JACK NOMAD versus LUKE KNUX

"I'm no rock and roll rebel," I say to the camera behind me. I give the world a view of my vest, the word 'hardcore' printed upon it in bold metallic silver letters against the blood red leather. I sport a sleeveless black shirt, old ratty blue jeans, and a fresh pair of black boots. My black hair is wet and slicked back, my beard trimmed for once in it's life. Yeah, I'm in actual disbelief that for once in my fucking life, I look fairly respectable, at least from the neck up. Slowly I turn to face that little black camera, the live red light telling me that it was doing it's one and only job in life. The dust in the air is thick and weighty, the particles traveling through the beams of light that shined through the piss poor roof above me. This ruin of a shack was not suitable for living, but for the purposes of this video, it more than does it's job.

"Well, Fuck Knux, I got to know you and now it's time for you to get to know me."

I stroll through the room, the camera a bit on the newer side and tracking my movement. I have a little tech wiz for a close friend and while I sure as fuck wouldn't know how to set it up, she certainly did. You couldn't even hear it move. The layout of the place is quickly ascertained as it seems to be one room with a wrecked bed in one corner, several black painted over windows, and an old toilet on the opposite corner. There is a newer black steel chair that I placed there. I lean my hands upon the back of it with a smirk on my face. Yeah, time to get to know who you're fucking with, Rock-a-Billy.

"So a degenerate rocker is going to preach that he knows the kind of freak he's up against. You and everyone else I've ever faced, fucko. Everybody walks in front of the camera and gives a big fucking speech about how transparent I am and I gotta' ask you a question... Motherfucker I've never even let you suck my dick, let alone ever met you in my entire life. Where do you get off claiming to know everything about me on a first glance?"

Stupid fucks like Luke Knux always piss me off right out the gate. Always thinking they have the answers to questions they haven't even really asked. A walking toolshed with a stupid fucking hat.

"I'm going to tell you the same thing I tell every dumb fucker who makes the same mistake you just did. You don't know me because if you did, you'd tell the owners of this fine establishment to go fuck themselves and run the fuck away. You see, Fuck Knux, I'm sick. No sick is too weak... deranged? No... that's not good enough either. Disturbed perhaps? Close. No, what I am defies definition and comprehension."

I snicker and reach into my pocket. Producing a cheap cigarette and an equally cheap bic lighter, I place the death stick between my lips. After a few flicks of the lighter, I have the end of the cigarette smoldering. I give it a few quick puffs to get the flame going and then put the lighter away in my pocket.

"Only one person can say she knows me in any way, shape, or form, and to be honest, she still has questions even after being with me this long."

No one turns me on like my little Pixie, but this isn't a talk about her, sadly. No, I have to put this little rock-a-billy bitch in his place. Does guy liner streak? Usually I bleed motherfuckers well before they start crying. Oh well, enough idle wondering, back to the business at hand.

"So Fuck Knux, you're going to get a crash course on who the fuck you're dealing with on the 14th. One thing you brought up that put a smile on my face is that you threw up all your piss ant achievements here in my Personal Amusement Wrestling company. You're nervous, boy. A confident man doesn't whip out his achievements and wave 'em around like a big dick with a flag attached to it. You'd instead take stock of what you're up against, acknowledge who I am like I'm somebody rather than some piece of shit you have to scrape off your boot."

I step around the chair and take a seat. I lean forward, elbows on my spread apart knees as I lock my fingers together. I chuckle a bit and tilt my head, saying with my eyes 'what the fuck man?' Taking a drag from the cigarette, I slowly let the smoke billow from my lips into a thick cloud that briefly runs like liquid up my face until I blow a little left over puff out my nose to break it up.

"I've won championships I never wanted, beaten people I had no business being in the ring with, set fires, burned and broken all kinds of shit from bodies to rules, and left scars both physical and mental on every motherfucker I've ever faced. My stripes, though uncounted, are earned in buckets of blood. I don't need gold to feel like a man, but the fact that you're crying about it in your sugary little lover letter tells me so much about you, Fuck Knux."

Oh how I enjoy my new little name for Luke Knux. Maybe it'll become a permanent thing. Fuck Knux! I always wanted to name somebody and it just rolls so well off my tongue.

"You're already looking past me and telling me how little you think of this motherfucker who waits oh so patiently to fucking destroy you in that wrestling ring. I got a little suggestion for you. How's about growing up, opening your eyes, and taking in the fact that you got a disaster coming in two days. The first step to survival is recognizing the threat for what it is. Don't be a false little bitch pretending I'm nothing, because that's how self proclaimed greatness gets pronounced dead."

Pulling the cigarette from my lips and pushing another stream of cancerous fog from between my lips, I flick the ashes from my cigarette with a wry smirk.

"I can talk trash all day about you, but that's easy like pistol whipping a blind kid or fucking a limbless bitch by throwing her into the ocean. I could call you a joke with your stupid ass hat and guyliner, but you've probably heard those insults as much as I hear people talk about me like they fucking know me. The bottom line is this; I'm the wakeup call you've been waiting for, Fuck Knux. You see the proud and the cocky need to be kept in check and your ego is already starting to stretch your cute head gear."

Stretch? More like exploding that shit. I put the cigarette out on my bare hand. It burns, but do I look like someone who gives a fuck about a little pain? With a flick of my thumb, the butt goes flying to my right.

"Luke, in all seriousness, you live the superficial life of a rockstar; a life of self delusion, substance abuse, and trying to catch as many STDs as you can. Me on the other hand? The guy you get in the ring is the guy you get on the street. I'll beat the fuck out of you in an alley just as I would in a wrestling ring and you're about to learn that on April 14th, on Wicked number eight. Drink, snort, fuck, and sing as much and as loud as you can because in two days, I change your life forever, Fuck Knux."

Well that went on long enough. I rise from my seat and walk up to that camera, which looks up at me. The view finder on the side shows me it's dramatic point of view, me looking like a massive giant standing over it with streaks of light painting lit lines across from my face. I shoot my twisted smile and tap the off button.

Luke "Fuck" Knux... Gathering the camera in one arm, I chuckle as I leave the little shack behind me....