Slapping an Angel in the Face with Mr. Stag
We brought you the photos, now we bring you the story. Here's the tall tale that helped Charlie "Mr. Stag" McMahon win his title of distinction. It's almost like playing a game of how many ridiculous literary devices you can fit into 600 words...
So I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking, “Hey, I recognize this guy!” Well I can tell you why, the reason you recognize me it because I was right here in this exact spot just 2 short years ago. Of course, back then I was 9 feet tall, just inches shorter than Aleksis Psychas—young and naïve, carefree yet eager to learn. I was like a young fawn following my doe mother closely, unaware of the hunter stationed just a few paces away, ready to make his move. Back then, the Mr. Stag contest was meant to represent a wholesome competition of sportsmen. Yet, this pipedream was shattered as the event turned out to be wrought with coldhearted corruption. I literally witnessed Britney Ruiz, the MC in 2007, torture and kill a contestant because he needed to take a bathroom break during rehearsal. Well, I'll tell you something folks, Satan was in the house that awful night 2 years ago and he voted for Ramon Torres 61 times.
In the following months, I fell into a deep depression, I shrunk to my current height of 6 ft 6 inches and I began to hang out with Pomona kids. I changed my name a number of times, searching for identity. It was a dark time in my life that Id rather not speak of, I even gave up drinking for a short while—though I picked up a healthy heroin habit to take the edge off. Fast forward 2 years, a couple weeks ago, I was in my room offering my nightly townie sacrifice to the gods of CMC, when something happened… It was just as I was removing the townie’s horns and wings that my phone started to ring with my new Akon ring tone. I almost missed the call because cutting off an Akon song is like slapping an angel in the face.
“Hello” I said. “Hello, is this Charlie?” the voice inquired. I said, “I go by Keith now.”
The voice proceeded to explain to me that on April 17, 2009 there would be a competition the likes of which had never been seen. It was going to be sexual and violent. It was Mr. Stag, but this time it would run smoothly. I was giddy as a school girl and wet myself in excitement. That was nothing new as peeing myself had become pretty standard. So, I called Alex Caldwell to carpool to the event because he always has the freshest hookers in his trunk. On the way over he tried to kiss me at least 8 times, and confided in me about his struggles setting up a club at CMC for registered sex offenders.
Despite the uncomfortable topic of discussion, I was excited about the contest to come. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I was ready to make this contest my bitch. If Mr. Stag was a freshman girl walking home alone, I would be Austin Soldner attacking quickly and leaving no evidence behind. Or the same situation with Alex Caldwell and a freshman guy. Suddenly, I saw that a hospital was on fire, and I said “Hey Alex, stop the car—we need to save all these people!” In perfect firefighter form, I cleared out every patient in the building. As I was clearing out the infant ward, one of the babies looked up at me and said “Mr. Stag.” I asked the nurses about this baby later, but they had no records of him—there wasn’t even an infant ward at the hospital! Of course it turned out that the hospital wasn’t on fire and I had just evacuated the entire building—but that’s a sign.