Hangman and the Seven Kwangs

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Selection of Luchador Masks

Originally written on the 1st June 2004,  this tale is a warning of what can happen if you lose your way.


Hangman and the Seven Kwangs

One day Hangman, that great and well known gladiator of the Scottish backyard wrestling circuit, was strolling his merry way along to the Violent Impact Wrestling arena (a small unkempt lawn) in the somewhat rundown locale of John Simpson Drive. However, having one’s thoughts filled with reminiscences of past backyard glories and visions of further glories to come is not exactly the best thing to do when walking through seldom travelled streets and very soon Hangman found himself quite lost indeed. He was now deep within a forest. Which really made no sense whatsoever considering that he was just in a metropolitan environment mere seconds ago, complete with winding piss-stained alleyways, mangy cats, toothless housewives dumping wooden buckets of human waste out of upper storey windows and peg-legged winos. Another day in paradise. Hangman had absolutely no idea where he was now.

Our intrepid hero wandered around the forest for around an hour or so getting progressively more tired and bored. He would much rather be powerbombing malnourished jobbers into flaming pits of rusty barbed wire but that wasn’t going to be happening any time soon because he was indeed quite lost, and fantastically so.

Eventually, he happened across a phenomenally rundown old house. It looked like shit. The windows were smashed in, the roof had holes in it and someone had spray painted a huge blue penis on the gable wall. Music blasted out from the house, as a matter of fact it was KC & The Sunshine Band and it was playing at a very loud volume. Hangman, being a connoisseur of disco music decided to investigate further and so he dauntlessly swaggered up to the dilapidated abode and kicked the lichen-clad door off it’s rusted hinges. He had chosen not to knock on account of the door being all rotten and he didn’t feel like touching it.

Inside the disgustingly decrepit house Hangman met seven kwangs. A kwang, for those that do not know, is a humanoid creature that always wears a Mexican luchador mask and says stereotypical Spanish things such as “arriba” and “ándale” a lot. They are usually considered pests. All seven of these loathsome creatures were members of the rare and elusive midget kwang genus, which incidentally is the most amusing species of kwang. They were Mexican but spoke a small degree of broken English so they could understand clearly when Hangman called them all a “bunch of worthless asshole kwangmen”. The Kwangs were none too pleased about this home invasion and subsequent verbal abuse but seeing as they were only three feet tall and Hangman was much bigger and stronger than them, they didn’t do anything about it. Except cry, in abundance.

Hangman quickly thought of an opportunity, for he was well known for being a genius as well as a superstar in the delightful world of Scottish backyard wrestling. He would live in this ramshackle kwang house and make the poor creatures his slaves. The kwangs were ordered to make Hangman a king-sized waterbed to sleep in and decorate both the interior and exterior of the crumbling building. Within a week, Hangman’s new house looked half decent. It certainly wouldn’t be featured in Good Housekeeping magazine any time soon but it was definitely liveable. It even had a fully operational slushie machine in it now and Hangman had no idea how his enslaved kwangs had managed to make that work considering there was no electricity.

To reward them for their hard work, Hangman gave the kwangs an apple each, which he had secretly laced with discarded razorblades he’d found in the forest. Four of the kwangs died soon thereafter, but the other three kwangs survived. So, after Hangman had forced them to stop writhing around on the floor in agony and mop up all the blood and dispose of their brothers lifeless bodies, he used them to practice wrestling moves on. Hangman’s genius knew no bounds, he certainly did not want to get ring rust after being lost in the woods for all that time.

Several more weeks passed and by now the remaining kwangs were half brain dead after receiving numerous piledrivers out of trees and lynch drivers into the near-by ravine. Hangman was completely and utterly fed up with the smelly midgets by now, their hoots and violent exclamations of “arriba” when he punched or kicked them was beginning to get on his nerves. So, utilising his powerful grey matter once more, he ordered them to build him a snowplough.

“What in the wonderful world of kwang do you want a snowplough for? We’re in the middle of a forest, there’s no snow here!” one of the tiny persecuted kwangs had replied at this latest demand. He’d spoken in Spanish of course, but Hangman had found a Spanish to English dictionary in the forest one day, which was incredibly helpful. He’d used it to translate the kwangs babblings and subsequently smack them in the face with it for being insolent. The insubordinate kwang received a devastating thwack to the jaw for questioning his master.

“Because Kwang No.3, who looks and smells like a curled up dog deuce, I don’t know my way out of here, I’m fed up with this boring forest, I’m fed up with looking at your ugly faces and I’m sick fed up with the smell of those dead kwangs you tried to bury in front of the house. But if I have a snowplough, I can drive around knocking over trees and hopefully find a way out of this forsaken place. Now stop crying and get to work!”

The kwangs worked for thirty solid days and nights making the snowplough. When it was finally finished, Hangman drove it over the kwangs instantly killing two of them.

“That was completely uncalled for! Why would you do such a thing? What is wrong with you, oh great stranger from beyond the pines?” the last living kwang screamed.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, you horrible little creep. You’re coming with me!” shot back Hangman and snatched up the terrified creature by the scruff of his neck and stuffed him into the glove box of the snowplough before driving off at full speed, annihilating hundreds of trees and woodland creatures in the process.

It only took around half an hour of mindless sawdust production and habitat destruction until Hangman eventually made it back to town. “Well that was easy,” said Hangman to himself as he brushed a dead owl off the windshield with the window wipers. He drove the near-wrecked vehicle right up to the Violent Impact Wrestling arena in John Simpson Drive and luckily enough for Hangman it was a Sunday afternoon, which meant that the weekly wrestling event was on. Hangman exited his snowplough, pulled the shaking kwang out of the glove box and threw him onto the wrestling mat (a urine soaked mattress of questionable origin).

Taking possession of an unplugged microphone obtained from a pound shop, Hangman addressed the assembled crowd. He first apologised for his severe lateness, then retracted his apology after realising he wasn’t actually sorry at all and finally ordered that a special attraction match take place. The match would be the refugee forest kwang versus Tartarus Maximus, a hulking 600lbs behemoth with violent tendencies and mild learning disabilities. It would be a Squish the Kwang match and it would be taking place right now.

Amazingly, Tartarus won. So did the fans in attendance and so did the seagulls who got a free meal after the scrapings were peeled from the mattress and the bucket was tossed out into the street.

And so our wonderful tale ends. Hangman was responsible for the untimely deaths of seven kwangs, he made it to the wrestling show eight weeks late but got a free snowplough out of it which he later sold on eBay and bought an Xbox with the proceeds.

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