Chain Reaction #4: Undercard (Mystery style)

[Stalker]

If you do not have a specified thread to role play in this is the spot for you.

Throw down challenges, introduce yourself, talk sh*t, whatever you feel like. This is where it's done. IF you want to be in a match at Chain Reaction 4 you must rp in this thread.

4 RP LIMIT 2k Word Count. Have fun!

 

[TSiegel]

(Fadein, a blue sky, brisk and breezy outside in las vegas, a park nearby Mateo's Pub. Birds chirp and cheep, and it's relatively nice morning after an otherwise bad-weather-weekend. The camera then cuts closer to the man with the Cowboy hat, usually face down on the bar after a night alcohol-injection and usually finds himself face down on the ground with his cowboy hat covering the one side of his face visible to the public to block out the sun. Stray bottles of booze lay scattered about as this time a boot appears out of no where, nudging Mateo afew times to wake him but to no avail. Thirty seconds later, a spring of sprinkler shooters punch through the grass and water sprays out, knocking the hat off his head on the first pass and shooting Mateo in the head second, waking him up violently as he flails about.)

EM: Ahh....nah mah...ah dahn wohna dannz lahk ayn eegipchen...ah dahn wohna dannz lahk ayn eegipchen...nah mah...nah mah...

(Mateo, thrown back on the grown temporarily blinded by the water.)

EM: Tha bluddy base'tard tha' dead thayt ass gahn' gayt et....

(Mateo keeps crawling until he comes up on a flyer for "Chain Reaction #4)

EM: Haaayyy....ah nose thayt plays....

(A hand protrudes from behind the camera and points over his shoulder at the feature that reads "Special Appearance by Erik Mateo and others". Mateo looks and takes five minutes to read it, as if it were a report being prepared to be accepted by an important Conference, and Mateo had to put his stamp of approval on it. Looking up at no one in particular, Mateo scratches his head.)

EM: Jes' hoo 'zacklee ahr tha' Udders?? Venci Depaulo ain' gon' bee en et....thayt udder cat hees fasing ain' et ether...lard nose he ain' parfeit...thayt stebie walls gah caynt much tango let 'lone walls....

(Mateo thinks for a minute.)

Ayn thayt Gary Indiana gah'....he cayn' eben stan' ah hayn'shayke, so hees out...

Ah wunder eff en'e'won wahnts tah eben faht??

Eft'er all...youse cane't wohk lahk ayn eegip'chen fereber...wail say aht Chen' R'achen....

(Realization sets in immediately after Mateo finishes the sentence and he smacks himself on the head as he grabs his hat, righting himself.)

EM: DAYMNN BAHNGELS!!!

(FADEOUT)

 

[TSiegel]

"Ah-coocheh-coocheh-coo....coocheh-cooche-coo...."

(Fadein, Mateo's Pub, where lights still flicker and bar stools and/or floor tables wobble. On the other end of the bar sits Mateo, almost completely out-cold, but in between consciousness, clearly by looking at him we can tell that he's in mid-dream-sequence.)

EM: Ah's nose youse tick'lish dahlen, thayts tha hole p'int, Mess Salleh Giggles...

(Allow me to cease this madness for a second...."Salleh Giggles" is nothing more than a stack of damp bar towels/rags that are just soft enough to present the image in Erik's mind that he's cuddling with a woman "After hours". Besides...this early in the morning, I highly doubt that "high-class women" would still be in a bar from the night before. Then again...this IS America...)

EM: Ah'ma tayks-ya home tah meet mah mudder...wha'cha thin' 'bout---AHHHHH-YYYOOOWW!!!!

(Mercifully, our friendly-natured hand from behind the camera, which had been nudging Mateo from behind the camera for the past three minutes, finally gives up and slaps Mateo upside the head, giving him abit of a rude-but-needed-wake-up call.)

EM: Hawt-lakered-less'be'an!!! Whut tha' hail....

(The "Camera-Hand" snaps it's fingers, gaining Mateos' attention, and points to the stack of towels/rags on the bar, and shakes a finger. Mateo, frantic to find a reason, finally gives up and attempts a topic change.)

EM: So whut 'er youse her' fer'?? Youse wonna shot?? Eyes' gahtta bit o' wiskeeh...

(No Whiskey.)

EM: Hail, jes' youse wayt ah tick...

(Time to go shopping, Erik. He shrugs his shoulders abit.)

EM: So ah' ohs' ya ones'....whyte....yer' thayt Ah-Dubya-Eff feller ain'tcha??

(Welcome to the conversation.)

EM: Wail...whuts' tha' prob'lame-o??

(Um...you tell us, Erik.)

EM: Whut'cha main?? Thayt maytch en See-yattel?? Ah hail...ah ain't feerin' nuthin' en thayt maytch....whah??

'Coss no-bodee wohnts to faht meh, thayts' whah....Ah'd faht thayt kaid hoe thanks hays top nahtch, bet tha' base-tard es tayk'en on thayt eegip'chen feller thayt gaht luckeh last wehk....thayt Steben Wolls feller dohn' wohn'ah tayn-goh wit' meh, 'coss ahs' gawt mer' mooves thain tha' Kobeh-feller dahn in Lost Angel's.

Ah meen...whose ailse es thar'?? Thayt Scott feller faisin' thayt Gary Indiana?? Ain't hes daddy tha' one who ow'ns owl them pap'r towels?? "Sup Pop Scott"??

Youse ah halfta perdon meh in a min-oo-toe, ah'm gon'a halfta POP-AH-SQUAT, ef ya get mah jest....wich' brangs' tah mahnd....Marie-Calendar....do yar'self ah fervor...sty' yar' ass aht home an' bayke them caykes....Es'peshall' them fudge brownehs....ah lahks ah good BUM...cayke...eff youse nose whut ah meens...an' ah'm pret' sher' ya doos...

(Something...*sniff, sniff*...doesn't...something smells awful...)

But fer' nah....youse gohn' halfta perdon' meh...Ah gots meh a prareh-dawg trah-en tah mayke an' 'pearance...so Ah's got'tah Pop a SCOTT...ah-meens SQUAT...awl hails...git' outta mah' ways...ah-gots'tah SHAIT!!!

(Cripes, my mouth was open and everything!!)

FADEOUT

 

[Pringles]

A 20 year old 4x4 rolls along a mud track in some unknown country. There isn't much life here, there is barely any greenery and trees are all all just branches, slowly dying.

The vehicle carries on up the mountain road, passing just a few stones and rumble as it continues.

As it takes a left, it turns into a clearing. There are empty cartridge cases and a brunt out car that would not look out of place in a Mall parking lot.

But what would look out of place would be the fifty men, all on there knees praying towards Mecca. None of them turn, or give any hint that they know the vehicle has hastily arrived.

All of the men following their religious duties are dressed the same, long white robes with small caps, they are kneeling on dirt and just one man is at the front directing them.

And then opens the doors to the jeep. A man gets out, his gowns are more prestigious, flowing in the wind they are dark red and they don't appear to have spent much time kneeling on the dirt. The men finish their business and get to their feet, they slowly make their way over to the man in red.

"The time has come, our wonderful leader has summoned two of you", he says in Arabic.

The men look at each other, all anticipating the news that they appear to have been waiting months for.

"All of you have provided him with great satisfaction, but two of you must be the first" he continues.

The man then pulls out a scroll from his robe.

"Brother Af'aa, I am asked to instruct you to take yourself and your cousin Nasr to the land of the United States. There you shall make us proud. There you shall show the world what we have been preparing for."

From the back of the group a man walks forward. He has long shoulder length wirey hair - jet black and dirty. His beard is not as full or as thick as others, and most notably he wears a patch over his left eye.

"I am Af'aa of Riyadh, Son of Mustafa"

As soon as he began to speak another, younger looking man appears. He has a shaved head but a thick black beard. His eyes piercing, and obviously excited.

"Mustafa was my Uncle, I am Nasr."

The man in red shakes hands with both, and pulls them both in to grasp them firmly.

"Your time is now my brothers..."

The others start to cheer, they throw their arms in the air and start to chant.

The day has come.