John Wick.

I was a renowned local hotshot of the 64 squares, dubbed retired to sip espresso and cuddle my French bulldog, Buffy. One cold evening some loudmouth player at the coffee house—let’s call him ‘A real son of a Bishop’— said Buffy’s ugly face & wrinkles ruin the vibe of the whole place, and distracted him from his game. He would add that my coffee was stronger than my Sicilian. He insulted my dog, my brew, and my Sicilian Defense in one breath.

Now I’m back, pawn-pushing and knight-forking my way through this small-time chess tyrant’s ego. My board’s set, my bulldog’s watching, and I’ve got a checkmate with his name on it. I'm going to En passant this fool straight to the loser's table.

The King is the ultimate diva. This guy’s supposed to be the whole point of the game, yet he’s the laziest piece on the board. One square at a time, trembling behind a fortress of rooks and bishops, clutching his crown like, “Protect me, I’m too important to die!” Meanwhile, the queen’s out there doing all the heavy lifting—zipping across the board, taking out knights and pawns like she’s on a revenge spree, all while the king’s back there muttering, “I’ll castle when I feel like it.” It’s like watching a power couple where one’s a CEO and the other’s just hogging the Wi-Fi.

Mirovamira1