" man, with startling speed, ducks under the haymaker, throws and connects a vicious shot to Remy's throat, and drops him to the ground. Ice blue eyes tell you that this is not exactly the first time this scenario has played out. Remy is gagging, gurgling, choking, and coughing on the ground from the shot to the throat. Remy is also now being dragged by the arm towards the back door. Remy is attempting to resist, but it might as well be gnats trying to knock over a skyscraper. Remy is bounced out through the back door. A growl exits the other man's mouth.::

"You're always welcome back Remy."

::Marvin nods his thanks towards the man, who goes through the back door. The camera follows him down a long hall, to an office. The office is a medium-sized office, sparsely lighted. A very small oak bar holds several upscale liquors. A rocks glass goes down on the bar, followed by some ice from a bucket, and some Jack Daniel's Green Label follows into the glass. On the right side of the bar, in a glass enclosure, is a World Championship Belt, followed by a crown that's been twisted quite a bit. There are nice framed posters on the wall, promoting several wrestling matches from New York, St. Louis, and Texas. To the right of the posters, is the door which we came in. There's a small tabletop case, holding an Ithaca 37 shotgun, with a heavy wooden pistol grip stock, that looks dented in places. finally, at the back of the room, we see a desk, which holds various papers, a laptop, and a humidor. The humidor opens, a Romeo y Juliet Romeo No. 3 Cuban cigar comes out, is cut, and lit. By now, it's all coming together. A scorpion tattoo on the right arm. Underneath the black cowboy hat, which goes on the desk, is a mess of long red and black hair.::

::On the back wall, is a poster from the ancient CWF. The poster shows this man here, slightly younger of course, holding a championship belt up in the air, over another giant of a man. The name of the bottom of the poster is one legions have whispered, fearful of the repercussions that have slain legends, humbled even the loudest voices, and destroyed dreams. The name?::

::Mr. Sinister::

S: Poor Remy. Damn Creoles have a weakness for the drink. But can they gamble!

::Sinister looks around the room, takes a long pull of the cigar, and has a swallow of the JD in his glass.::

S: Remy reminded me of something with this whole thing that transpired. The dice are very fickle things. One tilt can bring fortune, and another tilt can bring ruin. You, Nick Blade, know all about that. Your mild accomplishments in 1 fed are something for you to fawn over. Meanwhile, I have been stomping asses all over the place for years. I've had a storied career, whereas you had 1 or 2 nice years. You, my friend, might have gotten the better of me when I wasn't paying you much mind. Now, buddy, you have my undivided attention.

::Sinister smiles. If the humidor had iced over after that evil smile, the cameraman wouldn't have been surprised.::

S: So, I guess I'm forced to make a phone call. Nick, you and I will be seeing each other again. No excuses. We'll see if your little lucky streak holds, or whether you get to experience staring at the lights for 1, 2, 3 seconds. Who knows Nick, maybe I can arrange for you a longer trip to the hospital. It's a privilege I've granted to quite a few people over the years. Not just during a good run. See ya soon.

::Sinister picks up the phone, waits for an answer from the other party, and growls into the phone, "It's done. Your turn."::

::Fade out.::