Post by nbk on Sept 2, 2011 10:34:13 GMT -5
Outlast hadn't been exactly what you had expected, instead of illuminating the event with your precise and stunning shots during the action, you had instead been stuck backstage with some metrosexual simpleton as he tried to get a few words from the monosyllabic failures who hadn't advanced to the final match. You had considered as you wasted close to three hours of your life on this assignment, that this kind of man was why the 'talent' treated the rest of the crew with such contempt.
It was incredibly difficult to explain the existence of this individual within the company, because as far as you could tell there was neither a need nor a want for characters of his ilk. He wasn't your general roving reporter like Grey Coppi or Roxy Malone, even Jason Reeves looked like a respected journalist when placed in context with this walking phallus, and that was clearly saying something. He had no purpose you could discern, and certainly no relevance to anything the company was trying to achieve. And to top it all off he was wearing eye liner, mascara and you were pretty sure his nails were covered in varnish.
You had been reflecting on this for the past week or so, and the only possible explanation for your employers wasting your vast talent on this backstage irrelevance was your flippant attitude in completing the competency test just before Outlast. You're not too sure what they had expected from you, clearly you were better educated and less mentally deficient than your peers, so there was never a risk of you buying into any of the ludicrous and far fetched tales the 'talent' spun around themselves. Surely even your average 8 year old would be insulted by the implication that he would believe any of the creative diarrhea that spewed forth from most in the company on a weekly basis. Had they really expected you to take it seriously?
Wasn't it evident, despite the flippancy, that you had a solid grasp and understanding of the various ridiculous storylines and arc's that you were expected to endure day in day out each month? Wasn't that enough? Then again, this wasn't exactly an industry well known for rational or logical thinking. So who was really the bigger idiot, them for expected such little of you, or you for expecting them to be capable of clarity of thought?
This was the first step of your journey to respect and credibility within your chosen field, and you knew from the start you would face unfathomable decisions and requests in this industry, and that you would have to navigate them to the best of your, albeit impressive, abilities until you were able to free yourself from this hellish existence.
And then, on your way to the cafeteria, you are presented with one of the more predictable obstacles you would have to pass in your pursuit of success and expedition from self loathing.
You set up the tripod, fix the camera.
And start shooting.
The Natural Born Killer just stands in the middle of this empty corridor, holding the Chaos Championship close to his face with his right arm.
To be a Champion is said to be a great honor, to hold a title in this establishment is perceived as an achievement of great substance...but to The Screams and The Killer...this...has become a distraction, a dead weight around our midsection. We are no longer concerned with dancing...with the dregs of evolution...with the very bottom dwellers our Lord would have no time for. It achieves nothing...and brings us no closer to our salvation at his hands...
Once this mere symbol brought great excitement and anticipation to the Screams...it promised to bring the stronger and more focused minds to our doorstep...the satisfaction of dancing with a better calibre of prey. This was meant to signal the beginning of a new, and more promising era for The Killer and his passengers, on filled with the potential of epic entanglements, and prolonged periods of calm inside the skull of the Killer. Instead...
Instead, we seem to be stuck on an endless loop of peering into the vast, empty voids that are Medos, Cockatoo and their ilk. There is only so much that The Killer can milk from these specimens, before The Screams become tired and agitated. They do not understand...the concept of honor, or responsibility. They wish to discard this...insignificant anchor of inadequacy...and cast of for the shores of more plentiful lands...they do not accept that we must continue to dwell on the island of the forgotten and irrelevant until someone takes our mantle of King of the Underbelly from us.
The Killer hopes, beyond all that is rational, that Paul Cockatoo will surprise us all, that he will rise above his history of insignificance and buffoonery, belie his reputation as nothing more than fodder for those on their way up, and finally present the kind of challenge...that all the evidence suggests he is utterly incapable of ...and grant us freedom from this.
It is of no use to us now, there is no honor like that of serving in the name of our Lord, to humble ourselves for his greater glory, to give our very selves to his cause. Just being a part of his Circle, has brought us dances we could never have dreamed of...The Screams have tangoed with Ghosts and Dragons, even the greatest beast in this domain. Without The Prince...this would never have been achieved...especially not with...this.
This...only serves those that wish to serve themselves, no longer does The Killer nor the Screams search for personal glory to tempt our prey, this is needless and insignificant...we serve for the glory of the Prince and all he stands for, as that is the only way towards our true salvation.[/b]
The Killer looks back towards the belt, and merely shakes his head despondantly before turning and disappearing from the shot.
And the filming stops.
You were expected to put up with this madness on almost a daily basis, and not be flippant, surely that was almost impossible. Look at what you had to deal with, next thing you knew people would be telling you a shape shifter had joined the ranks, and you'd be expected to not even crack a smile at such ludicrousness.
Your lip would be undergoing a lot of biting in the months to come, that much was obvious.
It was incredibly difficult to explain the existence of this individual within the company, because as far as you could tell there was neither a need nor a want for characters of his ilk. He wasn't your general roving reporter like Grey Coppi or Roxy Malone, even Jason Reeves looked like a respected journalist when placed in context with this walking phallus, and that was clearly saying something. He had no purpose you could discern, and certainly no relevance to anything the company was trying to achieve. And to top it all off he was wearing eye liner, mascara and you were pretty sure his nails were covered in varnish.
You had been reflecting on this for the past week or so, and the only possible explanation for your employers wasting your vast talent on this backstage irrelevance was your flippant attitude in completing the competency test just before Outlast. You're not too sure what they had expected from you, clearly you were better educated and less mentally deficient than your peers, so there was never a risk of you buying into any of the ludicrous and far fetched tales the 'talent' spun around themselves. Surely even your average 8 year old would be insulted by the implication that he would believe any of the creative diarrhea that spewed forth from most in the company on a weekly basis. Had they really expected you to take it seriously?
Wasn't it evident, despite the flippancy, that you had a solid grasp and understanding of the various ridiculous storylines and arc's that you were expected to endure day in day out each month? Wasn't that enough? Then again, this wasn't exactly an industry well known for rational or logical thinking. So who was really the bigger idiot, them for expected such little of you, or you for expecting them to be capable of clarity of thought?
This was the first step of your journey to respect and credibility within your chosen field, and you knew from the start you would face unfathomable decisions and requests in this industry, and that you would have to navigate them to the best of your, albeit impressive, abilities until you were able to free yourself from this hellish existence.
And then, on your way to the cafeteria, you are presented with one of the more predictable obstacles you would have to pass in your pursuit of success and expedition from self loathing.
You set up the tripod, fix the camera.
And start shooting.
The Natural Born Killer just stands in the middle of this empty corridor, holding the Chaos Championship close to his face with his right arm.
To be a Champion is said to be a great honor, to hold a title in this establishment is perceived as an achievement of great substance...but to The Screams and The Killer...this...has become a distraction, a dead weight around our midsection. We are no longer concerned with dancing...with the dregs of evolution...with the very bottom dwellers our Lord would have no time for. It achieves nothing...and brings us no closer to our salvation at his hands...
Once this mere symbol brought great excitement and anticipation to the Screams...it promised to bring the stronger and more focused minds to our doorstep...the satisfaction of dancing with a better calibre of prey. This was meant to signal the beginning of a new, and more promising era for The Killer and his passengers, on filled with the potential of epic entanglements, and prolonged periods of calm inside the skull of the Killer. Instead...
Instead, we seem to be stuck on an endless loop of peering into the vast, empty voids that are Medos, Cockatoo and their ilk. There is only so much that The Killer can milk from these specimens, before The Screams become tired and agitated. They do not understand...the concept of honor, or responsibility. They wish to discard this...insignificant anchor of inadequacy...and cast of for the shores of more plentiful lands...they do not accept that we must continue to dwell on the island of the forgotten and irrelevant until someone takes our mantle of King of the Underbelly from us.
The Killer hopes, beyond all that is rational, that Paul Cockatoo will surprise us all, that he will rise above his history of insignificance and buffoonery, belie his reputation as nothing more than fodder for those on their way up, and finally present the kind of challenge...that all the evidence suggests he is utterly incapable of ...and grant us freedom from this.
It is of no use to us now, there is no honor like that of serving in the name of our Lord, to humble ourselves for his greater glory, to give our very selves to his cause. Just being a part of his Circle, has brought us dances we could never have dreamed of...The Screams have tangoed with Ghosts and Dragons, even the greatest beast in this domain. Without The Prince...this would never have been achieved...especially not with...this.
This...only serves those that wish to serve themselves, no longer does The Killer nor the Screams search for personal glory to tempt our prey, this is needless and insignificant...we serve for the glory of the Prince and all he stands for, as that is the only way towards our true salvation.[/b]
The Killer looks back towards the belt, and merely shakes his head despondantly before turning and disappearing from the shot.
And the filming stops.
You were expected to put up with this madness on almost a daily basis, and not be flippant, surely that was almost impossible. Look at what you had to deal with, next thing you knew people would be telling you a shape shifter had joined the ranks, and you'd be expected to not even crack a smile at such ludicrousness.
Your lip would be undergoing a lot of biting in the months to come, that much was obvious.
x2
