The Modern Duelist
Posted on Tue Jul 31 13:48:00 UTC 2007
TO THE VICTOR COME THE SPOILS OF WAR: There is a certain occult art to living with a sense of style in a world that is falling apart, and most of it comes with having the substance to back yourself up when necessary; one does not walk down Main Street at high noon with an unloaded handgun. Personally I have become a big fan of the duel, a tradition that has mostly gone out of favour now-a-days but a tradition I find myself constantly trying to resurrect. It's an odd fact, anyone can claim anything -- and frequently they do. Many-a-time people will tell the most bold faced lies, they will make the most outlandish and bizarre statements straight to your face and then expect you just to nod your head in quiet concurrence, of course you can fly, of course I do not require any evidence of your powers of levitation, why I simply wouldn't want to cause any trouble betwixt two gentleman of such obvious culture and refinement as ourselves, nod, nod, but of course! I agree completely, a handshake, a flourish -- and yes.
There comes a time however for a CALLING OUT, a reckoning and a settling of accounts, either for women or money or pride or for honour or to prove a point or just for the thrill and kill of the hunt. In games of poker, in battles of wit and in drinking contests, sometimes with my fists, sometimes through my keyboard, there comes a time when the truth will out and hob-nailed substance must brutally and without remorse crush the delicate dandy hands of style. How much crap do you have to keep taking before it eventually becomes: enough!
There is pride even in losing. There is pride inherent in even making the attempt, in trying, striving, fighting -- maybe even losing but still having the guts and the balls and heart enough to climb halfway up the mountain -- tumbling down in black eyed failure, there is a kind of honour in that. By process of the clash of steel, through cannon fire and the contest of two wills I discover that I am not entirely full of shit, there is at least something to me, some titanium chassis lies beneath all weak and doughy flesh.
You know: there is a whole world full of shit out there, and I'm sick to fucking death of it.
When push comes to shove.
This is why I duel.
There comes a time however for a CALLING OUT, a reckoning and a settling of accounts, either for women or money or pride or for honour or to prove a point or just for the thrill and kill of the hunt. In games of poker, in battles of wit and in drinking contests, sometimes with my fists, sometimes through my keyboard, there comes a time when the truth will out and hob-nailed substance must brutally and without remorse crush the delicate dandy hands of style. How much crap do you have to keep taking before it eventually becomes: enough!
There is pride even in losing. There is pride inherent in even making the attempt, in trying, striving, fighting -- maybe even losing but still having the guts and the balls and heart enough to climb halfway up the mountain -- tumbling down in black eyed failure, there is a kind of honour in that. By process of the clash of steel, through cannon fire and the contest of two wills I discover that I am not entirely full of shit, there is at least something to me, some titanium chassis lies beneath all weak and doughy flesh.
You know: there is a whole world full of shit out there, and I'm sick to fucking death of it.
When push comes to shove.
This is why I duel.