The Flying KD

You were a wrestler, Carl?

Yeah, Toast. It was back in the day on the local circuit. We’d have matches outside of bowling alleys and Wal-Marts. My name was The Flying KD.

What did the KD stand for?

When I got the phone call to join up, I was making lunch and I kinda panicked.

We’ve reviewed your application and we’d like to give you a shot in the ring. What’s your moniker?

You mean my wrestling name? Ugh… I’m… I’m…

…The Flying KD!

I was the only wrestler that smoked. It was my signature. During the matches I’d be smoking the whole way through.

I even tucked my pack into my t-shirt sleeve, but I cut off the front and back to show off my body. My costume was tight!

I was a heel, a bad guy wrestler. I’d insult whatever town we were in and then get “beat up” for ten minutes. It was kicks.

Whoa… a bad guy!

I am The Flying KD. I hate you, city of Orangeburg. And its neighbouring towns.

Boo!

Hiss!

That’s where I live!

I’m from a neighbouring town!

Ew look at his bacne!

I like his bandana but I hate his words!

Did a lady come to the ring with you in her underwear?

How can I put this? Really hot women are not so interested in being seen at a wrestling match next to a gas station.

But I used to bring a fuzzy little caterpillar to the ring in a Mason jar as my mascot. I even had a little cigarette for her too. That was about as sexy as it got.

Smooch!

Between you and me, I was a terrible athlete but a solid wrestler. I’d do it all: moon the crowd, take a dropkick, get slammed through a table.

I took more chairs to the head than a bouncer in a biker bar. I’d always load up on smokes before I got hit, so it would look extra sweet when I got creamed.