Post by Jet Somers on Apr 29, 2011 3:22:48 GMT -5
παγίδα
Another rambling trip through unknown sylvan territory. More lugging of this oversized bag with all it's electronic surveillance equipment. Another night wasted trying to repay an overzealous dirt sheet reporter for a halfway effort.
There's no moon tonight. Where I'd had trouble picking my way last week, this week is groping about in the dark, silently cursing my noisy stumbling. I cannot lie to myself like I can my competitors, however. I want that video spread around the virulent internet almost more than Pepper does. Gabrielle, the obvious image facet of the Human Resource Department, now exposed for the clown she is. Already she dances for the masses, strutting her whore's body around, taking no shame in her lack of inhibitions. And so, I would love to see her ruined face when she logs in to her personal computer and sees her shattered image being made love to by a gorilla. Candidly captured by me.
I must pause for a rest. This wood is sweltering.
How can the Department stand up to my blatant laying bare of their faults? Each week I've exposed the hollow entertainment of Travis Pierce for the out and out slapstick it truly is. Like a disgusting Will Ferrell he flaunts his inanity for the drooling masses, and they eat it up. When a true talent imitates the jester, the masses turn their heads in disgust.
Even those from the old camp, like Phrixus Deimos, don't have the grasp to see what is happening. Standing back and letting the chips fall as they may and mulishly butting my head against it as he has done will do no good. These are men of action we stand against, and action had to be taken. But first, exposing their lies with a lie of my own was in order.
Of course what I did was a lie. Lies are entertainment, and entertainment is a lie, much like the reign of Travis Pierce. He and Ooley think they've bought the future, with the monkeys down on their knees begging them for more. The truth is that the comedy regime has already grown stale.
Time to get moving again. Damn Tyvola for living like a vagrant. Trespassing into the air conditioned apartment building of a celebrity would have been easier than this. Who would have thought a man built like a haystack would be the proverbial needle in the haystack?
Wait, what's this? Could my luck have changed right on the verge of concession?
Railroad tie walls, haphazardly slapped together in a construction reminiscent of an incomplete Lego set. Carcasses make the lay of the land in the clearing resemble the leavings of a Biblical plague. And all about, the distinctive and cloying odor of dirty, dirty secks. Finally, this is den of the Jackal. Time to make history.
Moving slowly into the clearing, I unsling the duffel while inching my way up to the hovel.
With the thud of a creosote treated, 200 pound timber across the back of my head, I greet blackness as the smell of cedar fills my nostrils.
----------
φυλακισμένος
His eyes open, barely. The immense pain he is in is like a blanket wrapped tightly around his entire body. Or maybe that is his bindings cutting into his flesh.
...
He can make out his equipment, now set up so much closer to the area than he had ever intended. And an image of what Jet always had in his head that Odin must look like, only with two eyes, staring blankly into the distance.
...
Some beast, standing erect like a man, seems to mimic a game show host, rocking up on his toes, and adjusting what seems to be an imaginary tie.
...
A gruff voice might be addressing him, but he can't make sense of it. The voice seems familiar.
...
Jet tries to force a response, but a pained whimper is all he can manage.
...
All at once, it feels like there are three people in the room, instead of Jet and his captor alone. He cranes his stiff and aching neck around, trying to catch a glimpse of this interloper, but the room seems otherwise empty. As the beast become man blows out the lamp, Jet can swear he sees two people leave the room, the giant manbearpig, and an almost dainty cohort.
...
A mumbled "Thanks for coming," and Jet is dumped on the hardpacked earth.
----------
καθρέπτης
"I shoulda done this weeks ago," Gian mutters to himself as he knocks on the apartment door Jet used to share with Jezebel Saint, "Last time he went off the deep end like this he ended up getting himself shot."
There is no response, so Gian tries the knob, and to his surprise, the door swings outward as he turns.
Even more to his surprise is the abyss he finds himself staring into. It takes a full minute before he is able to move his gaze around, tracking the black surfaces and trying to find some sort of relief in the inky blackness. He ventures a step into the ruined apartment, turning about fully in the walk in, taking in the obsidian false night. Starlight is all that can escape the enameled light fixtures, and the only way he is able to make out anything. The severity of the detail is astounding. No surface has escaped Jet's brush. The salt and pepper shakers are as if made of onyx, the throw pillows might have been dipped in pitch, the matted carpet looks landscaped in soot. Going from room to room, Gian gasps at he painted over windows, picture frames, even electronics. He finally finds his sparring partner, spattered from head to toe, leaning into the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.
Dipping a fine #6 Filbert brush into a can situated on a scrap of newspaper, Jet applies careful strokes to a bottle of aspirin. The interior of the cabinet is all raven, and as he replaces the aspirin bottle, the project is complete.
"I thought you'd come," Jet announces in monotone, closing the mirrored door on the cabinet. It too, has been rendered sable at the Wild Card's hand, "Tell me, what do you see here?"
"It's black, Jet, I don't see anything," Gian shrugs. He notes the dried blood around Jet's neck, face, and shoulders.
Jet's brow furrows, as he contemplates a non-existent reflection.
"Really?" he gestures at the surface of the looking glass, "because I see so much."
"Look here, at the reflection of every entertainment professional to grace the UGWC ring," he smiles in a bittersweet way, "look, and find the values we represent. Family values, those which cause us to punish the noble intentions of a grandson with insults, shame, and ultimately destruction. Companion values, those which teach us that in order to assuage ourselves of the guilt of our wrongdoings, we must first alienate the only people who support us, and destroy our ties to humanity. Relationship values, those which justify us when we grape and destroy a sacred act, parading it as entertainment, selling it to the masses in it's most basal and animal form, simply to line the pockets of our superiors. Nobility values, those which convince us that a career villain may suddenly turn hero if he can only save the business he has spent years sullying from the latest opportunists to take advantage of the climate. Harmony values, those which trick us into thinking that the only way to succeed is by either seeking out the most violent persona we can unleash within ourselves, or by aligning ourselves with a partner even more unbalanced than we are."
"Jet, you don't look so good," Gian interrupts, "maybe you should see a doctor?"
"LOOK!" he grabs the door and swings it outward, then slams it back into place so hard a crack appears in the upper
corner. Without blinking, Jet picks up the brush and begins to paint over the imperfection.
"You see how easily we cover ourselves with masks?" Jet laughs. "Whether we mask our thuggishness with puppy love or the pursuit of success, whether we mask our own insecurities by not questioning the actions of our supposed allies, or whether we mask our failing pride with false superiority over an untested new batch of opponents, it's all too easy to assume the role that comes with the costume. Even when we feel we have to question our own actions, we would much rather slip into the shoes we are more comfortable in, and let the drama unfold as it may, regardless of how tangled a mass we make when we crash land in reality."
"You've lost me," Gian wonders if he can get to his cell phone without Jet noticing, and if he can, who the hell will he call?
Alex? Ezekiel?
"It looks so simple, doesn't it?" Jet steeples his fingers against the mirror. "One color, one face, but beneath it is a maelstrom, a mix, a melting pot in which we all become one another, and pour ourselves into a mold we hate."
He turns finally to stare wide eyed and vacant at Gian.
"You know what I see when I look in this mirror?" Jet shakes his head. "I see an empty vessel, with every bit of every other person I work with threatening to fill it. I see their sins reflected in me. I used to think I was better than this place. Now I see the truth."
He turns back to the mirror.
"I won't beat UGWC, because I am UGWC."
----------
λυρικός
...
you're corrupt
bring corruption to all that you touch
you behold
and beholden for all that you've done
...
you will risk all their lives and their souls
you will burn
...
what we've become
it's contrary to what we want
take a bow[/i]
Another rambling trip through unknown sylvan territory. More lugging of this oversized bag with all it's electronic surveillance equipment. Another night wasted trying to repay an overzealous dirt sheet reporter for a halfway effort.
There's no moon tonight. Where I'd had trouble picking my way last week, this week is groping about in the dark, silently cursing my noisy stumbling. I cannot lie to myself like I can my competitors, however. I want that video spread around the virulent internet almost more than Pepper does. Gabrielle, the obvious image facet of the Human Resource Department, now exposed for the clown she is. Already she dances for the masses, strutting her whore's body around, taking no shame in her lack of inhibitions. And so, I would love to see her ruined face when she logs in to her personal computer and sees her shattered image being made love to by a gorilla. Candidly captured by me.
I must pause for a rest. This wood is sweltering.
How can the Department stand up to my blatant laying bare of their faults? Each week I've exposed the hollow entertainment of Travis Pierce for the out and out slapstick it truly is. Like a disgusting Will Ferrell he flaunts his inanity for the drooling masses, and they eat it up. When a true talent imitates the jester, the masses turn their heads in disgust.
Even those from the old camp, like Phrixus Deimos, don't have the grasp to see what is happening. Standing back and letting the chips fall as they may and mulishly butting my head against it as he has done will do no good. These are men of action we stand against, and action had to be taken. But first, exposing their lies with a lie of my own was in order.
Of course what I did was a lie. Lies are entertainment, and entertainment is a lie, much like the reign of Travis Pierce. He and Ooley think they've bought the future, with the monkeys down on their knees begging them for more. The truth is that the comedy regime has already grown stale.
Time to get moving again. Damn Tyvola for living like a vagrant. Trespassing into the air conditioned apartment building of a celebrity would have been easier than this. Who would have thought a man built like a haystack would be the proverbial needle in the haystack?
Wait, what's this? Could my luck have changed right on the verge of concession?
Railroad tie walls, haphazardly slapped together in a construction reminiscent of an incomplete Lego set. Carcasses make the lay of the land in the clearing resemble the leavings of a Biblical plague. And all about, the distinctive and cloying odor of dirty, dirty secks. Finally, this is den of the Jackal. Time to make history.
Moving slowly into the clearing, I unsling the duffel while inching my way up to the hovel.
With the thud of a creosote treated, 200 pound timber across the back of my head, I greet blackness as the smell of cedar fills my nostrils.
----------
φυλακισμένος
His eyes open, barely. The immense pain he is in is like a blanket wrapped tightly around his entire body. Or maybe that is his bindings cutting into his flesh.
...
He can make out his equipment, now set up so much closer to the area than he had ever intended. And an image of what Jet always had in his head that Odin must look like, only with two eyes, staring blankly into the distance.
...
Some beast, standing erect like a man, seems to mimic a game show host, rocking up on his toes, and adjusting what seems to be an imaginary tie.
...
A gruff voice might be addressing him, but he can't make sense of it. The voice seems familiar.
...
Jet tries to force a response, but a pained whimper is all he can manage.
...
All at once, it feels like there are three people in the room, instead of Jet and his captor alone. He cranes his stiff and aching neck around, trying to catch a glimpse of this interloper, but the room seems otherwise empty. As the beast become man blows out the lamp, Jet can swear he sees two people leave the room, the giant manbearpig, and an almost dainty cohort.
...
A mumbled "Thanks for coming," and Jet is dumped on the hardpacked earth.
----------
καθρέπτης
"I shoulda done this weeks ago," Gian mutters to himself as he knocks on the apartment door Jet used to share with Jezebel Saint, "Last time he went off the deep end like this he ended up getting himself shot."
There is no response, so Gian tries the knob, and to his surprise, the door swings outward as he turns.
Even more to his surprise is the abyss he finds himself staring into. It takes a full minute before he is able to move his gaze around, tracking the black surfaces and trying to find some sort of relief in the inky blackness. He ventures a step into the ruined apartment, turning about fully in the walk in, taking in the obsidian false night. Starlight is all that can escape the enameled light fixtures, and the only way he is able to make out anything. The severity of the detail is astounding. No surface has escaped Jet's brush. The salt and pepper shakers are as if made of onyx, the throw pillows might have been dipped in pitch, the matted carpet looks landscaped in soot. Going from room to room, Gian gasps at he painted over windows, picture frames, even electronics. He finally finds his sparring partner, spattered from head to toe, leaning into the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.
Dipping a fine #6 Filbert brush into a can situated on a scrap of newspaper, Jet applies careful strokes to a bottle of aspirin. The interior of the cabinet is all raven, and as he replaces the aspirin bottle, the project is complete.
"I thought you'd come," Jet announces in monotone, closing the mirrored door on the cabinet. It too, has been rendered sable at the Wild Card's hand, "Tell me, what do you see here?"
"It's black, Jet, I don't see anything," Gian shrugs. He notes the dried blood around Jet's neck, face, and shoulders.
Jet's brow furrows, as he contemplates a non-existent reflection.
"Really?" he gestures at the surface of the looking glass, "because I see so much."
"Look here, at the reflection of every entertainment professional to grace the UGWC ring," he smiles in a bittersweet way, "look, and find the values we represent. Family values, those which cause us to punish the noble intentions of a grandson with insults, shame, and ultimately destruction. Companion values, those which teach us that in order to assuage ourselves of the guilt of our wrongdoings, we must first alienate the only people who support us, and destroy our ties to humanity. Relationship values, those which justify us when we grape and destroy a sacred act, parading it as entertainment, selling it to the masses in it's most basal and animal form, simply to line the pockets of our superiors. Nobility values, those which convince us that a career villain may suddenly turn hero if he can only save the business he has spent years sullying from the latest opportunists to take advantage of the climate. Harmony values, those which trick us into thinking that the only way to succeed is by either seeking out the most violent persona we can unleash within ourselves, or by aligning ourselves with a partner even more unbalanced than we are."
"Jet, you don't look so good," Gian interrupts, "maybe you should see a doctor?"
"LOOK!" he grabs the door and swings it outward, then slams it back into place so hard a crack appears in the upper
corner. Without blinking, Jet picks up the brush and begins to paint over the imperfection.
"You see how easily we cover ourselves with masks?" Jet laughs. "Whether we mask our thuggishness with puppy love or the pursuit of success, whether we mask our own insecurities by not questioning the actions of our supposed allies, or whether we mask our failing pride with false superiority over an untested new batch of opponents, it's all too easy to assume the role that comes with the costume. Even when we feel we have to question our own actions, we would much rather slip into the shoes we are more comfortable in, and let the drama unfold as it may, regardless of how tangled a mass we make when we crash land in reality."
"You've lost me," Gian wonders if he can get to his cell phone without Jet noticing, and if he can, who the hell will he call?
Alex? Ezekiel?
"It looks so simple, doesn't it?" Jet steeples his fingers against the mirror. "One color, one face, but beneath it is a maelstrom, a mix, a melting pot in which we all become one another, and pour ourselves into a mold we hate."
He turns finally to stare wide eyed and vacant at Gian.
"You know what I see when I look in this mirror?" Jet shakes his head. "I see an empty vessel, with every bit of every other person I work with threatening to fill it. I see their sins reflected in me. I used to think I was better than this place. Now I see the truth."
He turns back to the mirror.
"I won't beat UGWC, because I am UGWC."
----------
λυρικός
...
you're corrupt
bring corruption to all that you touch
you behold
and beholden for all that you've done
...
you will risk all their lives and their souls
you will burn
...
what we've become
it's contrary to what we want
take a bow