These are facts of life that King Kong Frank has accepted decades ago. He’d been the runt in his family, if you can believe that; his brothers each terrorized him in their own unique ways. His daddy, the kind of violent drunk that got himself killed for laying hands on his wife one time too many, made a hobby of pitting the boys against each other at every turn.
All in the name of proving just which of his boys was the toughest.
As he grew into the hulking behemoth that he is now his brothers found out just exactly which one of Keith Dylan James’ sons was by far the toughest. If only the old bastard had been alive long enough to see Frank develop into the world class brawler that he is today then maybe, just maybe, he would have told his son that he was proud of him.
It never did come to pass. Frank’s ol’ Ma made sure of that on that last fateful night of his Daddy’s life. She was acquitted, you know, crime of passion is what they called it. For all these reasons and a baker’s dozen more, King Kong Frank had long since developed a healthy understanding of violence, and a voracious appetite for same.
And now there stands in front of him a living, breathing apocalypse. A towering calamity of a man that sought to bring the end times to King Kong Frank’s very doorstep. Well then, Frank thought to himself as he pondered the upcoming altercation, he reckoned he was as tickled as a man could get at the prospect.
If Walt Whezl thinks that Lord Colossus is the preeminent bringer of chaos and violence inside of the squared circle, King Kong Frank is ready, willing, and able to prove him wrong coming up at the SLAM-A-THON pay-per-view extravaganza.
But that would be then.
And this is now.
Frank sits comfortably in the ancient rocking chair on his front porch. The beer fridge that he’d blasted a hubcap-sized hole in a few weeks ago has been replaced with a shinier model that sticks out like a sore thumb amidst the detritus accumulated in and around the porch-turned pulpit where the Smoky Mountain Mastodon presently broods.
It’s almost time, boy.
Time fer you to pay what you owe to the piper at the gates of dawn. All’a this talk about the end o’ times and the daggum ‘pocalypse an whatnot done got you believin’ in yer own bunch’a bullcrap. Heh-heh, an’ boy, you gon’ find out real quick what happens when the so-called mighty comes a’fallin down. You unnarstan’ me, boy?
I ain’t afraid’a you.
I ain’t afraid’a gettin’ hurt.
An’ I sure as hell ain’t afraid’a that pipsqueak painted-face poindexter that you got pullin’ yer strings for ya! An’ speakin’ of little Walt Whezl…
Frank chuckles, somehow it is guttural.
The barefoot brawler is bare-chested tonight, too, overalls replaced with an old pair of dingy jeans tied together by a rope around Frank’s waist. His chest is covered in thick hair and faded scars, each tied to a tale of some old war or another. His hair is tied back, for once, and his beard as always is a wiry mess.
There is a serious look about Frank that is quite disconcerting.
If’n you come within arm’s reach’a me with that damn umbrella, I can promise ya I’m gonna take it an’ shove it right up yer pasty white keister! You listenin’ ta me ya gum-flappin’ little idjit? This thing with me’n Colossus ain’t about no titles, it ain’t about no sportsmanship, and it sure as the day is long ain’t about no Walt the Weasel!
So do yerself a favor…
Stay outta my way.
The words linger heavily in the night air. A battalion of crickets and frogs scream in the darkness and King Kong Frank smiles.
An’ that brings me to our ringside enforcer.
Me an’ you got business, boy, an’ we gon’ have us a little come to Jesus meetin’ sooner than later. But now ain’t the time, an’ if’n you get in my way at SLAM-A-THON yer gonna get yerself a heapin’ helpin’ of the same ass-whippin that I got fer Lord Colossus!
Keep yer nose clean, Gordy, or else!
“When the lambs is lost in the mountain, he said. They is cry. Sometime come the mother. Sometime the wolf.”
-Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian