Tommy Hawk, eh?
Fuck that guy.
Even just the name, man.
Hawk. A bird of prey.
A savage spirit animal gliding through azure skies, sowing fear in the hearts of the weak. A noble embodiment of his tribal heritage, a link to his ancestors.
I’ll give him this – it’s a fucking impressive image, full of mysticism and drama.
But here’s the thing about hawks. They’re fine when the skies are blue. They’re in their element when the sun shines bright. They dance the dance of freedom in peaceful, predictable conditions. That’s where they thrive.
Unchallenged.
Unhindered.
Fucking unbeatable.
But dare to throw a little chaos into the mix, and it all goes to shit.
That’s where I come in, Tommy.
Cause I don’t hide in the shadows or speak in riddles.
I don’t follow the rules. I’m a Bad Mother Fucker, goddamn it.
I am not some character in your precious tribal folklore, flying high in peaceful, storybook skies.
I am the fucking storm in the real world. I am the chaos in the predictability. I am the blinding Lightning, the Gale Force winds, the Tempest that shoves the world off its axis.
Where the hawk learns to fly and to hunt, to play by the rules of nature, I learn to disrupt, to defy, to tear those rules apart and rewrite them.
I don’t come with a warning. I don’t give a fuck about expectations. When I roll in, it’s not with a whisper, but with a roar louder than fucking Thunder.
In this storm, your ancestral spirits can’t help you. The Savage is taking a nap. Your connection to the earth, to the roots, to the traditions, they mean jack shit here. This is not a war dance under the moonlit night, Hawk. This is a battle in the blinding flash of limelight, under the stormy clouds of Luke fucking Storm.
Sure, Hawk, when you’re prancing around in your handcrafted leather boots, with your feathers and drums, with your calm, peaceful skies, you’re the fucking master.
Badge of a former champion and all that shit.
But against a storm? You’re just another bird waiting to be swept away. Your little song and dance won’t save you from this turmoil. Your spirits can’t calm this storm.
I don’t play savage. I don’t hide behind an alter ego. I don’t need an ancestral link to be strong, to be feared.
I just am.
The game? It’s changed.
This isn’t some B-movie you’re starring in, Tommy.
This is the big leagues, the world’s stage…
…my fucking stage.
Here, claws and feathers don’t hold up against thunderous fists and whirlwind kicks. Here, a Hawk’s just a flighty bird, spiraling down to the unforgiving ground in the face of the real fucking storm.
So, Tommy, take a good, hard look at the sky.
Enjoy those last glimpses of blue. Breathe in the calm, soak up the serenity.
Savor it.
Because the clouds are rolling in, the wind’s picking up, and the thunder’s grumbling in the distance.
This Storm’s just beginning.
Cause I’m the Real fucking Deal, and this Hawk’s real fucking dead!