The Carpenters Creation

Edward Newton

Edward Newton stands in the middle of a graveyard, looking down across a row of graves. It’s the middle of the night and he’s stood with his Showcase Championship; a belt he managed to retain last week on Monday Night Showcase.

Happiness can only exist in acceptance.”

He muses.

“There was once a carpenter of great ability and skill. He would spend his days making something he had no need of. One day, during great depth of thought, he considered this. He who makes it, has no need of it. He who buys it, has no use for it. They don’t want it, they don’t care for it, and they would definitely wish they never had it. Those who have it, can neither see nor feel it and once it has been created, it serves only the purpose of decay and decomposition. It is over time, lost to the world, rarely if ever seen again – yet it exists within our realm all the same. Riddle me this, Mr. Van Chan, what does the carpenter make?

Edward begins walking through the cemetery, cautiously taking note of the graves that surround him.

“You see, every person handles the knowledge of their demise differently. Some will weep, some will pray, some will go through stages of grief until they finally accept their ultimate fate. The fact is, Mr. Van Chan, death is inevitable and comes for us all. It is illogical to fight it. Our bodies are ticking time bombs, awaiting the final countdown to implosion and we are but mere vessels, housing such an impact. It doesn’t matter how much you scratch and claw at the surface of your soul, there’s no beating the clock. There’s no defusing the bomb. You can deny the existence of your own mortality, and you can be resolute and defiant in your stance to oppose it, but when the Grim Reaper places his scythe on your neck, you will lose your head.”

He smiles ominously.

“You should count yourself fortunate, Mr. Van Chan. You had been been gifted the ability to see the ticking hands on your clock. You had been given the opportunity to slow down those hands, or increase their speed. Every single time you stepped between those ropes, you made a conscious decision to fast forward that clock. Every second, every minute, every hour of your remaining time is dictated by your own judgement – as poor as it appears to be, it is you that purposefully leaks time hand over fist until there’s nothing left. We each have a clock that steadily ticks away, some faster than others, some made that way by men too illogical to understand when they must stop.”

Edward rubs his hands together.

“I can’t see your clock. I don’t know when that final tick or tock might occur – though I tried to show it to you. But I do know that every time you step into the ring with me, it could be your last. Have I not shown you this? Every violent manoeuvre you take, it could be the final moment, or your final breath; especially if at my hand. So Mr. Van Chan, what do you have no use of, can neither see nor feel and definitely do not want? A coffin. And if you step into the ring with me this Monday Night, I’m afraid that despite what you want, or don’t want, you may very well require one.”

“Riddle me this, riddle me that, Mr. Van Chan.”

The Riddler walks away with a smile on his face, leaving the graveyard behind as the scene fades to black.