They beat me. Bloodied. Fat lips. Red nose. Eyes black. Those bells. Those bells were ringing. OH THE CALAMITOUS CLANGING THAT FILLED MY EARS.
They left me laying in the mud. The water. The glorious muck. Thinking that their job was finished. "OL' BRAY WYATT AIN'T NEVER GONNA GET BACK UP FROM ALL THAT. He ain't never gettin' outta that bog we left him in.
What they don't know, is that I am at HOME. In the swamp.
Dark. Dank. A thick kinda air that feels like it's going to reach down into your lungs and pour a nice big glass of iced tea. Feels like everything in the world around you is trying to crawl, slither...slime...all over you. And the ground. You might just get sucked right down in and drown in all that slime, all that filth.
You know. They say that only gators come out of the swamp alive.
But you know, you might say the gators and I is kin. We're both at home in the muck and the mire. Especially when we get to drag other people down with us. Y'see, everybody's got a little bit of dirt on ‘em. But when they're covered in all the filth in that swamp, all the guilt, for all those sins...you're free to let that go. And just be one. With us.
But y'know, there's one other thing me and the gator have in common. We're both cold blooded. Knew this one named Albert. I used to feed him out my backyard...every day. All the fresh chicken necks he could eat. Every day...brought him a bit closer. One day, he got nice and close. Too close. And BAM. Right in the temple.
Roll ‘im in some seasonin', toss him in a hot skillet. Tastes gooooood too...