Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, created and written by Mike Daltrey. The
walk back to the squalid room we'd rented was a
silent procession of the damned. We were eight now, each
man was lost in his own private hell of bruises
and humiliation. We left a trail of blood drips on
the filthy alley stones, a final pathetic tribute to the
King of the gutter. The room was a box, smelling
of old straw, damp earth, and now our own fresh defeat.
It was meant for four men, maybe for the eight
of us. It was a cage. I watched my crew
find their corners, slumping onto thin pallets or against the
grimy walls. Cob was weeping softly into his hands. Brynn
stood in the darkest corner, a statue of coiled fury.
Or So was already cleaning the blood from a cut
on his cheek, his movements as detached as if he
were mending a saddle. I couldn't stand still. The four
walls were closing in, each one painted with the image
of Corvin's calm, superior smile. Every bruise on my body
screamed his name. Every sullen, downcast look from my men
was a reflection of my own failure. I had led
them to this. I had swaggered into a trap, and
my pride had paid for it with their blood in
our future. The rage was a wild animal clawing at
the inside of my ribs, desperate for a way out.
My leadership, my entire identity, was built on a foundation
of strength and forward momentum. Now we were beaten, broke,
and trapped. The momentum was gone. The strength had been
proven a lie. What was I if not the strongest.
I paced the small space back and forth, a caged wolf.
The silent judgment of my my crew was a physical pressure.
I had to do something. I had to break something.
My eyes fell on a rickety wooden chair someone had
left in the corner, with a roar that was torn
from the very bottom of my gut. I seized it.
I lifted it high and smashed it against the stone wall.
It exploded into a shower of splinters, the sound of
gunshot in the tense quiet room. Everyone flinched. The violence
was a relief, a release of pressure. But it wasn't enough.
The rage was still there, still directionless, still eating me alive.
It was rat who made the mistake. The young thief
was huddled on a pallet, nursing a split lip. As
I stood panting, staring at the wreckage of the chair.
He muttered under his breath, just loud enough to be heard,
Kle's dead. All that silver gone for nothing. It wasn't
a challenge, it wasn't an accusation. It was just the
whining of a beaten dog. But it was a target.
My rage, blind and desperate, finally had a place to go.
I spun on him. Before he could even register the
thread in my eyes, I had crossed the room and
hauled him to his feet. I slammed him back against
the wall, the impact knocking the air from his lungs
in a sharp gasp. My hands were around his throat,
my thumbs digging into the soft flesh. His eyes went
wide with terror, his feet dangling inches from the floor.
For the first time since I'd laid eyes on Corvin,
the world made sense again. There was a throat in
my hands, There was fear in someone's eyes, and those
eyes were looking at me, and I was the one
causing it. I was in charge again. Say another word,
I hissed, my voice, a low, vicious rasp. The words
were not for rat, they were for everyone. They were
for myself.