What must a man obtain to be crowned a king?
Land? Subjects? Power?
Or does one simply need a crown upon his head and a title on his name?
Deathrow is in dire need of a new ruler, someone worthy to bear the weight of a blood covered crown. The man who wears the title shall be the one not just willing to fight for it, but willing to kill for the prestige.
Every last subject locked within this damned court has claim to the crown.
To capture the rusted symbol you must bring your blade to the throat of every last contender. Blood must be shed, veins ran dry, bodies run cold.
One by one as the peasants drop the man who claims the crown gets closer and closer to his victory. Through guts and brain matter splattering the concrete he’ll solidify his place upon an iron throne.
But as he turns around to take his seat and face his court, he shall be greeted not by the adoring faces of his public.
Nor the prostrating peasants he wished to rule.
But by nothing.
His kingdom ran astray by reckless greed and twisted ambition. Everyone wants the crown, and as such, no one will be left once you claim it.
You may scream, holler, and beg for someone to witness you upon your damned throne, but in the end only you shall remain in a courtroom stained by blood and echoing with your fruitless cries for salvation.
The climb to the throne is costly, the loneliness is unbearable. You are a single something in a sea of nothing.
But that is where I come in.
Where I thrive.
I am the life sitting in death, the twinge of death tainting life. The gray that bridges the divide.
There is only one way this toil for the crown can end and it is as I’ve said. One must be saddled with the shackles of existence while the rest slumber together eternally.
And that someone shall be me.
Because in my malice towards the rest of my peasants locked behind these iron bars is a glowing gem of kindness. Every blow to your skulls and blade to your skin isn’t because I wish to cause you harm in pursuit of the throne.
But because I must cause you harm in order to save you from the terrible fate of the crown.
In my kindness of saving you is the malice of my brutality to do what I must.
At the end of the night, there shall be only one man left standing.
Seven freshly dug graves at the foot of a lonesome, ashen throne.
And upon that throne shall sit a lifeless, deathless, king to watch over an empty land, the bit of something infesting a barren court.
The forever paradox.
The King of Nothing.
Nothing is black and white.
And as the crown touches my head, everything shall be gray.