The King of the Mountains


His blue is a shade of shiny metallic. He stands against a mountain that looks like it could be in Japan or Taiwan. Like Poseidon the King of the Oceans, he is the King of the Mountains.

I walk by him every morning at the train station. I walk past him every evening at the train station. His metallic blue calls out to me. So slick, so shiny, half matt, half glossy.

His eyes are a flashing blue. They are piercingly cold, piercingly fierce. He watches me, he waits for me. Majestic yet compassionate in all its apparent coldness.

He has a streak of red. Crimson here and there. I wait for him to move out of the mountains. Or rather, to move the mountains and reach out to me.

His body is the bulk of metal, his substance is the weight of iron. The layers concave and convex on his body. And when he opens his mouth, his deep voice threatens to shake the mountains.

Megan Fox has been replaced by a younger blonde, and the Autobots have descended onto Hong Kong. What’s not to like about Optimus Prime?

The heroes are always American, the enemies are always The Other. What’s not to like about the archetypal Hollywood film? The rules might have changed, but the heart remains the same.

I introduce you, Optimus Prime, the King of the Mountains. Roll on Autobots.

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