The Mighty King of Avondale

By Zach Pegg
(Based on a short film by Neal Werle)

















In my head, the calm green of the grass washed over the sounds of nearby excitement.
Homecoming week was the first thought that occurred to me, but I didnt really bother to entertain
other possibilities. My time came and went, and it was wasted.
The cool air penetrated the dried mud and alcohol stains on my coat and pervaded my skin. My
head bumped the tree I leaned against as I took another swig from my brown paper bag. I guess this
pissed off the squirrels above me, so I stumbled away. I forgot that the tree was a home, and those
dont seem to care for me too much. I dragged my feet from the grass onto the pavement and shuffled
along. Cold alcohol dripped from my beard and dampened the dirt in it as I absentmindedly took
another swig. The booze smelled as bitter as it tasted. When I raised my vision from the cracked
pavement under my feet, that old statue caught my eye. She wanted to play keep-away with that
treasure chest of hers again. I think they call her Beneficence. What a joke.
The only thing that raised more hell in my ears than the roaring engines on the street were the
shouts of the drunken students as they whizzed past me. I wandered down the various sidewalks,
allowing my feet to turn on their own whim; they had nowhere to go and a lifetime to get there.
Eventually, I wound up in an alley downtown and decided to room with the rats for the night. They
wouldnt have me long, but a rest is a rest. I was lucky to have found such a thick hat and coat. The
ground was cold, but sleep managed to find me. My mind faded into a numb throb as I felt a tiny nose
against my fingertip.


I scratched my clean-shaven face as I stared at the clouds taking so many different shapes. The
neon grass beneath me was comfortable, and the breeze in the sun-drenched meadow washed over me
like cool water as blue as the sky above. A beautiful day to be sure.
A particularly dark cloud started twisting and forming in front of my eyes. I swear I could see
thunder in it. But just enough to light up those eyes. Those frightening eyes that tear into me as soon as
I recognize them. Mom? Dad? I ask aloud. Thunder claps an absolute and unquestionable yes as the
scent of petrichor floods my nostrils. The eyes of the two people separate cleanly and stare down at me
expectantly and judgmentally. I see the landscape start to bobble up and down as my legs pick me up
and start running away without my permission. The entire meadow becomes brown and gray, growing
progressively darker as I run toward a house I recognize.

The door slammed shut behind me as air came crashing in and out of my lungs like waves on the
coast of a stormy sea. I could hear their voices in my head. Screaming, crying, begging, apologizing,
tearing, scratching. My head swam as I shuddered and tried to bring myself back to reality. Singing
caught my ear. A familiar voice rang from the back of Travis house. I followed my ears to a large
television which displayed an older version of myself crooning on a large stage. I could see pride and
pure, unadulterated joy in my wide eyes. Primal happiness radiated from me, despite the dark mood of
the song I was performing. A head-shot from the camera had me staring at myself. I could see my eyes
no, my entire face distorted in anguish. I saw myself pointing over my shoulder. I looked behind me and
my heart sank deeper into the pits of my stomach as I recognized Travis with his arms wrapped tightly
around Vanessa. I fell to my knees, watching helplessly as their lips fused together. Oblivious to my
presence, they betrayed me. The only sounds I could hear were my own singing voice belting, What did
I do to deserve this?
The ground starts falling beneath me and everything is stretched tall before disconnecting from
my plane of existence, leaving me in a descending darkness. Lights start flashing by me, blurred by the
hot, stinging tears in my eyes that drip into my mouth. They taste salty. The burn of some kind of heavy
alcohol is still present in my throat as my foot presses a pedal to the floor and my grip tightens around
the wheel that guides me through the darkness. A light in the distance becomes brighter and brighter as
I approach. Am I finally close to the end of the tunnel? No, thats the large truck that crushes my puny
little Pontiac. Apart from the searing, crushing pain that reminds me this old hunk of junk does have
airbags, all I can really feel is a spear of metal opening a large whole in my neck. My vision blurs as the
lights of the truck illuminate a scalpel and a distorted, unrecognizable human face behind some kind of
surgical mask. Now that my annoying voice is silent forever, I can hear a doctor say the words. I dont
remember what words specifically, but it had something to do with the fact that I cant recite them to
you now. Either way, those doctors are far behind me now. Ever since they released me, Ive been
walking. Walking with nowhere to go and everywhere Ive been behind me.


A burning sting crashes into my finger as I feel warm blood pour from it. Damn rats. I pull myself
up and stumble out of the alley. The brown paper bag still gripped tight in my hand, I take a swig of the
cold drink, catching a whiff of the copper-like scent of my blood, and let it warm my throat. Some
weekend partygoers come into view as I find a trash can. Avoiding them as much as Im sure they want
to avoid me, I rummage through it. But theres not much there. I slump down and lean against cold
metal to take another drink. Looking across the street, I can see a gym closing up for the night. Another
drink slides down my throat, smooth as sandpaper.
Okay, goodnight!
See ya.
I glance over and squint to see a young woman walking out of the gym and down the sidewalk,
eyes on her iPod. She walks with a strong stride, her head high and steady. Confidence, independence,
and pride radiate more brightly than the street lights above us. She turns sharply and suddenly at a
nearby intersection, waiting for the green light. Her eyes are dark and strong like coffee. Theyre also
cold like coffee, and theyre focused directly on mine.
She carries herself through the crosswalk, coming onto my sidewalk and stopping in her tracks.
Her eyes meet mine again. This time, they sting like a rat bite. Shes being clear this time. Stay the fuck
away from me, her eyes say. Her chin is up, and my eyes fall to the pavement. When I look back up,
shes gone. For the first time in a while, I have a bad feeling. Something inexplicable, but it draws me. I
pull myself up and take a drink as I tread quietly after her. Theres a parking garage around the corner.
Questioning why Im following her, I slow down. Each step becomes more quiet and deliberate than the
last as I grip my bottle tighter.
A scream rips through the air, stopping my heart.
I sprint into the garage and see a man in a dark sweatshirt straddling her. She lies on the ground,
putting forth little resistance as a bruise forms on her jaw. My mind swims. I cant really think. I cant
feel the paper bag in my hand or the pavement slamming into my soles. I just see the pair growing closer
and closer. I just feel the swing of my arm like Thors hammer.

My arm is shaking and my eyes are wide. My legs are trembling beneath me. The man lies on
the ground in front of them, my bottle trembling above him. Her eyes meet mine tired, confused, and
incoherent. I hear a crash as the bottle slips from my numbing fingers and I sprint away as quickly as
these old legs can carry me.
The cold air rushes against my face as I shuffle down a dark street several blocks away. The
panic has distorted my sense of time, so I cant quite tell how long Ive been running. My eyes downcast
and my head downturned, I focus on my breaths. Theyre all I can see very clearly.
Hey!
I thoughtlessly slow to a halt as a car parks on the roadside in front of me. She gets out of her
car and jogs toward me, stopping several yards ahead. Her eyes are dark and cold like coffee, and her
breathing is synchronized with mine. Her face is bruised.

She comes and sits next to me, handing me a warm cup. I forgot coffee is supposed to be hot. I
dont hesitate to take a drink, though, nodding my thanks to her. She blows softly on her drink. Maybe
shes not so bad.
Careful not to spill my cup, I set it down and fish in my pocket for my pen and paper. I scrawl
heavily, hoping theres still ink to form my words for me.
Are you okay? it reads in barely legible scribbles.
She looks at it and meets my gaze. Her eyes seem darker now, blunt and piercing as the strong
scent of the coffee in her hands.
No.
I place slide my pen and paper back in my pocket and look down. Her hand rests on her knee. I
hesitate before slowly moving my hand toward hers and gently touching it. My hand rests on hers for a
moment before she takes mine. I feel her eyes on me as I look back to the pavement and focus my mind
on the touch of another human being.




Writers Commentary
One of the most prominent goals I had with this story was developing the homeless mans
character. When I was researching for an acting role, I was very engulfed in the story that I had crafted
for John and felt that his journey was one that deserved to be illustrated with excruciating passion. Most
of the elements used in this story were meant to develop and color his character, including the setting,
the point of view, and the shifts between past and present tense.
One of the strangest aspects to write was the dream sequence. Johns backstory is very
important to who he has become, but it was hard for me to think of a way to portray it without going
novella length at least. I decided a dream sequence would be an interesting way for him to reflect on his
past, as it offered the conveniences of surrealism and optional linearity among other devices. Not only
could I paint a picture of his past, but I could make it chaotic and surreal to drive home just what it had
done psychologically to the character. I could also pump up the pace to move from one event to another
very quickly in a way that would make the deterioration of his life more clear to the reader by allowing
him or her inside the characters tortured mind.
One of the more subtle things that carry weight to Johns character is the title of the work.
Where the original screenplay (Neal Werles See Me) focused on the way we connect with each other,
I wanted this work to more prominently feature the homeless mans character. The title The Mighty
King of Avondale comes from a song, the chorus of which chants Mighty king of Avondale, I just cant
let this go. Real life aint no fairy tale, I just thought you should know. I feel this subtle reference helps
portray to those savvy enough to catch it that John once was like your average teenager; he felt
invincible and like life would work out into a happily ever after kind of deal. Instead, he finds himself
clinging to a college town with nothing but a bottle of booze and his bitter outlook caused by years of
trying to numb seemingly insurmountable pain.