The Throne

The Iron Throne, aka Fuck, That's A Lot of Swords

I walked into Connolly’s after getting the last of my work done. A day of shooting b-roll in Queens, Brooklyn and driving down some roads that barely deserved the name next to Citi Field. Masking the progress of where our subject was born and raised, getting shots to show the audience how bad it used to be. Driving back to the hotel from the bottom of Manhattan, we passed the throngs of drunk white kids lined across the avenues. It was barely 7 and it was already in full force. I wanted to get out there and get my hands on a drunk blonde. There were plenty to go around. I finally got out on the street at 10 and bee-lined for my Irish haven.

It was insanely packed. Throngs and hordes of green tinted clothing, hats, burps, breasts and other such things. the bar was lined with every kind of person, young and old, drunk and sober. I walked between several groups of men and women, some mixed, some gender restrictive. I couldn’t hear anything. I looked to my right as I moved towards the taps and saw a Russian looking male with his head back, passed out, already. I ordered a Guinness and shimmied back to what little open ground there was. The floor was caked in sticky residue of the day’s spilled drinks. It was as if the drunks of earlier aided the drunks of later with a fresh adhesive so they wouldn’t fall.

I had bucked the herd and went out in my black leather jacket and black Sons of Anarchy shirt. It allowed me to stand out and there hasn’t been a bar night gone by I haven’t gotten compliments for it. Within minutes, I had my first one of the night. A rotund black woman with that off-looking semi-fro, semi-fade style of hair walked over to me. She said something.

I bellowed “What?!?” then returned to gulping my beer.

“I like the shirt, its a good show!” She said with a smile.

In my head, a head that has tracked the number of days I’ve gone without, it could of been an easy night. I strike up a convo with this lady, her friend would be easy to work with, win over and pass off. These thirtysomething pre-cougars love the attention. I have a hotel room. I have the status of being in television. I can make it simple and get it wet.

“Thanks!” I say in my best, loud, totally not interested tone. I raise my plastic cup of Irish stout, turn away and drink.

"What do we say to the God of Obesity?
Not today!"

From there, the night wasn’t any better in the pursuit of sex. Several amazing looking women crossed my path. Hey’s and hi’s would be said, some exchanged, touches on the hips and arms as I moved around, giving a smile and a excuse me or not even a word, but making sure those blue eyes of mine locked on theirs hard. Trying to break past the herd mentality by singling them out quickly, pulling them from the sheep and whipping their heads towards something more interesting than the group slut dancing with the old bartender.

Swing. Miss. Swing. Miss. Swing… CRACK…… aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand foul.

Every single one, including the tall, leggy Scandi-looking honey that was crossing my path way more often than even the most packed bar should allow, ended up barely talking. Their phones, their gay friends, their empty cups; the only people these genetic winners wanted was the ones they could get carried home by. Anything more interesting or out of the circle was squashed like a cheerleader’s hymen on prom night.

Yet, I knew something they didn’t. That none of the green wearing hotties, the fatties that barely fit the Notre Dame sweatpants, the whiggers with green chains or the fighting couples, looking dumber than a dog eating its own shit, splitting up with slurs of words to be forgotten by tomorrow; none of them could walk the streets of NYC that night and hold their head up high, alone, and feel like a king. I am not the chaser, I am not the racer, I am not running around for these pussies my body craves. I hunt as all good hunter’s do. I watch, I listen, I wait, I sit upon my throne of wood and leather, and when the time comes, I shoot.

I am not there to make them feel better, these legs and breasts and eyes I enjoy. I am not there to give them a reason to be mean, to be silly or to find a trophy until closing time, to be discarded when the cabs depart. I am there for me. When I walk in, I am not entering their territory, I am conquering the bar for as long as I’m there, and their worthiness is measured not by the laws they followed before I arrived, but by their fealty to the throne and the king who sits upon it, sipping his stout.

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