Morning crept through the blinds, slicing the room into bars of gold and shadow. Clothes were scattered like confessions across the floor—whiskey glasses tipped on their sides, smoke curling lazy trails from the ashtray on the nightstand.
Sarah lay sprawled across the bed, red hair tangled into fire, emerald eyes half-hidden but still burning. A cigarette in one hand, my crumpled bills in the other. And when she spoke, it wasn’t the tease, or the dare, or the pool shark anymore. It was something else.
Her voice carried a softness wrapped in steel:
“I never planned on this. Thought it was just another Friday night—another whiskey, another game, another neighbor too slow to catch the hint. But then you… you made me laugh. You made me forget the clock, forget the hustle, forget myself.
I fooled around… and damn it, I fell in love.”
She smirked then, brushing hair from her face, her tone snapping back to wicked.
“Don’t get cocky, Saint. I still beat you. But maybe you won something after all.”
I just watched her in the morning light, realizing every game we’d played—the hallway smiles, the pool shots, the breadcrumb bills—was just leading here. And for once, I didn’t care if I’d won or lost.
Saint Dirty Face Closer
Funny thing about games—they end. But sometimes the night doesn’t. Sometimes it just changes who’s holding the chalk.
The night air buzzed as we walked, neon signs bleeding color into the pavement. Sarah moved fast, like she had a destination burned into her blood, while I tried to play it cool. But every glance she threw me over her shoulder carried that spark—the kind that makes you forget your own damn name.
“Think you can handle me at pool?” she teased, brushing her hair back, emerald eyes glinting.
“Handle you?” I smirked. “I’m more worried about handling the whiskey.”
She laughed, the sound sharp enough to cut through the street noise, and before long O’Malley’s swallowed us whole.
Inside, the place throbbed with jukebox classics and the low hum of half-drunk conversations. The scent of spilled beer and cigarette ghosts lingered in the air. I grabbed us two whiskeys; she grabbed a cue.
“Ladies first,” I offered.
She leaned low over the table, red hair falling forward, eyes locked on me as much as the ball. “Oh, I know,” she purred, sinking the break clean like she’d rehearsed it in her sleep.
I tried to focus, but whiskey burned my throat and the sway of her hips burned something deeper. Every shot she made wasn’t just a ball into a pocket—it was a nail into my coffin.
By the time the eight ball rolled home, I was down cash, pride, and most of my ability to breathe.
Sarah grinned wickedly, scooping up the bills. “Told you I was a shark.”
But instead of pocketing them, she slid the money back across the table, fingers brushing mine, her voice dropping low enough to drown the jukebox.
“Relax… let’s go home. I’ll give you a chance to win it back.”
Saint Dirty Face Closer
Relax? Not a chance. I say stay dirty, stay wicked. The night was just getting started.
Pearl Jam, Alice In Chains, Nirvana, Soundgarden — sex in the dark, cigarettes in the rain, heartbreak in every lyric.
🥀 Nu-Metal Carnage:
Korn, Godsmack, Slipknot, Deftones, Tool — the soundtrack to your best mistakes and your dirtiest fantasies.
🎤 Wildcards Forever:
Metallica & Ozzy — because they f***ing invented staying power.
🍑 ROBERT’S GOD-TIER FANTASY LINEUP:
Godsmack (for when you need your ribs rattled) Kiss (for the tongue… you know the one) Mötley Crüe (for tequila, tattoos, and terrible decisions) Tool (for the tantric, brain-melting sonic ride) Led Zeppelin (for the raw, sweaty, primal soul)
Venue: The Sphere, Las Vegas. Neon sin meets surround sound heaven.
Ticket: $400 each. Two, baby. One for me, one for the ride-or-die.
🕷️ VAYLEN ASH’S APOCALYPSE LINEUP:
Led Zeppelin (because we need the gods) Soundgarden (Chris Cornell = sex voice) Guns N’ Roses (slash my heart, baby) Tool (mindf*** deluxe) Metallica (war drums, battle cries, orgasms)
Venue: Red Rocks Amphitheatre, Colorado — under the stars, under the influence.
Ticket: $500. Worth every moral compromise.
💣 THE VIBE CHECK:
Fishnet stockings on stage and in the crowd. Leather pants so tight they count as a blood pressure cuff. Hair sweaty, bodies grinding, voices hoarse. Somebody’s girlfriend making out with somebody’s wife. Somebody’s grandma crowd-surfing because why the hell not. You, waking up somewhere you do not recognize, whispering, “Worth it.”
🔥 ERA KINGS:
👑 Talent: Hippie era.
👑 Songwriting: Grunge.
👑 Party chaos: Glam, hands-down.
👑 Get-up-and-move? Nu-metal — they’ll beat your pulse into submission.
🍷 BONUS CHAOS GUESTS:
Rage Against the Machine (protest chic) Janis Joplin (whiskey in human form) Nine Inch Nails (let’s get weird) AC/DC (for pure, dumb, glorious rock)
🕶️ FINAL WORD:
This isn’t just music.
It’s religion.
It’s rebellion.
It’s a spiritual undressing at the altar of noise, sweat, and starlight.
So yeah… I’d pay.
I’d go.
I’d sin.
And I’d thank every holy and unholy thing on the way out.
⚠️ DANGER LEVEL:
💥 18+ Only
💥 Not for the faint of heart
💥 Side effects may include: hoarse voice, lost shoes, existential crisis, spontaneous tattoos, unplanned forgiveness, or wicked regret.
🖤 SAINT DIRTY FACE™ STATEMENT:
Imperfect on purpose. Sharp-tongued by design. NSFW by divine accident.
Saint Dirty Face 