Frozen Atlantic
League Member
- Joined
- Jul 4, 2007
- Messages
- 202
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 38
Nobody wants to wake up to the Chemical Brothers. But it was the morning or afternoon after Crash 42, and they must have run out of cool songs by black people, because the playlist had shifted. Teresa wakes up in a tent, under a makeshift cot, next to some douchebag she didn’t remember, the smell of unspeakable substances and human burnout hangover drifting in the air. It had been Minion #1’s responsibility to fend off the sexual advances of the filthy hippie masses while she got blazed out of her mind. She lifts an eyebrow at the specimen waking up next to her. Minion #1 had failed. Miserably.
“Hey, you’re... did... did I stick it in you last night?”
She frowns and looks under the sheet. “Yeah, probably. Give yourself a high five.”
He moans and kisses the small of her neck. “Wanna do it again? Like, awake and rememberin’ and stuff?”
“Absoutely not.” If anything, her frown intensifies as she reaches out of the cot, grabs a robe, puts it on, and staggers out of the tent, still dizzy from the night before.
“Hey! You ****in’ *****!”
She turns around and looks at him.
“... Sorry.”
“Uh huh.” She gropes for the cover of the tent, opens it, and steps outside, covering her eyes from the sudden infusion of light. “Minion! You’re in for a –“
“Miss Quaranta?” The voice has a measured, Midwestern accent. Flat, reasonable, enunciated. Probably the only sober person for a mile in any direction. She turns to the speaker, a short, middle aged man with wireframed glasses. He’s carrying a very large giftwrapped box.
“Who the hell are you? Where’s Minion #1?”
“He... didn’t serve you very well last night, and we took the liberty of recalling him.”
“Are you from the catalog?”
“No.” He stretches the box out to her, and she accepts it skeptically. ”I’m here to deliver an offering.”
“Wha?” She puts it down, and they share an awkwardmoment; he’s clearly unwilling to leave, and she’s not sure howto dismiss him. “Uh, you want a tip or –“
“No!” He flinches as if she’s physically slapped him. “Only, if it pleases you, Miss Quaranta, could you view the gift now and bestow approval upon it?"
Her paranoia’s immediately sparked – time in professional wrestling will do that to you. ”Stand back,” she snaps, and the man quickly complies, taking three steps back. Slowly, and without taking her eyes off of him, she kneels and opens it. There is one thing in the box, but many different ones.
“How did you... who are you?”
He points at a card on the box. She reads it, titling her head quizzically.
“Courtesy, Your Adoring Public. Hm... curious.” She picks up the box and walks away, slowly making her way through the wasteland of California stoners.
“Uh, Miss Quaranta? If it pleases you to tell –“
“It doesn’t.”
She had a long way to go, and no one to carry this box for her.
tap. scroll.
“Ha.”
taptaptap. scroll.
taptaptaptap tap tap. scroll.
“Haha.”
taptap taptaptap. scroll.
“Hahahahaha...”
CUEUP: “Crime Scene, Part One” by The Afghan Whigs. The darkness breaks, to display a very zoomed in photograph of the man called Legion in black and white, center of an NFW ring. Slowly, the camera zooms outward , showing us the entire picture, and the black and white photos next to it. Nova, Hiroshi, Dusk, Ryan and almost everyone else are featured once or twice, and the carnage and riots of the night before is prominent, but the vast majority of the pictures feature Legion, Rook, and Sickness – and most of them haven’t been taken inside an NFW ring. Outside, eating, in repose, all in black and white. Many would assume she’s taken these herself, but we’re smart enough to know better, aren’t we? Writing is scrawled across this wall of photographs in red marker, up, down, across, stretching from the walls to the ceiling. Weird phrases like “Architect? Circumnavigate?” and “little boys little toys broken when played with” and “SEEDS of (a?) reconstruction” are scrawled everywhere. Some are backwards. Even the floor is obscured by shredded photos. Teresa sits Indian style in the chaos,her usual outfit, but no jacket.
“I know it’s happened millions of times a second, from the second I picked up that tainted victory, while Legion did the least suspenseful myserious woman reveal in recent wrestling history, millions of times afterward. But it’s like an old punchline that’s always funny. Legion... provoked me. An amazing, beautiful sight. Like Buffalo Bill spitting in Hannibal Lecter’s eye, or Lois Lane socking Superman in the jaw. After this, of course, the rest is all bull****. The only mystery left is exactly what method I’ll use to end him...”
She shrugs.
“Eugene O’Neill omitted my role in this story, left me on the stage to improvise. Is this to be a typical damsel in distress story with the archetypes reversed, requiring me to be the angel on Rook’s shoulder, all moral lessons on letting go and passionate, logical arguments and ‘I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if that’s what it takes’ speeches? Or do I whip out the fire and brimstone and destroy everyone in my path with gleeful abandon? Not too much, though, lest I sound like that terrible woman in the other company... which is it? Heroine or much, much more competent villian?”
“Did I enjoy being beaten over the head with a steel chair? Legion asked the question, and hopefully he already knew the answer. Of course I did. I enjoyed it immensely. How could I not? Even when they try to destroy me, people tend to give me exactly what I desire. I told the world I needed a direction, a vessel to channel my energy into. And you were kind enough to volunteer. So, Legion, I thank you, genuinely, for providing me with the crisis I’ve dearly wanted. But I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re really not going to like it when I return the favor.”
She unfolds and goes to the wall on her left, the camera follows behind her as she pulls out a marker and moves it next to a still of Legion. She colors in the eyeballs. She then circles his face over and over as she speaks.
“There’s much you need to consider, Legion. You think Rook Black has accepted your guidance, but perhaps he’s already under mine and has been for sometime. Remember the videos that I sent him? With the carefully chosen phrases and symbols? Perhaps I wasn’t speaking to him so much as programming him. Maybe I created his response and ordered his betrayal, and when the crucial moment comes, when he’s staring me down with a chair in hand... maybe I’ll say some codeword I’ve imbedded, and he’ll drop to his knees, surrender his implement, and look at me with that familiar dead look in his eyes while I bash his brains in. Or perhaps I’ll send him after you. Poetic justice of a sort. You may want to look at that footage again, very, very closely.”
“Google MK Ultra,” she mimicks, then snickers and rolls her eyes. “You’re so cute when you wanna be.”
There’s a promotional photo of Dusk nearby. She taps an elipses off to his left as if thinking, then speaks, writing “WORTH FINDING?” as she does.
“Dusk has much to consider as well. He’s become Legion’s target despite having no previous dealings with him. The only person Dusk has history with is me, which means he should consider whether all of this is a hoax. Maybe when I told Legion to justify his continued existence a few weeks back, he did, and we’ve been secretly allied ever since, creating this elaborate sequence of events, a longwinded mechanism to implement that timeless however many guys on one beatdown scene with you as the victim, because you’re boring and being beaten up is all you’re good for. Also, consider that I’m the type of person to congratulate myself for such a feat well before actually accomplishing it.”
She walks to a third photo, and this one is far more personal – Rook and the Sickness double out on the town after the show. She doesn’t write here at all, instead shrugging and tossing the marker away.
“Rook has far more interesting things to worry about, but I’ll play with him later. Let him have his relative happiness for the time being. Although if he’s capable of it, I will have him wonder if any sort of Pole match is a bit pedestrian to have emerged from a genuine mastermind.”
She finishes the circuit and lies back down on the floor.
“Or maybe we’re gonna keep this old-school, no swerves required. Girl meets boy, girl strikes tenative friendship with boy, boy caves in the back of girl’s skull, girl kills boy and boy’s creepy handler. Heh. Perhaps this attack was about control, but with every minute that passes, it becomes more and more evident that my actions are the unknown variable that will solve this puzzle. Your fates, your futures lie in my hands, suspended precariously over an abyss that I could either dangle you over or drop you headfirst into. And for the very first time since my arrival in NFW, I know exactly what I’m going to do with you. Meet me at the scene of the crime.”
She gets out a rather uncharacteristic giggle and leans back, stretching and pouring the confetti of photographs over herself.
“ What a way to spend your week off...”
“Hey, you’re... did... did I stick it in you last night?”
She frowns and looks under the sheet. “Yeah, probably. Give yourself a high five.”
He moans and kisses the small of her neck. “Wanna do it again? Like, awake and rememberin’ and stuff?”
“Absoutely not.” If anything, her frown intensifies as she reaches out of the cot, grabs a robe, puts it on, and staggers out of the tent, still dizzy from the night before.
“Hey! You ****in’ *****!”
She turns around and looks at him.
“... Sorry.”
“Uh huh.” She gropes for the cover of the tent, opens it, and steps outside, covering her eyes from the sudden infusion of light. “Minion! You’re in for a –“
“Miss Quaranta?” The voice has a measured, Midwestern accent. Flat, reasonable, enunciated. Probably the only sober person for a mile in any direction. She turns to the speaker, a short, middle aged man with wireframed glasses. He’s carrying a very large giftwrapped box.
“Who the hell are you? Where’s Minion #1?”
“He... didn’t serve you very well last night, and we took the liberty of recalling him.”
“Are you from the catalog?”
“No.” He stretches the box out to her, and she accepts it skeptically. ”I’m here to deliver an offering.”
“Wha?” She puts it down, and they share an awkwardmoment; he’s clearly unwilling to leave, and she’s not sure howto dismiss him. “Uh, you want a tip or –“
“No!” He flinches as if she’s physically slapped him. “Only, if it pleases you, Miss Quaranta, could you view the gift now and bestow approval upon it?"
Her paranoia’s immediately sparked – time in professional wrestling will do that to you. ”Stand back,” she snaps, and the man quickly complies, taking three steps back. Slowly, and without taking her eyes off of him, she kneels and opens it. There is one thing in the box, but many different ones.
“How did you... who are you?”
He points at a card on the box. She reads it, titling her head quizzically.
“Courtesy, Your Adoring Public. Hm... curious.” She picks up the box and walks away, slowly making her way through the wasteland of California stoners.
“Uh, Miss Quaranta? If it pleases you to tell –“
“It doesn’t.”
She had a long way to go, and no one to carry this box for her.
***
tap. scroll.
"The heaviest of burdens is simultaneously an image of life's most intense fullfillment."
“Ha.”
taptaptap. scroll.
"The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become."
taptaptaptap tap tap. scroll.
"Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into new heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant."
“Haha.”
taptap taptaptap. scroll.
"What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?" - Milan Kundera
“Hahahahaha...”
CUEUP: “Crime Scene, Part One” by The Afghan Whigs. The darkness breaks, to display a very zoomed in photograph of the man called Legion in black and white, center of an NFW ring. Slowly, the camera zooms outward , showing us the entire picture, and the black and white photos next to it. Nova, Hiroshi, Dusk, Ryan and almost everyone else are featured once or twice, and the carnage and riots of the night before is prominent, but the vast majority of the pictures feature Legion, Rook, and Sickness – and most of them haven’t been taken inside an NFW ring. Outside, eating, in repose, all in black and white. Many would assume she’s taken these herself, but we’re smart enough to know better, aren’t we? Writing is scrawled across this wall of photographs in red marker, up, down, across, stretching from the walls to the ceiling. Weird phrases like “Architect? Circumnavigate?” and “little boys little toys broken when played with” and “SEEDS of (a?) reconstruction” are scrawled everywhere. Some are backwards. Even the floor is obscured by shredded photos. Teresa sits Indian style in the chaos,her usual outfit, but no jacket.
“I know it’s happened millions of times a second, from the second I picked up that tainted victory, while Legion did the least suspenseful myserious woman reveal in recent wrestling history, millions of times afterward. But it’s like an old punchline that’s always funny. Legion... provoked me. An amazing, beautiful sight. Like Buffalo Bill spitting in Hannibal Lecter’s eye, or Lois Lane socking Superman in the jaw. After this, of course, the rest is all bull****. The only mystery left is exactly what method I’ll use to end him...”
She shrugs.
“Eugene O’Neill omitted my role in this story, left me on the stage to improvise. Is this to be a typical damsel in distress story with the archetypes reversed, requiring me to be the angel on Rook’s shoulder, all moral lessons on letting go and passionate, logical arguments and ‘I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if that’s what it takes’ speeches? Or do I whip out the fire and brimstone and destroy everyone in my path with gleeful abandon? Not too much, though, lest I sound like that terrible woman in the other company... which is it? Heroine or much, much more competent villian?”
“Did I enjoy being beaten over the head with a steel chair? Legion asked the question, and hopefully he already knew the answer. Of course I did. I enjoyed it immensely. How could I not? Even when they try to destroy me, people tend to give me exactly what I desire. I told the world I needed a direction, a vessel to channel my energy into. And you were kind enough to volunteer. So, Legion, I thank you, genuinely, for providing me with the crisis I’ve dearly wanted. But I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re really not going to like it when I return the favor.”
She unfolds and goes to the wall on her left, the camera follows behind her as she pulls out a marker and moves it next to a still of Legion. She colors in the eyeballs. She then circles his face over and over as she speaks.
“There’s much you need to consider, Legion. You think Rook Black has accepted your guidance, but perhaps he’s already under mine and has been for sometime. Remember the videos that I sent him? With the carefully chosen phrases and symbols? Perhaps I wasn’t speaking to him so much as programming him. Maybe I created his response and ordered his betrayal, and when the crucial moment comes, when he’s staring me down with a chair in hand... maybe I’ll say some codeword I’ve imbedded, and he’ll drop to his knees, surrender his implement, and look at me with that familiar dead look in his eyes while I bash his brains in. Or perhaps I’ll send him after you. Poetic justice of a sort. You may want to look at that footage again, very, very closely.”
“Google MK Ultra,” she mimicks, then snickers and rolls her eyes. “You’re so cute when you wanna be.”
There’s a promotional photo of Dusk nearby. She taps an elipses off to his left as if thinking, then speaks, writing “WORTH FINDING?” as she does.
“Dusk has much to consider as well. He’s become Legion’s target despite having no previous dealings with him. The only person Dusk has history with is me, which means he should consider whether all of this is a hoax. Maybe when I told Legion to justify his continued existence a few weeks back, he did, and we’ve been secretly allied ever since, creating this elaborate sequence of events, a longwinded mechanism to implement that timeless however many guys on one beatdown scene with you as the victim, because you’re boring and being beaten up is all you’re good for. Also, consider that I’m the type of person to congratulate myself for such a feat well before actually accomplishing it.”
She walks to a third photo, and this one is far more personal – Rook and the Sickness double out on the town after the show. She doesn’t write here at all, instead shrugging and tossing the marker away.
“Rook has far more interesting things to worry about, but I’ll play with him later. Let him have his relative happiness for the time being. Although if he’s capable of it, I will have him wonder if any sort of Pole match is a bit pedestrian to have emerged from a genuine mastermind.”
She finishes the circuit and lies back down on the floor.
“Or maybe we’re gonna keep this old-school, no swerves required. Girl meets boy, girl strikes tenative friendship with boy, boy caves in the back of girl’s skull, girl kills boy and boy’s creepy handler. Heh. Perhaps this attack was about control, but with every minute that passes, it becomes more and more evident that my actions are the unknown variable that will solve this puzzle. Your fates, your futures lie in my hands, suspended precariously over an abyss that I could either dangle you over or drop you headfirst into. And for the very first time since my arrival in NFW, I know exactly what I’m going to do with you. Meet me at the scene of the crime.”
She gets out a rather uncharacteristic giggle and leans back, stretching and pouring the confetti of photographs over herself.
“ What a way to spend your week off...”
a lie. the truth. which one should I use?
if the lie suceeds, you’ll know what I mean...
if the lie suceeds, you’ll know what I mean...
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), u're the character played by Jorja fox who every1 thinks is cute but is a bit klutzy (let's see the cuteness come out of you now)