SigilOfLeviBF
Terrance's #2 Fan
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 17
- Points
- 0
(FADEIN: CASTOR V. STRIFE sits in an indigo director's chair, wearing a gas mask and a knee brace. He's also wearing some fancy clothing I just don't have the will-power to describe, but you can imagine it's pretty damn fancy.)
CASTOR: (Sounding muffled through the gas mask) It only gets worse as the minutes pass, this...infection. I blame all of you, you know. This is your virus, you created it, yet you're all somehow immune. I, on the other hand, am not...so here I am, plagued with the diseases you have no doubt created with your own banality. But my contempt for you pigs has not made me forget how excited I am to share something with you. It's a story. I was at a diner with Lana and Benjamin a couple of days ago, and in the booth ahead of us was a fat woman, eating waffles. At first, I couldn't help but admire her level of concentration. Her world consisted of two things at that point; herself and her waffles. It was like watching a lion with its zebra. No doubt, I would rather have prefered watching an actual lion eating a zebra to this wild boar and her waffles, as you could imagine my description cannot do justice to the awful site that was this woman slob. At this point, my admiration wore thin, and my eyes caught a glimpse of her tree stump legs. When I tell you that the veins in her legs resembled Charlotte's web, I am making a gross understatement. I wanted her to live the rest of her life with a flaming hot blade of iron through her uterus, so that she wouldn't dare to even think about eating ever again. I wanted to jab my fork into her ass. But then I reconsidered.
Why did I care so much about killing this poor slob? And then I remembered. It was because I didn't beat Shane Southern. So then I thought some more. Why didn't I beat Shane Southern? And yet again, I remembered. It was all Benjamin's fault. He interfered in the match, hoping he could move things along a bit faster than they were going, and he wound up injuring my knee and costing me the match. End of story. Needless to say, my recollection did not make the rest of Benjamin's day delightful. The moral of this story? Someone's always accountable, and even I am affected by this. Now, as I watch my knee grow stronger, though my stomach grows weak, I feel as if I'm no longer the director, but the omnipresent narrator of NFW, and it is my job to make sure everything's in its right place. You figure out the rest. Insects do not belong at the top of the food chain. This is not an open challenge to anyone who thinks they can defeat me, but an open challenge to the ENTIRE NFW ROSTER. Sooner or later, every one of you will have to face me. The time to be afraid is (looks at wrist watch)...oh, well look at that...now. To sum things up, and make them short...you're all screwed. Now have fun at your barbeques, you future chemo patients, you.
(FTB)
CASTOR: (Sounding muffled through the gas mask) It only gets worse as the minutes pass, this...infection. I blame all of you, you know. This is your virus, you created it, yet you're all somehow immune. I, on the other hand, am not...so here I am, plagued with the diseases you have no doubt created with your own banality. But my contempt for you pigs has not made me forget how excited I am to share something with you. It's a story. I was at a diner with Lana and Benjamin a couple of days ago, and in the booth ahead of us was a fat woman, eating waffles. At first, I couldn't help but admire her level of concentration. Her world consisted of two things at that point; herself and her waffles. It was like watching a lion with its zebra. No doubt, I would rather have prefered watching an actual lion eating a zebra to this wild boar and her waffles, as you could imagine my description cannot do justice to the awful site that was this woman slob. At this point, my admiration wore thin, and my eyes caught a glimpse of her tree stump legs. When I tell you that the veins in her legs resembled Charlotte's web, I am making a gross understatement. I wanted her to live the rest of her life with a flaming hot blade of iron through her uterus, so that she wouldn't dare to even think about eating ever again. I wanted to jab my fork into her ass. But then I reconsidered.
Why did I care so much about killing this poor slob? And then I remembered. It was because I didn't beat Shane Southern. So then I thought some more. Why didn't I beat Shane Southern? And yet again, I remembered. It was all Benjamin's fault. He interfered in the match, hoping he could move things along a bit faster than they were going, and he wound up injuring my knee and costing me the match. End of story. Needless to say, my recollection did not make the rest of Benjamin's day delightful. The moral of this story? Someone's always accountable, and even I am affected by this. Now, as I watch my knee grow stronger, though my stomach grows weak, I feel as if I'm no longer the director, but the omnipresent narrator of NFW, and it is my job to make sure everything's in its right place. You figure out the rest. Insects do not belong at the top of the food chain. This is not an open challenge to anyone who thinks they can defeat me, but an open challenge to the ENTIRE NFW ROSTER. Sooner or later, every one of you will have to face me. The time to be afraid is (looks at wrist watch)...oh, well look at that...now. To sum things up, and make them short...you're all screwed. Now have fun at your barbeques, you future chemo patients, you.
(FTB)