The old man hobbled onto the riverbank, shivering in the midnight chill. He wrapped the wool blanket closer to his frail body, squeezed the basket in his hand tighter. He rocked the basket back and forth to soothe the baby that lay inside it. A tear dripped down his face.
Remember, it was a sign from the gods. It was a sign that the baby would grow up to be a selfish, arrogant jerk, unless disposed of. A selfish arrogant jerk was not fit to govern an island.
The old man, referred to by all denizens of his Durango Island as King Manory, kneeled beside the flowing river and released his only heir to the throne. His heart heaved with sorrow, but he prevented the tears from escaping by convincing himself: It is for the good of everyone. He will make a better King this way. Then the old man covered his ears, refusing to hear the heart wrenching sounds of his baby son as he shot down the river and into an unknown future.

7 years later...

Ormsby sneered at the small, antisocial kid in the corner. Evan was his name; Evan Khan. The kid who never talked, only sat by himself, in the corner, and read. The orphanage they belonged to did not possess very many books, however Evan always seemed to have something to read. Ormsby approached the timid, Asian child, armed with a plastic sword and Nerf gun. The other kids in the orphanage followed and rubbed their hands together with excitement. Another showdown between the two best fighters: Ormsby and Evan.
"What ya doin', loser?" The stronger, bigger kid whacked the book out of Evan's hand. "Come on, fight me, man! Everyone says you a fighter, but ya never fight me! How come is that?"
Evan ignored the challenge and calmly picked up the book. This sent a loud ooh! rifling through the crowd of spectators. Everyone at the orphanage was a nuisance. Especially selfish and arrogant Ormsby the River Boy with No Last Name, and his followers. Which was comprised of the entire orphanage aside from Papa Murphy, the only person nice to Evan in this entire dump.
Ormsby peered behind him at the cluster of orphans behind him. Nods came his way from left and right, nods with evil twinkles in their eyes. If Evan didn't want to fight, he would make him. The stronger, older and taller boy kicked the antisocial reader smack in the chest, producing a loud oomph!
Evan remained unflappable, although that kick stung. A lot. There was no doubt Ormsby was stronger. In a strike for strike battle, he would win. But that was his only advantage over the smarter and faster Evan. The antisocial kid assumed all of his willpower to prevent himself from clutching his chest in pain. A choke escaped his throat despite his attempt to hold it back.
"Come on, man, ya know ya wanna fight, so let just do fight, shall us? Me vs. ya!" With that, Ormsby raised his Nerf gun in the air and nailed Evan in the eye. That was the last straw.
Evan slowly stood up and rubbed his sore eye. He raised his skinny arms in a fighting stance, ready to defend or attack. However, he preferred defending; he did not enjoy hurting people with his own hands. His heart beat fast. Am I doing the right thing? Or should I not fight? No, this Ormsby guy needs to learn a well-deserved lesson. I am doing the right thing.
Ormsby threw his head and unkempt hair back and laughed. The audience of orphans joined in, until they all sounded like a pack of hyenas. The stronger and taller kid was not intimidated. His opponent was half the size of him. How could he win? Let's get this over with once and for all. Then I can go back to my usual business of teasing him, and he can go back to his usual business of ignoring it. It's a win-win situation. He reared his leg back, generating power through the hip rotation, and let fly with a kick that he was sure would knock the Asian twig out of the orphanage. No, a kick that he knew would send Evan flying.
His foot struck Evan hard. So hard it hurt. Evan must be dying on the ground, if I kicked him so hard it hurt me! It was perfect, so perfect it must have lodged into the antisocial, unpopular kid's gut. It was a one-hit knockout. It had to be.
But then the pain really settled in. His foot burned as if a flame had 
lit it on fire. The bones in it were frail and felt bent out of shape. Blood stopped flowing to it, and it turned icy cold, an attempt to numb it. Was a kick that struck a skinny twig supposed to hurt that much? Ormsby turned to his crowd of supporters, but they only returned his smug look with one of shock. I guess I'll just have to look and see Evan on the floor in pain, and see where my foot struck him, although I would rather not. His curiosity was on a leash, unable to escape unless it saw where Ormsby had struck Evan.
The selfish, arrogant boy's face exploded with red. Embarrassment wrote itself on the chubbier boy's skin, complimented by a fresh shade of rosy red. His cheek bones tightened themselves, a move they only did when he was ashamed. The room's temperature rose immensely and sweat formed in droplets on his face. His eyes dropped down to the ground. His shoulders sagged. All the while, he stared with shock at his hurting left foot, lodged into the wall of the orphanage. Creating a giant hole. Not in Evan's gut, but in the styrofoam wall of the orphanage.
The anxiety and agitation dissipated as quickly as it came, replaced by a rush of rage. Beside the wall stood Evan, no worry on his face. Only pride. It burned Ormsby's heart, to see the skinny, antisocial kid had played him. Badly. The only thing that burned more than his heart was his foot.This is not how it's supposed to be. I'm the top dog around here. He ignored the multiple sets of eyes on his back and got up in Evan's face. The antisocial kid saw an uncontrollable anger and sensed this was not their last battle. His senses were shortly confirmed.
"This is not us last battle, ya antisocial prick!" Ormsby whispered and spat on his acne-ridden face. He would get him back for this. He would get him back good.

One decade afterward...

"Today is your day, Evan! Look excited! Today is the day where you finally show Ormsby who is boss. That selfish, arrogant jerk who can't even speak English! Seriously, if you win today, your life will change forever."
Evan's nerves tingled with excitement. Today was his day. His chance to make his life better and make Ormsby's worse. That bully. That selfish, arrogant jerk had gotten adopted by one of the most powerful families in all of Durango. No one adopted me, though. That's why Papa Murphy did, because he felt bad for me. His heart raced at the speed of light. He fiddled anxiously with his golden cross necklace, an adoption gift from Papa, and bit some skin off his fingers. The cheers of excitement that emanated from the massive crowd behind him only made his mental situation worse. Cameras peeked at him through large lenses that looked like bug eyes. Some seemed to stare directly at his face, like a staring contest. I would lose, of course.
It was coronation day on Durango Island. The day King Manory would abdicate his throne to his younger heir. However, there was no heir. At least not yet. That was what today was for.
Three contests. Ormsby counted off his fingers. Speed, mind, strength. In that order. I have to win this. I have to beat that antisocial loser Evan, after he showed me up on this very day, ten years ago. I have to be King of Durango Island. Then I can throw Evan in jail. I can bully him all day, every day, at my leisure. If I have to kill that kid to win the contest, I won't. Because I want to see him suffer the rest of his life, not out him out of it. His legs stretched with the aid of his maids while his shoulders were massaged from behind. He was ready. Ready to destroy all of his competition. Just like I shoulda destroyed Evan with that kick ten years from today.

"Ladies and gentleman of Durango Island, welcome to The Next True Heir, presented to you by your king, Mr. Paul Anthony Murphy!" The old man waves half-heartedly; he was in too much pain to smile. "The giant TV's directly in front of you will show you all the action up close, so you do not have to move!" The handsome announcer pumped his fist in mock excitement and the crowd chuckled in response. "As most of you know, there will be three contests to determine The Next True Heir of Durango: outrunning a cheetah to test speed, a mystery maze the contestants have to escape to test mental power, and defeating a hungry lion to test strengtha mystery maze the contestants have to escape to test mental power. Now give a hand for your contestants, every 17 year old in Duuuurraaangooooo!"
Every seventeen year old child on the island poured out of the waiting area and onto the grassy plain while the spectators looked on from stadium seats above. Evan headed one of the two lines, Ormsby headed the other. They exchanged quick sarcastic nods of respect before facing the crowd and waving, just as instructed. To the denizens of Durango, this was a game show. That was what the announcer had told them. But to Ormsby and Evan, it was the final battle. The one that would decide who was truly the King of the Orphanage. The one that decided who got the last kick.
Suddenly, three deafening horns pierced the still air. Everyone fell silent and froze like ice, pinned by the ear-shattering noise. The grassy plain which held all 50 of the contestants gave way to an invisible force, and they hurled into a dark, gaping hole below. The announcer reached for his microphone, but soon realized there was no need to explain. The giant televisions surrounding the stadium flashed on like lightning. The contest had begun.

Ormsby squealed like a pig and fell down, down, down. The sun slowly faded from view. The air turned warmer like a furnace had recently been activated. He was the first to find the bottom of the seemingly bottomless pit, since he was the heaviest weighing member of the group. He braced himself for a painful meeting with solid rock and a shock wave that would rocket through his body, possibly rendering him unconscious. The blood in his veins turned blisteringly cold and the muscles in his stomach tightened. His fingers and feet numbed for self defense, however ineffective it seemed. His eyes shut and his breathing quickened. His pulse raced at the speed of sound. Hopefully, he survived the fall enough to get a head start on the cheetahs. Speed was not one of his strengths.
Evan closed his eyes and relaxed. He was terrified of heights. He was even more fearful of falling from a raised point. However, there was nothing he could do. His body remained calm and stable. Panicking would only make his situation worse. Nature held him by the fingertips. He was in gravity's hand. How he landed was out of his control. All he could do was wait. And pray that he would hit the ground without a problem.
A tall, muscular handsome kid hit the ground last. No one knew who he was, no one knew about him. No one expected him to win, but that's because he lived in the poorest area of Durango, the part nobody paid attention to, the shame of the island. His name was Brandon, and he was on a mission. He was going to bring honor to his family and to his region of the island called Liberty City, an ironically insulting name. Brandon reeked of rotten fish, since his family did not possess clean water to bathe. But that would all change when he won this contest and became king. He had prepared for this moment his whole life. Now it was time to blow the competition out of the water, and the fans out of their seats, for they were going to witness Brandon James Smith become King of Durango Island.

Ormsby struck the ground first. However, the landing surprised him. He expected a meeting with the ground to be like stepping on nails. What he got was a free fall into a clump of soft, fluffy pillows. Wow. A lot softer than I expected. He breathed a sigh of relief, but stopped midway through. What was that smell? He was a big boy and ate a lot. The smell was easily recognizable to his trained nose, having been exposed to myriad smells since he was born. Red meat. Raw red meat. He thought nothing of it. Until the first roar came from right behind him. He looked back and found himself staring directly in the eyes of a cheetah. Its teeth were bared and slobber dropped from its lips. The chubby fat kid in front of it with wide fear in his eyes seemed like a delicious meal, a rare treat that only comes along once every blue moon.
Brandon did not fear heights. He was not afraid of falling into darkness. He had done it every day of his life since he was old enough to walk, in order to get some polluted water from the almost dried up well five miles from his house. But hardship didn't affect him. It made him strong. Hardship was good. He would not be that fearless man he was today without hardship, a man not afraid of falling, or of the cheetahs waiting for him on the ground. As he neared the ground, he saw through the darkness the shape of a cheetah, teeth bared, ready to attack. But this time, he was not the victim, like he had been his whole life: a victim of poverty, starvation, bullying. Today, the cheetah, the mind puzzle and the lion were the victims. Of his hands and his victories.
Evan landed last. He slammed into the soft ground surface. Too panicked to notice he had dodged a bullet, he kept his eyes shut even after arriving on land without pain or injury. The problem was, his pupils closed in fear did not allow him to see the impending cheetah strike. When his breathing returned to its normal speed, and the adrenaline slowly seeped out of his body, when he finally opened his eyes, it was to scream in pain as the fangs of a cheetah sank into his shoe. Blood squirted in the animal's eyes, a minute but vital diversion. The antisocial kid took off like a race car, ignoring the pain in his foot, knowing full well that he was on the verge of death. And he didn't want to die. Because that would mean losing The Next True Heir competition. Most importantly, that would mean losing to selfish, arrogant Ormsby. No way that was happening. Not in a million years.
Ormsby breathed heavily like an old man running for the first time in years. Sweat poured down his face like a river, coating his self-envisioned perfect body with disgust and grime. Even his expensive Aqua Di Gio men's cologne made by Armani could not hide the nastiness that covered his face and was spreading to his neck and chest. Oh no, not my buff chest. He was slowing down. Not voluntarily; he was not in the necessary physical condition to run fast for extended periods of time. Or for that matter, fast at all. His sprint was more like the average human being's jogging time. The cheetah steadied his feet and skidded to a halt. It was preparing to pounce on the juicy meat that was Ormsby. It dug its claws into the ground and licked its lips. The cheetah had long realized that its prey could run all he wanted; while it could just jog around in circles and still catch him. The challenge was bringing Ormsby down, as the jerk was thrice its size. The cheetah took slow deep breaths to prevent itself from seeing red. It had not won. Yet. With one final dig of its paws into the ground, leaving marks that resembles that of three stripes, it leaped forward, towards the exhausted and vulnerable Ormsby.
The crowd gasped. Some members turned away. King Manory's eyes remained fixed on the screen, staring intently. There must have been some mistake. Ormsby is not one to give up. He was the crowd favorite. He was the King favorite. The favorite never gets eliminated first, does he? The King shook his head and prayed, prayed to whoever was listening up there in the heavens that Ormsby would not die like this. Not in the first round of The Next True Heir. Not by a dumb cheetah that knew only how to kill. It was a cruel way to die, even for a jerk like Ormsby.
Yes. That is a cruel way to die. Even for a jerk like Ormsby. Evan glanced at the action behind him. He had noticed because every camera in the arena had suddenly shifted to point at it. There was no time to debate. He would save Ormsby, but only this once. A fan favorite dying in the first round was never good for anybody. Plus, it was the right thing. Right, God? He inquired to nobody in particular before setting off to save the selfish, arrogant jerk that had bullied him ever since his very existence. He still didn't know why he was saving him, but there was no time to think about it now.
The cheetah that tailed Evan gained speed. It saw its prey slow down and took advantage. It was at full speed, no signs of slowing, no signs of stopping. Unable to stop. Barely able to slow. Its plan: ram the lights out of Evan; the kid was a skinny twig that probably couldn't take a hit for his life. But he didn't need to. The antisocial Asian twirled around to face Ormsby and started off like an Olympic runner, making a beeline for the cheetah that was inches from Ormsby's neck. The cheetah that had once tailed Evan found itself sprinting out of control for a tree in the middle of an arena, its paws attempting to stop the momentum and slow down, but unable to. An ear-shattering noise similar to fingernails grinding on chalkboards accompanied its futile attempts.
Evan realized, a little too late, that he was simply not fast enough to ram into the cheetah and prevent it from striking Ormsby. He tried to stop, but it backfired. His feet kicked out from under him as he landed in the thing that had caused him to trip in the first place: a broken tree branch. Another oooh! emanated from the crowd. Ormsby's once chance of surviving had just slipped on a broken tree branch, 30 yards away from the action. The only possible way that was barely even possible? Throw the tree branch so it hits the cheetah, best if in the eye, and stops it. Not happening. But Evan was going to try. This time, the crowd did not look away. Their eyes remained glued to the screen, and King Manory’s eyes watered from staring at the electronic screen for so long. He blinked excessively to push the water away and clear his vision to see what happened next.
The antisocial kid whom no one in the crowd liked, just because Ormsby, who they liked, did not like him. He was going to try and impress a crowd who did not even like him and save a kid who bullied him throughout his childhood until now. Or maybe even after this competition ended, it would continue. But he was still going to try and save the selfish arrogant jerk, still going to try and impress the hateful, unimpressed crowd. He stood up and winced at the blood continuing to leak out of his foot and the ache on his bottom from the fall. Hey, it was a hard fall on that tree, believe it or not.
Evan lifted the tree branch from the floor and weighed it carefully, not wanting to think how light it was, how the chances of him succeeding had gone from 1 to -100. Not wanting to reminisce on how bad his stupid luck was. A light branch making a 30 yard throw. Ha. Then the doubt dissipated from his body, replaced by a rush of confidence. He was in the zone now. Calculations blurred through his head, calculations he had learned how to do from all the reading in his childhood.
The wind is blowing southwest at 3.5 mph. That means the wind is not really going to be important. No light source, so no heat source, so no need to worry about overheating or freezing in midair. No current precipitation. The throw will have to be farther than 40 yards; as this branch I hold in my hand weighs less than a pound. The angular heigh will have to be not too high, not too low, since I have to hit the cheetah on the eye, which rests in the upper half of its face, slightly above the nose, which is located in the middle. Calculations done and ready to fire the branch.
Once the branch left his left hand (Evan was a lefty) he knew he had struck gold. Perfect. It sailed, sailed, closer, closer, and then curved. Oh no. Evan covered his mouth with his hand and contained the scream that so badly wanted to escape. How did I miscalculate? He sucked in a loud breath. His heart stopped beating. Blood stopped flowing to his heart. The oblivious Ormsby sensed a bee buzzing around his hair and swatted it away. However, it wasn't a bee. It was the thrown stick, and he sent it flying backwards directly into the eye of the cheetah. The animal roared in pain and toppled over like a building in an earthquake. The selfish, arrogant jerk was alive.

Brandon squinted behind him. Ha! Those losers, Evan and Ormsby. Evan trying to be the hero and save the day. Who cares about the hero? The only thing people care about is who wins this competition right? That's gonna be me. He kisses the cheetah head skin he held in hands, allowing the blood to wash over his hands. It was nasty, but it felt good. It felt like victory. One down, two more contests to go. He kissed the skin as if it were a trophy and smiled smugly. This competition was his now. He had a huge lead over the two favorites. The rest of the contestants were even farther back than the two favorites. They had no chance. The only person with a chance to win was him. And he was going to take that chance and make sure no one could. His grin of overconfidence widened while the floor below him shook and opened up, revealing white, blinding light. On my way to the next contest already, he thought to himself and fell once more, but this time into bright light that envelopes his eyes and destroyed all sense of sight. But he was not afraid. Not that he ever would be, anyway. This was the moment he had been waiting for all his life. It was finally here. His chance to shine.
Everyone in the stadium rose to their feet and responded to the heroics of both Evan and Ormsby with thunderous applause. A rare smile of relief cracked across King Murphy's wrinkled face, something that had not happened ever since the abandoning of his heir. However, after this tournament, he would know who his true heir was. He would just know. He slumped back down in his chair and gingerly stroked his mustache in thought, trying to figure out who his true heir was. Evan definitely displayed the mental and emotional attributes, but he was Asian. King Manory was not.
Ormsby glanced at the antisocial kid he had bullied all his life. The kid who had just saved his life from a ferocious cheetah. The bigger boy was unable to hold a steady gaze on Evan. His eyes continually wavered from top to bottom; he found his eyes genuinely interested in his Louis Vuition dress shoes. Why would Evan save a bully like him? Tears formed around his pupils, but he pushed them back, not wanting to show weakness or compassion. He was Ormsby, a tough guy who was the crowd favorite and King of the Orphanage. People not only admired him, they feared him. With that, he took off, leaving Evan behind. The bigger boy heeled his toe in the ground and kicked up a cloud of dust behind him, splattering dirt on the antisocial kid's face. Just for good measure. To show that he was the King of the Orphanage who didn't need to be saved by an antisocial Asian.
Evan spat the nasty mud out of his mouth, not enjoying the filthy substance one bit. Not that he had anything against Mother Earth, but his teeth covered in braces did not enjoy the taste. The fact that the dirt clung to his braces like a baby clings to its mother did not contribute positively, either. So this is what I get for saving someone's life. He berated himself on his stupidity. Of course this is the treatment I would get from a selfish jerk like Ormsby. But this is a new low, even for him. The thought remained in the back burner of his brain as he sprinted after the arrogant bully. He would overlap him easy, then go on to win The Next True Heir. That would show him.

It was Round 2 of the contest. Brandon was one-third of the way there. Now the next challenge: a mental mind maze. Even the name is a mental mind maze called a tongue twister. He allowed his face a slight smile and quickly reprimanded himself for it. This is all business, remember. You came here to do one thing and one thing only. Win. He tasted the sweat dripping from his face and knew it was a good sign, a sign that he was working hard. Nothing good came without hard work. Unless you want to go to jail. He threw his head and shaggy mane of hair back to see if anyone had caught up to him. He was stunned to see Ormsby, huffing and puffing, behind Evan, who seemed to exert no effort as he blew past the bigger boy. Brandon put his head down and pushed his calves and forearms to their fullest extent, pumping to gain amazing speed into the first doorway that signaled the start of the mental mind maze.
A massive pole appeared right when Brandon charged through the doorway. However, it was not real, just a tricky hologram to divert people to incorrect directions. The fake pole represented a barrier that coerced contestants to take a path that forked right and left. Unless one had prepared for the contest, like Brandon, they would have no way of ascertaining which way was correct. Brandon sprinted headlong through the pole and into the next doorway. One down, nine to go.
Evan entered the room next. What he experienced was different from Brandon. Immediately following his rushed entry, the arena transformed into a battlefield. Men dressed in red on red horses glared at his side, which contained blue men on horses. Behind the red side was a blue flag. Behind his side was a red flag. Capture the Flag, Evan realized. No problem. Back at the Orphanage, he was known as The Strategist for his brilliant strategies in helping his team win Capture the Flag. It was one of the few things he received credit for being better than Ormsby at. He was better than the bully at many things, that was for sure, but he did not necessarily get credited for them. A metallic whistle pierced the silence like a knife on a piece of cardboard. The red team charged, waving swords and shields in the air like cowboys wave their lassos. Evan ordered his army to withdraw and stay down, to avoid as much death and jury as possible. The battle had begun.
Ormsby was the caboose of the group of 17-year olds. He entered the arena sounding like a dying goat. His face was as red as a tomato, body heated like the sun. Thankfully, the arena was freezing cold. The bully found himself on a block of ice floating in the middle of an ocean. Sharks leaped at him from different sides, but they were unable to get close due to some invisible shield. Albeit the bully knew it would not last long, he decided to take advantage of it while it lasted. He glanced around him on the block of ice he sat atop, finding a thick, warm jacket and a few matches. Also, some dead tree branches to light the matches with. He was not going to look forward to this, he knew. The bully was not a big outdoorsmen. He was not big on taking care of himself either. That is what my maids back at home are for. Then he got an idea.
Brandon's heartbeat slowed to a regular pace. His previous anxiety over how difficult the mental mind maze was gone like the wind. It had long disappeared, replaced by a sense of relaxation, something he had not felt in a long time. All the previous stress had vanished as he easily weaved through, over and around obstacles that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He knew every upcoming move the maze did, and how to counter it with a move of his own. To the audience, the obstacles looked random and disorderly, like a map without borderlines. To Brandon, the maze was akin to reading a book, a very easy book, at the kindergarten level. At times, maybe even preschool. His thorough preparation had served him well. He swept past the maze with a prodigious lead entering the third and final round, a test of strength. And he was fully energized, not the least bit fatigued. Ready to win as the platform on which he stood exploded beneath his feet in a cloud of fire, and he tumbled downwards to face an awaiting lion.
Evan closed his eyes for a moment and prayed. His prayer shot towards to the sky in the form of a cannon and drilled the general of the red team on the head. He detonated like a scarlet bomb, sending his helpless crew in a frenzy. Without a general to guide an army, the army is useless. Evan cheered along with the rest of his loyal and brave team as he rode in to capture the flag. The red team scrambled around, battle formation broken, no strategy in mind, unable to halt the onslaught of blue-uniformed soldiers charging their way. His team created a clear path for him to take the flag with little to no opposition or protest. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and smiled when the holographic battlefield disappeared before him. In its place, a malnourished and starving lion with a roar that shattered the antisocial kid's eardrums. His next challenge awaited him, a challenge of strength, the one thing that had eluded him all his life. Hopefully it would not elude him on the biggest stage of his life, in front of the entire island of Durango, and destroy his hopes of a better future.
Ormsby's idea was not working out well. He struggled in the ice cold water. Struggled to breathe, swim, move, smell, see, taste. Nothing was going right. This was supposed to be his throne for the taking. He was the crowd favorite and most likely to be The Next True Heir. Why did some dumb, angry sharks and the cold ocean have to get in his way. The thought motivated him. He continued wave his fiery torch that was a small flame on a half-decomposed tree branch with more zeal than ever before. He kicked harder and ignored the jolts of pain that shot up his appendages with each swim stroke. He ignored the burning sting of saltwater in his eyes and mouth. The land that would send him to Round 3 of the game show awaited him impatiently, beckoning him to push even harder after each swim stroke. 3 more strokes to paradise. Anything was paradise to shark-infested chilly seawater. Even a pissed off lion with one goal: to devour Ormsby bit by bit until he was no more than a clump of meat in a predator's satiated stomach. Luckily, strength was one of his strong suits. Especially when compared to surviving in the Arctic.

Evan slammed into the lion with more force than he imagined possible. The lion remained stock-still. He was annoyed and exhausted. Seven futile attempts to enrage the lion. The predator seemed to know what the antisocial genius thought. Evan wanted the lion to get mad and attack, so it did not. It remained calm and kept its composure, waiting patiently for the right moment to strike. I have to win this contest. His fist began to bleed as it drove continuously into the lion's rough fur coat, albeit to no avail. That's when he glimpsed the fleeting image of Brandon, a lion's head draped around his shoulder, jogging joyously to the finish line. Oh no, Evan groaned. His future was becoming bleaker and bleaker by the second. Unless he did something. Fast.
Ormsby broke the lion's jaw with no difficulty, sending it into a daze. Its now crooked mouth was rendered useless, and with it the rest of its large, muscular golden body. The stronger boy decided on one of its canine teeth as a souvenir, yanking it our with a quiet pop! But as he raised his head to survey the lion once more, he saw Brandon, streaking for the finish line, followed closely by Evan, who had a strafing lion on his tail. The rascal was trying to cross the finish line without even having killed his predator. And no trophy or sign to prove it. How is he going to w---. Then it dawned on him: he was going to try to steal Brandon's trophy. Oh no. He won't have to steal it, because I'm gonna beat both of 'em to the finish.

The lion quickly gained on the antisocial kid, closing in until it was inches away from Evan's skinny legs. One lunge from the lion, and the kid was a goner.
Ormsby ran faster than he had ever run before. The wind whipped through his hair and gave him a sense of freedom, a feeling he had never before felt in his life. Always he had been pressured to be #1, always pressured to be the King, maybe sometimes even expected to be. But that's all gonna change after today. All I need is to experience that pressure once more, until I win this stupid contest, and then no more. He found the wind billowing from behind him, and gaining unnatural amounts of speed. The gods are on my side, he realized. I shall not disappoint. Ignoring the awful burn and soreness in his legs, he sprinted at full speed until he reached the lion that had started to attack Evan.
Blood squirted out of the antisocial kid’s ears as razor sharp teeth clamped down on them from behind. The pain was unbearable and caused tears to drip from Evan’s eyes. It was a white hot searing pain that shot up his veins and into his brain, like millions of staples lodged into his ears. Tiny but deadly staples that felt like a downpour of gunshots. Evan collapsed, ironically, just as the cheetah he had taken down moments ago with a stick did. That was the last thought that crossed his mind before his world went black, along with deep regret: he had almost changed his future. Almost.
Brandon was five feet away from the finish line. Five feet away from my life’s dream. He slowed to a walking pace, noting that no one in the competition was close to him. The nearest person was Ormsby, whose chubby cheeks jiggled as they turned a cherry red to signify his exhaustion. Not that it is a great mystery that big fat Ormsby cannot run for more than a minute without tiring. He stopped walking altogether to glare smugly at the bigger boy, who remained fifty yards away, and not covering much ground as the sweat pool on his shirt continued to grow. The to-be-king of Durango started to think. He looked pensively at the heavens and prayed, thanking the gods (or whoever was listening up there) for allowing him to win, for being in his favor throughout the contest. He asked for guidance as he stepped up to take the role of Island Leader, to be King Brandon Smith. No more will I struggle to retrieve clean water. No more will I feel the pain of poverty. No more will I spend hours in the hot sun training. It has all worked out well. He saw Evan in a crumpled heap on the ground, a lion on top of him. If that kid ever comes back to life, he will be under my rule. He saw Ormsby, still forty yards away and sprinting (albeit not very efficiently). He too will be under my rule. Everybody on this island right now will be under my rule. The muscular boy took too more steps. Three feet away and counting.

Ormsby heaved and huffed, unable to take the gnawing pain in his legs any longer. He was winded. Done. The throne has just slipped out of my hands. Now that jerk Brandon will be it, Mr. Big Muscles Try Hard Poor Boy. Funny how I’m saying that. What right do I have calling Brandon a jerk? What did he ever do to me? Or anybody that I know of? I’m the only jerk around here. I bullied poor Evan even though he did never did nothin’ to me. Now that kid is lying dead under a hungry lion, looking like a steak does to a human: delicious. And I am chasing after something I can never get, because Brandon will get it first. Still an insecure jerk. Still trying to be King, even though I clearly don’t deserve it. He glanced back at the antisocial kid longingly. He wanted a chance to make it up to the skinny twig, to ask to be condoned for everything he had ever done to him. To ask for forgiveness and promise that he would never do it again.
Suddenly, Evan stirred. Ormsby saw it out of the corner of his eye while in the midst of turning back to face Brandon. The antisocial kid had moved! It was his foot, a slight movement to the left, to get in a more comfortable position. The kid was a genius! He was playing dead in hopes that the lion would find live prey to eat and move on. However, so far, it was not working out well. The changed bully saw it as an opportunity to repay Evan for what he had done back in the first round of the game show. That kid saved my life. Now, it’s my turn to save his. A plan formed in his mind in the nick of time. It was risky, but it was his only hope.
He grabbed the twig beside him. Second thoughts rushed into his head like dogs after doggie treats. What he was doing was hopeless, dumb, suicidal even. What was he thinking? Throw a twig at the lion to distract him, so Evan could get away, and he could be chased after by it for who knows how long? Sadly, that was exactly what Ormsby was thinking. He was desperate. There was no other way. He attempted to convince the logical side of his mind that the illogical and dangerous part of his brain was correct. At least, he tried to, but soon realized he was wasting his time. It was now or never. The lion reached down to take its first bite of the delicious human laid before it, when the twig was launched from the big boy's clumsy hands.
It awkwardly missed by a mere two inches, but it had passed in front of the lion's eyes. Not the original plan, but it had accomplished the original goal. The lion took his eyes off the tempting feast and glared menacingly at a shaken Ormsby. He was beginning to regret not listening to the logical side of his mind. Unfortunately, there was no time for that. Unless he wanted to risk getting chomped to bite-sized bits by a not only starved but also enraged lion. The King of the Jungle versus the King of the Orphanage. The odds were not in Ormsby's favor, and he was not enjoying it. For once in his life, he was not the alpha dog. He was not even the innocent bystander. No, he was the helpless victim waiting for the inevitable to occur.
The bigger boy could not contain the high-pitched scream that escaped his terrified body. The lion roared viciously and did not hesitate before sprinting after Ormsby, who had started to run but gotten virtually nowhere. He knew he could not outrun one of the fastest land animals on the planet. He could not even outrun the slowest land animal on the planet. He needed help, badly, or he was toast. Or I should I say, a scrumptious dinner.

Evan dared to open one eye and held his breath as he did so. If the lion still stood over him, he was not going anywhere. But if the lion had miraculously left, he might be able to win the contest, or at least come in second place. All he knew was, he had to change his future, and fast.
The antisocial boy peered upwards like a fearful mouse scanning its surroundings for the enemy cat. The lion was gone. Energy rushed into Evan's heart, along with a sense of hope. Hope that it was not too late to win, that his future could be changed for the better. I have to win this... His thoughts were violently interrupted by a piercing scream. He looked ahead. Brandon had just crossed the finish line. His dreams were crushed and hopes were dissipated in a matter of seconds. Tears fell from his eyes like a melting candle, slow and steady. His vision blurred. He wanted to sit down, to just go to sleep and never wake again. He wanted to disappear in a hole in the ground and never come out. He wanted to...
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. Ormsby was getting chased by a clearly mad lion. But how? Evan wondered. He had already disposed of his lion. Why had he not crossed the finish line, or at least tried to. He easily had the chance, being only yards away from Brandon. Geez, that boy is so stupid. He pissed off another lion and ruined his hopes? Why and how would he do something like...
Then it dawned on the genius, a little too late. It was not until he felt the ground shake beneath him and a loud thump! on the cold hard floor of the arena that he figured it out. Ormsby had sacrificed a win to save me. That was why Evan's lion had disappeared. It was no miracle. It was only the kid who had bullied Evan all his life, changing for the better. The genius would not let that sacrifice go to waste. He thrust all thought of winning the competition out of his head and crazily started screaming after the enormous lion.

The audience was riveted to the TV screens in the stadium, unable to blink for fear of missing something exciting. Someone had won the contest, but no one cared. The biggest story was Ormsby and Evan, who had sacrificed big-time for each other. And now, they would take down a lion together. Or go down together. This was the Ormsby and Evan that had been rivals all their lives. King Manory desperately needed to go to bathroom, but he held it, as he wanted to see the end of this contest even more desperately. Plus, it was his duty to crown the winner based on what he saw today.

The lion turned to face the seemingly idiotic boy yelling at the top of his lungs. It stood there, petrified as a stone, glued to the ground by confusion. Just what Evan needed. He kept the lion's attention occupied like a marionette and its puppet. On the side, below his legs, he signaled to Ormsby to attack. The boy silently got up from his previously prone position. He crept on his tiptoes toward the lion, not wanting to crack a single leaf or blade of grass. He had read somewhere that lions had exceptional hearing, whether that was true or not, he did not know. The bigger boy raised his clammy hand above the lion's head to strike. He held his breath as he waited for the signal from Evan to attack. But it never came.
Suddenly, another monstrous lion that had somehow sneaked behind the genius leapt on him with full force, throwing all its weight on the skinny boy. Evan's nose was crushed under the weight. It felt like a car had been dropped on him. He suffocated under the weight and sensed his veins tightening up in his body, not involuntarily. The flow of blood slowed down immensely, as there was no oxygen to cause to blood to flow in the first place. It was 800 pounds of pure muscle, flesh and fat piled onto a skinny twig that weighed barely over 100. The sound of bones cracking in his body were heard loud and clear, even on the camera that captured the action up close and projected it to the stadium TV's. The audience covered their ears and winced at the gruesome sight. Evan began counting down the hours until his slow but deadly suffocation was complete. Or at least until his ability to count stopped functioning.
It was two on one. Evan was down. Ormsby had gotten himself into this, so he could get himself out. That was what Papa Murphy always said back at the orphanage. He hoped it was true.
The lions were smart. They used their 2:1 ratio advantage wisely. One lion faced Ormsby while the other paced behind him. Both growled their sharp teeth and hissed. Ormsby felt the sweat gathering on his forehead and the nerves in his body exploding with fear. He told himself over and over to not let the intimidation get to his head, that it was just an act. Nothing more. He shivered and felt his jaw quaver. Drool slipped out of his mouth that tasted like yucky blood. His feet turned numb. There was no way he could survive the attack if his brain was in this kind of mental condition. He was already frozen with fear, and they hadn't even done anything yet!
Remember, in battle, use battle mode. In non-battle, use non-battle mode. It was blatantly obvious, but something most warriors did not remember when faced with life-or-death. The bigger boy halted his body's shaking. There was no earthquake around here, just a big fat boy who was scared to death. That is not gonna be me today. His vision cleared and only vestiges of fright remained in his body. That was acceptable. After all, there were two lions pacing around him. He decided to stand his ground and wait for the oncoming onslaught to arrive while forming a battle plan in his bulky head.

He came up with nothing. Nada, zilch, zero, zip. He was surely done for now. The King of the Orphanage was about to get dethroned by the Kings of the Jungle. Not only was he bolted to the ground in fear, he also had no plan to escape. All he could do was wing it, which was not the greatest idea considering it was his survival he was just going to wing. For the first time in his life, Ormsby was going to live life on the edge. He was going to risk it all, not by choice, but because he had no other choice. He was not going to listen to listen to the logical side of his mind once more, albeit the ignorance had almost killed him moments ago. And here I am, not listening to the smart part of me again. Maybe that’s why everyone thinks I’m… His thoughts were intervened as his feet were knocked out from under him and he flew toward a piled heap of brush.
Thorns poked him from everywhere at once. It was painful. Blood spilled out of his body like a water out of a pitcher, continuous and not looking to stop anytime soon. He was unable to move without getting poked by something. Wherever he was, thorns were as ubiquitous as oxygen on Earth. He was in a daze and unable to think straight. What had happened. Who had pushed him and sent him flying into this? Or maybe what had pushed him. But why would a lion push him away from it? He was supposed to be the lion’s dinner. So then… who?

Evan saw them charge at once. They were going to sandwich him, crush him like shark jaw clamping down on a strand of seaweed. It was an intelligent plan, and there was nothing the antisocial genius could do to stop, genius as he was. He knew better than to try. The only thing he could do was hope that he had not sacrificed his life for Ormsby’s for nothing. Hopefully he would continue to change and become King. And lead the island to peace, prosperity, and everything possibly good. Maybe even make a law requiring no kid to be left behind, a crime punishable by lifetime jail sentence. Yes, that would be good. So no orphans would feel the same loneliness and despair that Evan had faced, or the negative influences and pressure that Ormsby had faced. So Papa Murphy would not have to spend his days watching over uncontrollable, immature kids going nowhere with their lives. He could even go back to the church where he once worked, preaching the Gospel to everyone both willing and unwilling to listen. The antisocial kid could not wait to tell Papa Murphy all about Heaven once he got there, something Papa Murphy had wanted to learn about all his life. He constantly told Evan stories about its beauty and goodness. He said both Evan and him would go there one day, no matter who went first.
The floor rumbled with the loud footsteps of the lions charging like bulls. The skinny boy braced himself for a meeting with Heaven. Not scared nor upset. It was meant to be, and it would be worth it in the end. He had faith that Ormsby would be a great leader, or even Brandon. Durango would experience its greatest period under the leadership of one of the two, of that Evan was positive. He would be leaving the island in good hands. That was his last thought as his eyes slowly shut. He breathed for the last time. Inhaling and exhaling the musty air, knowing inwardly that Heaven’s air would be more pristine and fragrant than this crabby air. He would even meet the angels that Papa Murphy always spoke of, beautiful winged creatures that were all good and did all good.
Then the rumbling skidded to a halt in the dirt, a sand of dust whipping into his eyes.
It was Ormsby. He had probably kicked a cloud of dust in Evan’s eyes once again, just like in the beginning of the competition when Evan had saved his life. However, this time was different. He had caused the sand to enter the antisocial boy’s eyes, but he had not done it himself.
His muscles strained and hands burned as he stretched his arms outwards like a boy wanting to fly. Or in his case, a boy wanting to stop two over 800 pound lions from running into another helpless boy. Ormsby was heavy and strong, but not that not heavy. Nor that strong. Somehow, it had worked. No, it was not Ormsby. He played a part, but he had not done it all. As soon as the bigger boy raised his arms to stop the stampede, the lions had skidded to a sudden stop and collapsed like dominoes. As if they had been electronically controlled, and someone just pulled the plug. His confusion was confirmed when King Manory himself appeared, along with the rest of the audience. They were back in the stadium, the sun shining, blinding their eyes, and the nice ocean breeze, cooling the sweat off their backs like an ice pack. 
       
        The crowd rose to their feet and appluaded loudly and wildly as a crowd at the World Cup. They whooped and hollered and cheered, giving no sign of stopping anytime soon. However, King Manory silenced them after a few minutes of obvious approval, a sign of a show well done. Once everyone sat down, an eerie quietness fell over the stadium. The King of Durango closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Now the hard part, who will be King?
        The obvious choice was Brandon. After all, he had won. But Brandon was not his true heir. No way. He was as wide and tall and fierce as a bodybuilder. King Manory did not have that kind of muscle mass in his body. And he was certain his heir would not work out, for exercising was not exactly his hobby. Neither would it be his heir's. His eyes looked downcast at Brandon and dejectedly shook his head. The muscular boy's face fell. He opened his mouth to argue, but quickly stopped as he saw King Manory pat him on the back. "This boy will become the commander-in-chief of Durango's current army." The crowd roared with delight, a brilliant decision. The boy was practically built for war, and he knew it, smiling as he thought of the military benefits his family would receive. 
        King Manory felt it the moment his eyes laid on Ormsby. Ormsby will be King, he thought. He reminisced back to the day of his son's birth, when he had dropped him in the river. There was a slight resemblance. The same chubbiness in the cheeks, the sparkle of energy in the eyes. The same high held head, as if he deserved something, as if he were above the rest. This was his son. This was his next true heir. "And you my son, you are the next true heir. You are my son. King Ormsby Manory."     

        The bigger boy sensed the tears that slowly dripped down his cheek, for once not caring how he looked on the outside. Not caring that he was a sobbing mess. He beamed at the crowd who had gotten on their knees and bowed before him. Before he did anything as King though, he snatched the microphone from his true father. "I would like to make Evan here my Assistant Chief." He grabbed the antisocial boy, who cried as well. They hugged amidst the cheering and confetti flying down from the sky. 
        "Race you to the Palace," Ormsby challenged, snickering. 
        "You're on," Evan smiled, taking off before Ormsby could say go.
        "Hey! I never said go!" 
        
        Their rivalry was not over.