To an uptown park. It's late, no color in the sky but black. Simply put, it's a tired scene with nothing standing out of any notice. No one is around. Except the one person you see clearly walking into view. He carries himself well, wearing an over-priced collard shirt and finely pressed black slacks.

He's smoking a cigarette, which he lightly taps and let's the ashes fall to the sidewalk. Taking another deep drag. You'd almost say he's distant, but he hasn't taken his eyes off the camera for one second.

"What's up, 'pet'? Feeling good? Let me ask you, does it feel good to be another man's plaything? To never have the world hear your own words, just his? Is this what mother wanted of you?"

"Because I've seen many a man sell their souls for some scraps from the table. If that's all you want out of life - scraps - then I'm going to assume that's all you're capable of. Begging. Licking your wounds while your master tosses you a bone when he's feeling generous. But I've heard you bark. I'd consider it a wonder if he gave you anything at all."

"Tell me something, 'pet', does he scold you when you wet the floor?"

"Does he clean up after you?"

"Tell me, when you're not polishing his toilet, does he even have a fucking use for you?"

"A mongrel like you has no place at the table. No place in the sun. You get what you're given and you do what you're told. Nothing more. Your wants and needs are fulfilled as a matter of convenience. If you happen to take pleasure in biting a man, and it just so happens you're ordered to do so, then you get your brief moment of happiness."

"But in-between, when it comes to your own selfish desires, you get nothing. When he sent you after White Tiger last week, did he say it was for you? For revenge? Another matter of convenience. And the obedient 'pet' does what his master says without a moment's hesitation. It must be nice to be blind to your ineptness. To have someone else do all the thinking for you. He points and you bite. He barks and you follow. He wants, he needs, and you're just there."

"Begging..."

"Always begging..."

"And it's taken me all of five seconds to put you in your place. In the basement or in the shed, wherever he keeps you when you aren't of use. I'm sure it's nice having a roof over your head. Does it leak? Are there any lights where he keeps you? You know, don't even answer me. I don't need to hear the words from a mongrel like you. If something needs to be said, put your master on camera and have him bark at me. Ask him if you've got any fucking chance this week. Just ask him. He's making the decisions. He's calling the shots. Not you, 'pet'. Never you."

"And yes, there's plenty of dogs before you. Plenty of mutts just hoping to god every week they might get their turn. A chance in the spotlight. Several of them are standing right next to you. Do me a favor. Ask them if they ever got their turn. Ask them if their master ever delivered on fame and stardom. But you won't find their names on any t-shirts. There is no place for them in the marquee. Their names are barely remembered in the anecdotes of history, as a joke. It's hard to feel anything but hatred when everybody is laughing, isn't it?"

"I'm laughing. Right now. They are, too. Everyone in those stands. Everyone at home. The only time you get a moment of peace is when your master makes you hurt somebody, and for a brief moment they all take a second to gasp at what you've done."

"But I'm not gasping. My laughter, at you, at your cause... it never stops. It never sleeps, because that's how fucking funny you are. That's how helpless you are. That's how pathetic you are. Bitch. Mongrel. Puppet."

"But never a Master."

His final drag ends the cigarette. The final ashes fall, and then he turns and the wind whisks him away.

Away from the ash. Away from you.