“He is the Man,” crowed the Chorus
With the fervent evangelism of a street preacher
Thumping a bible to their chests.
“Recognize his talent.
Recognize his prowess.
Crown him Champion of the World!”
They sneer at the Mainstream
Who fall in love with those who possess
For what do they know?
Those inbred hicks who watch reality shows
Or children clamoring for action figures
Or women swooning at the glistening musculature
What do they know?
Do they not see talent?
They are a phantom boosters
Cloaked in anonymity
Tongues loosed beyond civility
They champion a man who has little charisma
But simmers with the brilliant skills
Of mastering deadly moves pantomimed
For a show where men pretend to fight.
He is the Canadian Crippler.
He was a man who once wore The Belt.
Once he was destined for the Hall of Fame.
Short and compact
Square-jawed, thick necked,
And a signature threat
Where he sliced his thumb across his neck
While a grimace spread across
His crooked smile.
There was the clue, perhaps.
Perhaps too adept he was at a skill
Derived from moves meant to kill.
An elbow bent over the neck
To (pretend) crush the larynx.
A headbutt off the top rope
To (pretend) give his opponent a concussion.
The distance from (pretend) to (reality)
Would be far too short a distance.
The two he would destroy on a sad weekend
Would have far too short lives.
Three buried total.
One woman, bound and strangled.
One child, drugged.
And the Crippler, suicide by weight machine.
But before he died
he placed small bibles
Atop their now still corpses.
The man who was hero to those
Who heaped praises on every message board
Having to do with sports entertainment
Were silenced as they realized
Was the devil
And they’d convinced hundreds and thousands
To worship him.