He wasn’t really a king, not even close to royalty really, but he liked the sound of it and what it represented if someone else was hailing him as such. We didn’t announce it willingly, it was forced on us via torture if need be. How the title of royalty came to be was a transformation of sorts, evolution if you will. It started as standard communication, just the bare basics of a traditional surrender.
With my body parts in the right unforgiving position, another, usually my oldest brother, would ask, “You give?” Depending on the day and the amount of pain I’d be enduring, I’d calculate the possibilities of an escape or of the potential pain and possible bone break and I’d answer in a variety of ways.
“No!” was an option, usually short lived, and after more pressure was applied the dreaded words of defeat uttered with regret, “I give…” filled the air and brought about peace… physically anyway.
“I give” morphed into, “Uncle”, which for some reason seemed even more mocking than “I give”, but that didn’t hold a candle to the term my big brother cleverly devised eventually. The new form of admitting defeat took an admirable surrender to a more humiliating level, one that implied a depth below an honorable soldier to one of peasant status.
I muttered the dire words, “King Dean” to my oldest brother more times that I cared to or can even recollect.
With enough years and defeats things began to change ever so slowly. I got bigger and stronger, but more importantly I became more determined not to give in, to surrender my pride any longer. And while I was getting harder, my big brother was getting softer, not physically, but mentally, at least with his little brother.
A grueling battle and much of his furniture in his little apartments destroyed in the process, and on way more than one occasion, it would come down to me being pinned, choked, joint locked, or in some type of pain and compromising position while my big brother commanded me, “Say it!”
I’d said “King Dean” so often in life up to that point that I decided I didn’t want to utter the humble words ever again. I was prepared to let him break whatever he had in his clutch. He squeezed harder. I gritted my teeth, bracing against the pain and the worst of it as he yelled even louder, “Say it!!!”
“Never!” I hollered back with conviction.
Dean didn’t really want to hurt me and he’d eventually let me up, usually mumbling about me being extra stupid. I on the other hand wasn’t quite so forgiving after a childhood of humility. When I got the rare opportunity to have my big brother in a compromising position, I showed him zero mercy, insisting on the title of royalty post haste.
“Say it! – King Floyd! Say it!” I commanded my subject. He’d try to hold out, but my compassion and mercy were no where to be found, only my pride was present, and if I didn’t hear my royal title in short order… it was bone breaking time…
Most of us though older still desire a title, respect, or recognition, and we’ll go to extremes to get it.
Pride is like a cancer being fed sugar; the more it gets the more it devours… and like a young and dumb kid, it doesn’t care who it hurts…
Trying to fulfill a soul from the outside in this world is kinda like trying to drown a fish…