“You Come At The King, You Best Not Miss.” — 1/1

The scene opens up abruptly. Somewhat suddenly. Without warrant. And it begins with The Mad King and the day’s fifth cigarette.

There he is. One of God’s own devilish creatures. Unhinged, uninhibited, unwarranted, unrestrained, and for the moment, unrestricted. The King, proper. The War Dog, professional wrestling’s favorite underdog, the gutter poet… Eddie Kingston.

And if you ask him, The King, his eyes are fixed, and his attention is fixated on not only becoming the NEXT WLCW X-Division Champion but the LAST. As Eddie recently (and so eloquently put it)… “I will walk out of the Clash the champion. And once that belt is strapped around my waist it’s staying there… there is no losing… understand? There’s only me… there’s only death. And I will lay in my deathbed STILL the WLCW X-Division champion. You can bet on that.”

For a man who usually has a lot to say, at the moment, Kingston is quiet. Taking some time for self-reflection, I suppose. Or, hell, maybe he’s just lost in thought. Smoking. Chain smoking. Pacing. Dragging his kicks through the gravel and glass. Up and down some poorly paved and unattended road.

Currently, King is half mumbling to himself (or to anyone nearby, close enough to hear him). Half out loud. Half in his own head. Asking and answering the same dozen questions he does every night. Half in the moment. Half in heaven. Half in hell. Living, loving, and wrestling to the best of his ability.

There’s the sounds of whistling. It’s King, whistling a familiar tune to himself in between drags off of his cigarette.

Kingston stops. He shifts his weight. Adjusts the collar on his shirt. Then speaks…

“Hi-ho, the derry-o… it’s yo’ boy… Eddie Kingston.”

The cheese stands alone. And Saturday night the cheese will stand alone victorious over Matt Cardona.

Eddie takes another drag. He wonders why people have forgotten how great it is to taste the slow tickle of nicotine fall down their throats. Inhaling whatever. The true definition of living in the moment. Hit by hit. Whatever it takes, he thinks. Thick plumes of thick light smoke blows out through his nose.

Eddie walks down some unnamed street. It looks familiar, but that’s not to say he’s ever been here before. King walks past the old, broken brick buildings, shedding skin like a snake, underneath the muted, dampened yellow street lights.

The air is cold tonight or at least it feels cold to Eddie’s uncovered arms. Despite the eighty-some degree day, Arizona has been blessed with. Maybe it’s just my nerves, he thinks.

King is far from a meteorologist, but the best he can tell… looking up and out into the unknown, the sky is clear.

All King sees are stars.

Quickly Kingston is reminded of the days he spent bent over, back broken, trying to find his way in life. The hustle and bustle now long past of the old soda company and their smokestacks.

Somewhere, at the end of the street, on the other side of town… the cemetery is quiet. Then again, death is so quiet.

A few drags lead to another cigarette. Kingston puts one foot in front of another and soon he finds himself at the end of the road. At the cemetery.

Eddie adjusts his eyes. Focus, he thinks. This too shall pass. Right? I mean, it’s gotta.

Before Kingston there’s nothing. Or mostly nothing except for the rolling hills of tombstones. The rolling hills of what used to be land owned by whomever. Now lines upon rows and rows upon lines.

Kingston takes another drag. His lungs damn near crystallized from the menthol at this point. Is this the sixth or seventh cigarette? Opening his pack and peeking inside he realizes it’s the eighth. Fuck it. Who’s countin’?

Looking out at war memorials. Some steeped in grand tradition from the late 1800's. Others old and withered like the city he calls home. And it is home. This was once all he knew. Sunday mornings, after service, he'd stagger by with his drunken father, his clothes bathed in stale gin, across these very hills, looking for oldsters that his father never knew but knew his grandparents. Where had all that time gone? How did he get here?

Where is he going?

Why is he here tonight?

Creature of habit. He takes a drag and speaks again…

“Survival is something I know a little about. You can't be born into the womb of the city of Yonkers without getting cozy with the word of survival, with all the broken buildings, and torn-up streets and drug addicts that run across these hills. You can't know survival unless you lived the lives of people I grew up with. The elderly man who lived next door to me, widowed for forty years, golden gloves champion, with a glass eye. Or the fatherless brood of three who tormented their mother because they could, because she worked three jobs just so they could spit in her fucking eye. No, you can't say you've survived, you can't say you're a survivor unless you me. I lived in mythical places and I've done mythical things. And this was all before I turned sixteen. This was all before I left home. All before I returned home. All before WLCW. All before now.”

This is all he can think about. This cigarette. This cemetery. This match tomorrow night with Matt Cardona. With that, King takes the cigarette butt and flicks it to the ground. Sparks fly.

“Yes, I am better than you, Cardona. Yes, Cardona, I'm stronger than you. Mentally. Physically. And yes, Cardona, I'm a survivor. I can survive better than you. Because I've seen the floods. And I've seen the famine. It's the eyes of the people. It's in their blood. It's why I bled so much, Cardona... because I want the world to see where I've come from. I want them to see my struggle, my pain, my agony. I want them to see what I've gone through just to make it here. It's in these hills. It's in this nameless cemetery. It's in my fucking heart.”

Eddie turns to look away from the camera for a moment. His eye has been caught by a particular group of gravestones.

“Cardona, you're a pig. A fuckin’ pig. And I stick pigs. I've stuck pigs. I stick my prick through their wrinkled skin, their soft, furry tussles of hair. I stick my dick through their flesh and I feast on them whole and I spit out the snout. I fuckin’ hate pigs. You take for granted the body you’ve worked for, sure, but that God has given to you to mold and shape. Look what God gave me…”

Kingston presses his right index finger against his nose, giving himself, how shall i say… a piggy nose. King uses his left hand to pat his gut. Rub his own pig belly.

“Hell, man… we’re all swine in this business…. so, relax… you’re in good company. But jus’ ‘cause we can relate… doesn’t mean we the same. Nah, man. You and I… Cardona… we're bred differently. We’re different breeds.”

This seems like an appropriate time to plug Eddie’s new T-shirt available online in WLCW’s web-store… “Last of a dyin’ breed” Eddie Kingston.

Back to Eddie and the scene at hand…

“Blood and the bones that built this country that gives you the opportunity to dine on the finest fillets an’ drink the finest wines. Build that sculptured body in the finest gyms. Shave your fuckin’ pig face with the finest razors from the finest barbers. You take for granted the world that we live in, the money we've been bestowed, the fingers an’ toes you have… you take for granted the pride… that championship… your position in this company… all the things I am going to steal from you this Saturday.“

Kingston fidgets with his lighter. He fights the urge to light another smoke. To keep the chain going.

“Cardona… now, I am no workin’ class hero. And you're no scientifically engineered machine. By nature, we're the very same thing. I'm going to make you bleed. I'm going to show you that you're just like me in that sense. We all bleed. We all break bones. Once the fight is fair. Once we're in the confines of a contractually bound fight, once we’re in the same ring… we're the same fuckin’ thing. By nature, we're the very same thing, Cardona, it's the nurture part that separates us.”

The lamp post, spilling, tumbling muted, faint yellow light, falls down on The Mad King's unkempt hair. What there is of it anyway. As he speaks, you can see Kingston’s breath. Heated as it is.

“I am gonna burn a hole straight through your soul, Cardona. I am gonna burn the bravado, the arrogance,… the whatever. I am gonna take that title belt of yours and melt it down in front of your eyes, just to watch you cry. Cry blackened tears of death and dyin’. Cardona, we are not the same… but Saturday night you will know what it feels like, what it felt like, to be me… to have nothin’.”

Kingston finds a cigarette and lights the nicotine end of the butt. And... he... takes... a drag...

Kingston’s sleek smile slyly dissipates.

“I won't be satisfied unless I am drenched in your vomit, covered in your blood. Personally, I want to watch you, in the middle of the ring, puking you're brains out. On the verge of givin’ up. Starting over. Findin’ a new career.”

Eddie moves over to a group of gravestones that caught his eye a minute ago. And he stands facing them, stoic. And, yep… you guessed it… he takes a drag.

“It's gonna be your funeral, Cardona. I've helped put so many friends and loved ones and family into the ground...”

He pauses again for a moment, taking the longest drag yet.

“I've helped put them in the ground, with my own bare hands. Because their is nothing but hate in my heart. Are you man enough to bring the hate out of me? Will you bring it, Cardona, will you bring the hate out of me? Really... just bring it...”

Kingston thinks about the past, but for just a moment, because all he has is moments. Small, slight, malnourished moments. With a rising voice, he finishes.

“Just bring it, Cardona. And I will do the same. The King is bringin’ you to a funeral. I am bringin’ the funeral to you. I am burying you in Arizona. Did you hear me, survivor, Cardona, I am buryin’ you at the Clash.”

He takes the butt and flicks it at the gravestone in front of him. It splinters into a million little pieces.

“They cage animals. That's what they do. Animals that they don't want suffocating society. They use cages, even after all these years, they still do.”

The cold, dim lights flicker like the silent humming of a sun beam. The pavement, cold. The cemetery, cold. Choking, gagging this night away.

“Just like the root of all the breathes. Violence. I want the world to see the violence through the lens of film. The violence that happens when Eddie Kingston enters the ring. Mick Foley, WLCW brass, you cage us. And we love it. Because we're animals. And you cage animals. Because that's what you do. Because it's the animals that kill the humans. With their teeth. With their claws. With their brains and their hearts. And their disease. Bright and striking, disease we have.”

Disease we bring?

“There are things I don't believe in... angels, robots, aliens... ghosts. You can't ever tell me that these things exist. I won't believe you. You could bring in Stephen fucking Hawking and I'd spit in his stupid, fucking face and push his wheelchair off a cliff. But I believe in monsters, Cardona. And I believe you’re hours away from seeing the monster in me.”

The whistling returns. Softly. Then the singing…

“The rat takes the cheese. The KING takes his cheese…”

Eddie laughs. For the first time tonight he seems happy. Deranged, but happy.

“Hi-ho, the derry-o… the King takes Cardona’s cheese.”

And with that, the scene begins to fade…