Format: 12-Scene Narrative | Genre: Urban Antihero Satire | Setting: Downtown Toronto
By Gerard King – www.gerardking.dev
“Three times the density. Four-foot-seven of vengeance. Built like a neutron star in a Roots hoodie. Toronto was never ready.”
Nobody knew his real name.
They just called him The Core.
He was 4'7" of weaponized trauma and pure density — like if Wolverine got stuffed into a Go Train and dipped in poutine grease.
The streets whispered stories.
“He’s got lead in his bones.”
“He headbutted a moose and won.”
Born in Scarborough. Baptized in bad weather.
Raised by a Zamboni mechanic and a conspiracy theorist.
Now he protects Toronto — not because he wants to…
But because no one else will park legally downtown.
And because the Leafs haven’t won a cup in his entire cursed life.
He weighed 412 lbs at birth.
Doctors screamed. The scale broke.
They had to use a freight elevator.
His mom called him a miracle.
His dad called him “a sinkhole with eyes.”
First words: “Gimme a double double.”
He once sank a canoe just by sitting in it.
Got banned from trampolines before he could walk.
By age 5, he punched through drywall — on accident.
By 10, his hugs were classified as blunt force trauma.
By 13, Toronto started whispering his name.
And by 16, he had his first public brawl — outside a Tim Hortons.
You’d hear a thud downtown — Core was near.
He walked like gravity owed him money.
Feet cracked sidewalks.
Pigeons fled.
Street preachers shut up.
He didn’t speak often.
But when he did, it sounded like concrete having a panic attack.
The cops tried to stop him.
Their boots melted.
City Hall filed a noise complaint — on his heartbeat.
He pissed beside the CN Tower once.
The tilt increased by 0.02 degrees.
A Leafs fan threw a beer can at his head.
The can bounced off and killed a raccoon.
He turned slowly.
“Take that jersey off,” he growled.
“But it’s vintage.”
“So is that mistake.”
He bodychecked him into Queen Street traffic.
TTC buses rerouted.
He stood over the unconscious man.
“Real fans don’t boo.”
Then he lit a Molson and skated off on frozen street runoff.
In July.
Bike thief sped past him.
Bad idea.
The Core grabbed a stop sign and Frisbee’d it like a patriot missile.
Bike exploded. Thief launched into the lake.
He pulled out a shawarma, unbothered.
A teenager filmed it.
Posted: “Short King Saves Queen West.”
Went viral.
Hashtag: #GravityDaddy
He hated it.
But secretly printed the shirt.
They said “he doesn’t pay fare.”
He said, “I AM FARE.”
Turnstiles collapsed when he walked through.
PRESTO machines cried digital tears.
He sat on the subway floor.
Too heavy for seats.
Some say his assprint is still on Line 1.
He once stopped a train by sneezing.
An old lady thanked him.
He nodded.
Then broke a guy’s wrist for playing TikToks on speaker.
They thought it was a drone strike.
Nope. Just Core versus a 6'9 MMA guy on top of the CN Tower.
Security warned them.
They fought anyway.
Tourists screamed.
Glass cracked.
He headbutted the guy off the tower.
The dude survived… barely.
Broke every bone — including two that don’t exist.
Core didn’t gloat.
He just cracked open a bag of ketchup chips.
“Toronto wins again.”
She was 4'9" and angrier than him.
Her name? Lex.
She parked in bike lanes on purpose.
He tried to intimidate her.
She stepped forward.
He blinked.
For the first time, gravity flinched.
They made out in a Booster Juice.
Then body-slammed a gang of influencers for doing a fake prank.
He said “You’re different.”
She said “You’re short.”
They’ve been inseparable since.
Scotiabank Arena, Leafs vs Habs.
A riot broke out after a missed goal.
He calmed it down — by suplexing the mascot.
Someone threw a jersey on the ice.
He skated out barefoot.
Picked it up.
Folded it gently.
Crowd went silent.
He whispered:
“You don’t abandon family.”
The arena erupted.
The Leafs still lost.
Developers tried to evict Chinatown.
He chained himself to a pho restaurant.
They sent private security.
He sent them flying.
By accident.
He was just stretching.
Toronto Sun called him “Urban Menace.”
Vice called him “Short King Messiah.”
He ignored both.
He was busy hammering up a handwritten sign:
“Rent Freeze or I Sit Down and It’s Over.”
Downtown flood, pipes burst.
City panicked.
He walked into the rising water.
People screamed.
He held up one hand.
Then sat down.
The water receded.
Nobody questioned it.
They started praying.
He told them: “I’m not a god.”
“But I am... heavy enough to be one.”
Lex got recruited by city council.
“Make him register as a weapon,” they said.
She considered it.
He found out.
Didn’t say a word.
Just left her a note: “I break everything eventually.”
He vanished.
The city mourned.
Potholes opened.
Pigeons multiplied.
Toronto began to crumble without its gravity.
The Leafs made it to the Cup.
Chaos downtown.
Riots. Fires. A moose stole a SmartCar.
Then… a familiar thud.
The ground shook.
Cameras turned.
There he was.
In a retro Leafs jersey.
Holding a flaming bag of ketchup chips.
“You waited?” someone asked.
He nodded.
“Always do. That’s what real fans do.”
Antihero Satire | Toronto Lore | Urban Myth | Short King Energy | Canadian Humor | Sports & Society
A short king’s myth told like street gospel.
Designed for potential animation, voiceover, or serialized comic form.
Satirizes masculinity, urban decay, and sports fandom with Canadian absurdity.
“He's not your hero. He's your weight limit.”
