GREAT MOMENTS OF TRUE KOREAN CHARITY

August 12th, 1950 – Empathetic Noble North Korean Troops train and implement the first ever team of Therapy Dogs to Comfort Terrified Inferior South Korean Prisoners



“Be not afraid of these animals, disgusting inferior False Koreans. They are trained to provide comfort and love to ‘people’. It will take time for them to identify your genetically-troublesome rabble as such, as they must overlook your inherent lower status. As creatures with greater senses, they can easily detect your South Korean blood and as such, barely see you as human. More likely they see you as inanimate objects, ghosts or at best, the disabled. Which is why, based on their training as military dogs, they may try to murder you.”

South Koreans in unison: “WE UNDERSTAND THESE CONFUSIONS, AS THESE DOGS ARE CLEARLY CLEVERER CREATURES THAN WE COULD EVER ASPIRE TO BE. WE WHOLEHEARTEDLY EMBRACE THIS PUREST OF KINDNESSES FROM THE GLORIOUS TRUE KOREAN ARMY AND ITS CANINE COMPANIONS.”

“Honorable Commander! This charity goes too far. While your intentions, (and by extension the intentions of the North Korean people), are the purest, the risk is far too great! What if our captives give into their savage False Korean ways and begin eating our therapy dogs?”

“For the sake of ensuring the ongoing mental and physical health of our captives, we must be willing to make every sacrifice. Even our beloved compassionate pets.”

“You are truly the greatest hero I have ever known.”

“No. True Korea is the greatest hero any of us will ever know.”

“This is the truth.”

Frontmost Dog: “Glory to True Korea!”

*************************************************************
The metal bar of a push door compresses inward. A blur whirs by it.

The heels of military boots clack, rushing eagerly down the hall against the tile floor. The empty palace is painted with the finest gold coloring, walls adorned with dusty askew murals depicting war-time atrocities committed by True Koreans and necessary acts conducted by an American army trying to bring an end to war as quickly and humanely as possible.

Wait. Strike that. Reverse it.

The boots, were they capable of committing an undignified act, might be described most closely as jogging, rushing eagerly down an empty, echoing hallway. Juking joyfully down the glorious unpopulated military compound with jittery delight.

After only a small number of miscalculations in path, the traveler comes to a halt. Neon light shines down his face. Above a door, a bright red sign reading ‘TOP SECRET INTERROGATION ROOM’

Under that sign, in slightly smaller, still bright red lettering is ‘SHHHHHHHHH!’.

The walker is petrified and thrilled simultaneously, his hands nervously brush dust remnants off one of the hundreds of medals occupying space on his chest, then move to straighten the tassels dangling off of his shoulders. He adjusts the ceremonial sword resting at his waist.

Deep breath in. Smile. Deep breath out.

“Don’t be nervous. He’s just as afraid of you as you are of him.”

He nods confidently at his own words. And in a flash, he bursts through the door of the interrogation room.

Even the act of a door opening at this point startles Steve Sayors back into a blubbering mess, head down on the cold metal table.

The trusty North Korean guard behind this weeping shell of a man lifts Sayors’ by his right shoulder and slams his back against the chair. The guard picks into his chest pocket and retrieves a small handkerchief. He kneels down and thumbs Sayors’ tears away, ignoring Sayors’ cries of discomfort.

Sayors is terrified but not visibly weeping. The perfect state to conduct an interview. The guard then rises, back straight and salutes.

“Commander!”

From the door way, NKWC returns the salute. Sayors would salute to appease his captors, were his arms not currently tied.

The salute ends and NKWC quickly darts into the chair opposite XWF Senior Correspondent Steve Sayors, who is still tied to his chair, arms behind his back.

NKWC eagerly, excitedly extends a hand across the table.

“Senior XWF Correspondent Steve Sayors, I presume?”

…

They sit for a few moments. Still. Sayors looks at the hand, helpless and confused.

NKWC’s smile evaporates, first in confusion, then in frustration. Why has his flawlessly executed American custom of ‘Handshakes’ has not been returned?

He followed each manual’s instructions to perfection. He read, nay SCOURED over entire theses dedicated to the art and execution of the American handshake. This is the single greatest handshake technique any man has ever attempted in the history of casual greetings! Every facet of the motion was without fault!

Wrist angled slightly from hand to forearm at 172 degrees of curvature! Fingers spaced exactly 0.234 centimeters apart in a manner that is inviting one to join the handshake while identifying the grave nature of the task at hand!!! FINGERS SLIGHTLY TILTED TOWARD THE INTENDED HANDSHAKE RECIPIENT TO RENDER OBVIOUS THE INTENDED TARGET OF HIS GESTU-

A cough breaks the silence.

“Commander.”

NKWC darts his rapidly-building manic fury to his guard, who shifts his eyes over to the ropes binding Sayors’ arms. NKWC’s eyes follow his gaze impatiently and then stop at the ropes.

A moment to resolve this logical puzzle.

…

NKWC eyes’ twist suspicious, connecting fragments of this conundrum. Eyes accusing of unspeakable evils the bindings, then his guard. Back to the bindings. Back to the guard. To Sayors. Then his own hand.

And…

There we go, the smile returns.

Immediately, NKWC retracts the hand, smoothly brushing it through his hair as if planned all along.

“Down low, TOO SLOW, eh, Steve Sayors?”

“…What?”

“Kato!”

The guard salutes, acknowledging the calling of his name. At this point, just a loud exclamation starts another batch of tears welling in Steve Sayors’ eyes.

“Have our most talented chef serve us my favorite meal.”

A beat of silence.

“Our most talented chef, Commander?”

“Only the most talented chef at the compound.”

The guard’s brow furrows in confusion. Then, enlightenment… Followed by exasperation. And acceptance.

“…Would your guest like them sunny side up or scram-?”

“HE SHALL HAVE THEM AS I HAVE THEM, KATO.”

Sayors screams like a young girl. Visibly shaking, turning from one to the other in panic. NKWC eyes his trusted confederate Kato before returning his gaze to Sayors with a friendly grin.

“Please, do not scream in protest that you are being treated too formally and with too much kindness, Steve Sayors. I acknowledge that fact. But I insist guests invited to my compound receive the same unmatched level of pampering my people see fit to bestow upon me on a daily basis.”

Kato sighs, before closing his thumb and index finger back into his chest pocket. From there, he manages to retrieve a thin chef’s apron, which he gingerly slides onto his neck and over his military uniform.

“Two orders of eggs baked into smiley face shapes. A moment, Commander. ‘Your most talented chef’ shall be notified of your desires momentarily.”

NKWC nods, quite pleased. Kato strides gracefully out the door. Leaving the two alone.

Cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal, NKWC glides his fingertips onto the table, before resting his palm on its surface.

“So. How do your American XWF interviews usually start?”

Sayors blinks rapidly, eyes darting onto the table, mentally repeating this question over and over again in his head as if certain he would be killed before it ever came to his point.

Finally, eureka! Sayors, in a flash, thrusts his chest forward against the ropes. A tiny black box slips out of his front pocket. It slides to the center before resting at an equidistant point between the table mates.

His trusty tape recorder. This old thing has been the only source of comfort for as long as he’s worked at the XWF. His charm, nay his sacred totem. After every physical assault, kidnapping attempt or sexual harassment that occurs on the job interviewing these insane XWF superstars, just holding this tape recorder in his hands… makes him feel a undying warmth in his heart. His father, famous investigation reporter Cleve Sayors, gave it to him before he set out to obtain a Bachelor’s in Journalism at the University of Some St…

A polite cough.

Sayors’ eyes dart up at his captor, curiously gazing on his beloved family heirloom.

“Um… would you hit that red button on the side, please.”

“And then it begins?”

Sayors swallow dry, terrified…

“Then it begins.”

*************************************************************
An empty auditorium. Blue folding chairs compressed side-to-side, no elbow room between them. Inviting any and all. Seats for everyone.

And yet, barren.

In front of this non-audience, is NKWC. Standing behind a podium. Puzzled… and disappointed.

“…Quiet around here.”

“I mean, I’m not going crazy right? There’s a match this week we’re promoting?”

“Hence… ‘promos’?”

“An X-Treme Flag Match? Where I, the existing NorthKoreanWarCriminalweight champion, take on a currently undefeated XWF superstar and the #1 contender for the XWF Universal Championship.”

“In a match signed as a battle between the US or North Korea?”

“I… I guess I was expecting a fight? A kerfuffle? At the very least a light tussling.”

“At this point, I’d take a scuffle. I’d ask for a single clash but I don’t want to come off as greedy here.”

“Expecting A GOD DAMN FIGHT when I signed onto a WRESTLING COMPANY.”

“I expected Peter Gilmour to pull out A stop.”

“Not all of the stops, not even MULTIPLE stops. Just… one singular stop.”

“Is no one trying because Maverick is involved? Is the XWF so tired of this half-assing title-belt-shitting-on trash they’re prepared to dismiss a match 75% stars because a match is 25% Maverick?”

“Apologies, maybe I shouldn’t feel like a miracle worker for what I’ve done this week.”

“On the other hand, I’ve got Maverick on my team and we’re the heavy favorites to win.”

“Let that sink in. The betting odds are on the team with Maverick… WINNING.”

“Do you understand that?”

“Listen to me.”

“MAVERICK IS GOING TO WIN A MATCH.”

“FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THE YEAR 2016.”

“SINCE AUGUST OF LAST YEAR.”

“MAVERICK MIGHT HAVE A SUCCESS TO CITE THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN EIGHT MONTHS AGO!”

“How can anyone claim North Koreans aren’t FUCKING GODS after this supernatural phenomenon?”

“FUCK TURNING WATER INTO WINE. I’M TURNING THE REIGNING SUPERSTAR OF THE MONTH INTO A CHUMP THAT WILL HAVE A LOSS TO FUCKING MAVERICK IN 2016.”

“…”

“But… Is that too impressive? Our opponents haven’t exactly set the world on fire this week.”

“I suppose Gilmour managed to show up, which is his best quality.”

“Fuck Two-Time Superstar of the Month. Peter Gilmour’s ultimate accomplishment, SIX YEARS OF PERFECT ATTENDANCE.”

“But, Filthy American Travis McCoy’s in this match right?”

“He speaks on the mic like the tortured product of child abuse and generations of failure (which he is) and wrestles like a kid that got beat up his whole life by a handi-capable has-been (which he was).”

“But you’d figure he’d… show up? Be present?”

“I guess his grandfather wasn’t. And the only reason his father didn’t walk out is ‘no wheelchair ramp’.”

“But, shit, what’s the likelihood of a loser coming from a family line that only creates losers?”

“Is it wrong to be surprised when an event with 100% chance of happening… happens?”

“Travis.”

“Listen carefully.”

“Cuz I’m calling on you.”

“Want a shot in this match? Hit me.”

“Fuck your partner. He trash talks like he makes macaroni art, clumsily and with a mouthful of Elmer’s Glue.”

“And fuck easy shots on Maverick. Might as well shoot fish in a bucket.”

“No. You want a win?”

“It’s gotta come through me.”

“If you want Team USA to have a chance over Team DPNK.”

“Aim at the target.”

“The one actually representing True Korea.”

“Bring your good shit, Travis. And you better hit hard.”

“Cuz when you swing at me, if I’m still standing? I’m taking your fucking head off.”

“Game over.”

“Glory to True Korea.”

No applause. No cheers.

Just impatient silence.