| Followers; RP #2 | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jun 26 2008, 06:21 PM (273 Views) | |
| Evil Incarnate | Jun 26 2008, 06:21 PM Post #1 |
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sVo Contender
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Slow, like the final heartbeats of a grandfather, comes the image that some may find shocking. An image that some may find disturbing. That some may find "odd." A man, of thirty to thirty-five years of age, sits in a wheelchair. Silently convulsing, this developmentally challenged human being sits, not saying a word. He sits wearing a dirty gray bathrobe, yet appearance is meaningless to this man. The cold gray backdrop of a linoleum tiled wall stands behind him, a single metal overhead lamp shines on our subject. He simply shakes, quietly, with the ever-present hum of the air conditioner droning on in the background. We focus in on this man. Closer and closer we come until we are practically in his eye. He blinks, we stare. He stares, we blink. For this moment, when nothing else surrounds us, we are finally equal. We are no better, we are no worse. Fade out. BLACK Fade in. The same room. Nothing has changed from seconds before. We still look into the eye of the man. He blinks, we stare. We stare, he blinks. Pull back, and now the man stands. No wheel chair. No silent convulsions. He stands in the same ratty gray bathrobe, with his hair still mussed. He stands looking at us, with a look of pity in his eyes. Not pity for himself, mind you, but pity for us. Pity for us who judged him. This isn't real, and you know it. The man smiles a desperate, almost saddening smile. In the real world, I sit in a wheelchair. People stare at me as if I was some kind of circus freak. Don't pretend like you haven't stared. Don't pretend like you haven't felt mock pity in your heart. Perhaps you saw me, or someone like me, at a restaurant. And for a split-second, between shovel-loads of food begin shoved down your throats, you felt pity for me. You thought about the cruelty of life, making someone go through life like this. The man shakes his head, as if to say No. Perhaps for someone who once had the luxury of being "normal," becoming unable to use their legs is a horrible experience. But me? I've never had that luxury. I've never had the luxury of wiping my own ass. I've never had the luxury of flying a kite. Of running on a beach. Of having any kind of love given back to me from a member of the opposite sex. I go through life alone, but I don�t get down on myself. I can't. The man smiles at us, this time with a calming smile. This is the only life I've ever known, so for all I know, this may very well be the thoughts of every human being. Who am I to judge? I'm just a wheelchair stricken outcast of society. It would be better if they were to sweep me underneath the carpet of life, and just let me rot and die in some group home. That would be better for everyone. For you. For me. For society. Our subject walks to the left, where he sees his silver wheelchair. It sits, with no passenger. Just an object. I mean absolutely no malice towards anyone at all. I am happy with the world. Despite the lot I've been dealt, it doesn't affect me from doing what I've always wanted to do. But to you all? To the rest of the world? I'm a commodity. I can't help with anything. I'm useless. I'm not about to tell the any differently either. The voice of one person won't change society. The voice of one man won't do a damn thing for the rights of the people. The man puts one hand on the arm-rest of the wheelchair. He pushes the chair forward an inch or two, and then back to it's original position. I'm not the only one who is abused by society though. Although people haven't realized it yet, this entire world is run by criminals. Everything is for the good of those incarcerated. Politicians fear who the people in prison know or what they might know. They want to cover their own asses, and if that means doing anything and everything to make the life of a prisoner better, they'll do it. Politicians have become nothing but pussies with positions. They're running from killers and rapists who are already locked in a cell. In America, there are two rights for criminal rights. Two rights for people who have killed. Two rights for people who have slaughtered entire families. How many for victims? None. Not a single law protects a victim of a crime, who even after being assaulted physically, must be emotionally and mentally torn apart with investigations into their pasts. If they ever visited a web site that talked about some occult topic, it would be brought out to the world on a whole. Pity, isn't it? The man sighs. But I'm getting off my topic. You�ll have to excuse me, since it's only once in a great while I get to talk and know that someone is listening. The man finally smiles at us, with a smile of pure happiness. His brown eyes shine with intelligence that has been locked away from the outside world due to circumstance. It's strange that, my life has become normal. People who walk on their two legs, are the different one's. The "freaks." But what is normal? Everything is skewed one way or another. The perfect family, would be different in that, no one has it. The perfect girlfriend would be strange in that, perfect for one man, may be completely wrong for another. Normal? There�s no such thing. The man gives us one final look, and then climbs back into his wheelchair. Before sitting back, he looks at us. Pauses, and then smiles a smirk towards the camera. By the way, I didn't tell you my name for a reason. Would you care anymore than you do at the restaurant, between bites of your veal if I had? Or would you catalog it in the people you'll never see again. But then, why would you want to see me again? The man smiles at us one last time. I'm not normal. Right? The man leans back in his wheelchair, and is immediately back to the silent convulsions. Although he is the same person, he looks nothing like the bright-eyed intellectual who talked to us moments before. He is back to the real world. He is back to "normal." As the air conditioner drones over his quiet seizures, we begin to pull out. We continue to zoom out, until we see that he sits alone. No one is around him for miles for all we know. He sits, quivering, as the cooling machine's sounds seem to rise from treble, to a deafening roar. And then, all at once, everything stops. No more man. No more gray room. No more air conditioner. Nothing. Slaughtering people is a gift that comes naturally. It isn't something you can practice and become better at. It's a God-given ability, where you kill and it just feels right. The slow Southern drawl reaches out from the blackness. Despite the seriousness of the topic, his voice seems casual, almost nonchalant. Some people want to kill, but just don't have it in 'em. I think that might be my problem. I mean, I killed those people. I slaughtered them with my own hands. How come I don't take pride in it? Why was I afraid to be caught? What the hell is wrong with me? Fade in. Like the shadow of an eclipse, we fade in from a deep black, to a lighter shade of black and then finally to real life. The sounds of the shore washing up onto the beach fills our ears. Looking onto the rocks, we can see a younger man named Jesse Ray sitting on a pile of large rocks. He is dressed simply, in a pair of blue jeans and a flannel shirt. He wears no socks, as he seems to have decided to spend a day at the beach. But then, I never really wanted to be one of the great one's. I never wanted to be a Ted Bundy. I never wanted to be a Charles Manson. All I ever wanted was to do what I enjoyed. Whether anyone accepts this or not, I enjoy killing. Correction, I enjoyed killing. I'm over that now. I'm just a good ol' country boy now. No more killing. No more nothin'. Ray chuckles lightly, all the while smiling in the direction of the ocean. Some people question the words of Drew. They say he's just some guy, whose gone crazy after his wife and kid were killed. They think that he is all crazy talk and full of crazy ideas, but I don't think that's true. Everyone's got their own idea of crazy, I suppose. And in most cases, I fall into that category. But that doesn't stop me from having my own ideas about life. I don't see Drew as some kinda visionary or prophet. He's just a misunderstood guy. He's real smart, and he knows what to say to people to make 'em shake and shiver all over. I don't know how to do that. I suppose I'm just a common man next to Drew. But that ain't so bad. For a glorified farmer, anyhow. Ray stands and begins to walk towards the parking lot beyond the beach. Drew is obviously a leader. He looks out for all of us. He takes care of all of us. What's the matter with him wanting a little recognition? Ray smiles, seemingly thinking about Drew Carrig. Then there's me. A farmer. A nobody. I'm not sure what I am to Drew. We each have an asset, Drew told me once. He said it was the reason we were there for him him. He never said the word "perfect" though. He gave that up a long time ago. Now he knows he's no more perfect than the world. Any world, that is. The world of the SVP. The microcosm that is the Las Vegas Title division. Each one is an orb of human disgust, Drew told me once. Drew is real smart. I'm glad he's my friend. The slow-witted Ray grins at us, and then walks into the parking lot. We follow him, but not with the swaying motion of a man carrying a camera, but we seem to glide. We glide near Ray until he stops in front of a light blue Ford van. This is my van. I think, knowing what you know about me, you can guess what happened in the back of this vehicle. After I went into the institution, they took this vehicle as a piece of evidence. When the case was dropped against me, they were going to auction it off. I don't know how he found it, but Drew bought my van back for me. He told me it needed a name. This was my one-way ticket to infamy. I can be one of the greats, if I put my mind to it. I can be better than Ted Bundy. Better than Charles Manson. And ya' know, on second thought, maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Ray seems to pat the side of his van. He looks at us with a face full of thought. Growing up, I watched a lot of cartoons. On of my favorites was Scooby-Doo. Looking back on it, the show seems a little bit dumb but I s'pose that's OK. It still sticks in my head as one of the happier moments in my childhood. Sitting on the floor, my mom bringing me Oreo cookies, and watching Scooby-Doo. I remember their vehicle. It was called the "Mystery Machine." I always thought that was a good name, but that didn't really mean anything to my own van. Sure, it was mysterious, but it needed a different name. Ray smiles a large grin. Her name's the "Massacre Machine." Drew said it would become my calling card. I'm going to be the greatest killer ever. People were afraid of Ted Bundy? Charles Manson? The Son of Sam? Ray climbs into the Massacre Machine, starts the engine, and begins to drive away. A voice-over finishes his thought. They haven't seen nothin' yet. All that is left is a breath. It's slow, un-nerving, and heavy. Slowly a voice draws near and its one voice we haven't heard in a long time. Drew Carrig. Strange how this has nothing to do with the task at hand....or does it? To be continued... |
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12:27 AM Jul 11