Post by EmbodimentOfFear on Dec 8, 2018 21:04:54 GMT -5
December 2
They flood me as a vicious parade of painful memories.
The Battalion. The Dungeon. Zane. Roberts. Remi. Killian. Eden. Rydell.
I have never won at Horizons. It remains the most outstanding blemish on my record, the shortcoming that seems destined to anchor me to mediocrity every year at this time. This year has a steep climb if I am to buck the trend, with an unpredictable mess of a match, compounded by a defending champion that has been afforded an advantage.
Two rising stars. Two veterans in the process of reinventing themselves for renewed success.
And me.
The one simply looking for something to hold on to.
“It’s the standard forms, waivers, shit like that. Just go ahead and sign.”
“Standard? This is the first time you have done this in all the years I have known you.”
I sift quickly through the stack of papers that Ooley has placed in front of me.
“Some of this is your cable bill.”
“Yeah, actually, don’t worry about any of that.”
He snatches the papers back up and tosses them into the garbage can. As far as pretenses go, this was far from the most convincing.
“Ol’ Bob is going to shoot straight with you, Scared. We’ve known each other a long time.”
“Seventeen years.”
“Right, seventeen...seventeen? Shit. Anyway, it’s the end of the year, means Hamstrings is about to be done, and the Creative Director position is about to open up again.”
“You want me to be the next Creative Director?”
“Fuck no. Can’t read your handwriting, we’d never get anything done. Best you put that idea right out of your mind.”
“Not a consideration.”
“Good. We’re done then.”
He stands with his baseball bat over his shoulder and starts to leave.
“So you think I am finished too.”
He stops and loudly sighs.
“You’re going to make me fucking do this, aren’t you.”
A deep breath, and now he sits back down.
“You get all depressed and shit every year at Horizons. I don’t really care why. Maybe you never got over stabbing your partner in the back at this event. Survivor’s guilt, I don’t know. Again, don’t care. You lose a lot this time of year. Big deal. You know what else you’ve never done, besides win at Horizons? You’ve never been the Chaos Champion. Means you’re not a Grand Slam Champion. Hard to believe some of the assholes that have pulled that bit off, and you of all people haven’t. So here’s your chance to kill two birds with one stone, or whatever it is the damned vegans want us to say now. Feed two birds with one seed. Dumb shit.”
Ooley stands back up and points the bat at me.
“You’re always writing in that stupid book. Write some affirmative crap. Manifest some good shit. Works for me. I look in the mirror and let Ol’ Bob know how great he is every morning, then I go out an own the shit out of the day.”
“I have no doubt.”
December 7
I will not use Twitter. It is the thought vomit of the imbecile.
I will continue to not wear a mask, and marvel at the bumblings of the confused window lickers who insist otherwise.
I will not misplace this journal. It seems every time I take my eyes off it, some miscreant or another uses it for a doodle pad.
I shall avoid Jet Somers. This is simply practical behavior for any year.
I will continue to serve as the conscience for this roster, to hold each and every member accountable for their actions, their thoughts, their very character or lack thereof.
And I will make them fear me again.
They flood me as a vicious parade of painful memories.
The Battalion. The Dungeon. Zane. Roberts. Remi. Killian. Eden. Rydell.
I have never won at Horizons. It remains the most outstanding blemish on my record, the shortcoming that seems destined to anchor me to mediocrity every year at this time. This year has a steep climb if I am to buck the trend, with an unpredictable mess of a match, compounded by a defending champion that has been afforded an advantage.
Two rising stars. Two veterans in the process of reinventing themselves for renewed success.
And me.
The one simply looking for something to hold on to.
* * * * *
“It’s the standard forms, waivers, shit like that. Just go ahead and sign.”
“Standard? This is the first time you have done this in all the years I have known you.”
I sift quickly through the stack of papers that Ooley has placed in front of me.
“Some of this is your cable bill.”
“Yeah, actually, don’t worry about any of that.”
He snatches the papers back up and tosses them into the garbage can. As far as pretenses go, this was far from the most convincing.
“Ol’ Bob is going to shoot straight with you, Scared. We’ve known each other a long time.”
“Seventeen years.”
“Right, seventeen...seventeen? Shit. Anyway, it’s the end of the year, means Hamstrings is about to be done, and the Creative Director position is about to open up again.”
“You want me to be the next Creative Director?”
“Fuck no. Can’t read your handwriting, we’d never get anything done. Best you put that idea right out of your mind.”
“Not a consideration.”
“Good. We’re done then.”
He stands with his baseball bat over his shoulder and starts to leave.
“So you think I am finished too.”
He stops and loudly sighs.
“You’re going to make me fucking do this, aren’t you.”
A deep breath, and now he sits back down.
“You get all depressed and shit every year at Horizons. I don’t really care why. Maybe you never got over stabbing your partner in the back at this event. Survivor’s guilt, I don’t know. Again, don’t care. You lose a lot this time of year. Big deal. You know what else you’ve never done, besides win at Horizons? You’ve never been the Chaos Champion. Means you’re not a Grand Slam Champion. Hard to believe some of the assholes that have pulled that bit off, and you of all people haven’t. So here’s your chance to kill two birds with one stone, or whatever it is the damned vegans want us to say now. Feed two birds with one seed. Dumb shit.”
Ooley stands back up and points the bat at me.
“You’re always writing in that stupid book. Write some affirmative crap. Manifest some good shit. Works for me. I look in the mirror and let Ol’ Bob know how great he is every morning, then I go out an own the shit out of the day.”
“I have no doubt.”
* * * * *
December 7
I will not use Twitter. It is the thought vomit of the imbecile.
I will continue to not wear a mask, and marvel at the bumblings of the confused window lickers who insist otherwise.
I will not misplace this journal. It seems every time I take my eyes off it, some miscreant or another uses it for a doodle pad.
I shall avoid Jet Somers. This is simply practical behavior for any year.
I will continue to serve as the conscience for this roster, to hold each and every member accountable for their actions, their thoughts, their very character or lack thereof.
And I will make them fear me again.