I know what you're thinking: L.A.'s down three Famers and Sacramento's short a C-note, so how good can Friday night's Lakers-Kings game be?

Don't think about it like that. With these guys, it isn't about one night or one game. It's a whole history of animosity and contempt. It's roots tapping a deep wellspring of bile, green and acrid.

	Don't you think Shaq gets a little extra fired-up against Sactown?

And I'm not just talking about Rick, Doug and Mrs. Christie, or about Shaq and the "Queens," either.

I'm talking about a bitterness that reaches beyond the court, a thing running free and fierce in the stands and coursing through the veins of fans both north and south.

Not an ounce of respect, credit, or quarter flows between them. They stare each other down through blood-tinted glasses.

It's ugly.

The Kings crew think: Cowbells are a raw, true sound rattling its way into the dark, fearful corners of Laker brains.

The Lakers crew think: Katy bar the door, the hicks are coming.

The Lakers loyals see themselves as sophisticated and stylish.

Kings faithful look across the floor and see poseurs catching a game between surgeries. "You know why they call it the Staples Center?" they say. "Because Lipo Center and Scalpel Center didn't test as well."

Kings fans can't wait to get Webber back.

Neither can Lakers fans.

In Los Angeles, Phil is a guru.

Up north, he's nothing but a poor man's L. Ron Hubbard.

In Sacramento, "Maloof" is the sacred name of two cult heroes who've embraced the common man and made great sacrifices to bring home a small-town winner.

In L.A., "Maloof" is a punchline at a UCLA kegger: "Dude, I think I'm gonna Maloof."

To Los Angelinos, O'Neal, Bryant, Malone and Payton are the four horsemen of the Western Conference's apocalypse.

	Phil Jackson -- not the most popular man in California's state capital.

To Sacramento residents, they're just a supergroup past their prime. Remember Asia? Remember Power Station? Remember Anderson, Bruford, Wakemen and Howe? Neither does anyone else. That's the point.

Kings fans are all worked up with the "We will rip your still-beating hearts from your chests and slake our thirsts with great goblets of your thin, pitiful blood," and the "You shall cower before us and beg for one last breath of life like the mangy, vile dogs you are."

Meanwhile, Lakers fans are all, "I'm sorry ... and you are ... ?"

A Laker fan will tell you his hometown team wears classic uniforms of Forum-blue and gold.

A Kings fan will say, "Shut up you pretentious pr--k. It's purple."

In Sacramento, the Kings are the big-time heart and soul of a community that has long labored in anonymity and too long suffered in a Loserville silence. They are a reason to believe and a source of pride. They are redemption. They are all that is good and right. They are all that is.

Down south, the Kings are a team for whom Gretzky once played.

To a Lakers man, Shaq is a force of nature, the most dominant player in NBA history.

To a Kings man, he's a bum-footed pachyderm who can't hit his throws.

To a Kings man, Mike Bibby's a cold-blooded assassin whose middle name is clutch.

To a Lakers man, clutch is just another word for luck, and Mike's last name ain't even his own.

And so it goes, deeper and nastier with every encounter.

L.A. devotees trumpet the triangle.

Sactown denizens say they can't hear it, what with all the playground sniping coming out of SoCal and all the Eagle County updates coming from Colorado.

Sacramento fans are fans of the passing game, the beautiful game, with the ball zipping from player to player in a breathless, dazzling show of tuning and acumen.

Lakers fans see five guys who don't want to shoot.

Like I said, ugleeee.

	Mike Bibby, the Kings' floor leader -- he'll have a tougher match-up this year with Gary Payton.

Ugly? What am I talking about, ugly? Shut me up. This stuff is beautiful.

Soulless Hollywood phony!

Redneck!

Slave to fashion!

Cow-tipper!

Amen. I say sing it, my brothers. I say bring it, my sisters. Your vitriolic voices and spiteful rants are the soul of the game, I say. It is nothing without your smack-downs and slights.

Too much of the time we fake our way through fake rivalries and forced showdowns.

We have the Yanks and Sox in baseball, sure. But their fight is older than the hills. There's nothing left to say.

Give me the new thing, the west coast swing. Give me Kings and the Lake Show trading blows and talking trash.

Forget the star power on the floor Friday night, and never mind the score. I'm tuning in for the hate and hoping the whole thing devolves into a scrum at halfcourt and a melee in the stands. I'm looking to read another chapter in the book of Sac. vs. L.A. enmity, and itching for the playoff passages still to come.

It's the best fight going.

Eric Neel is a regular columnist for Page 2.