same as it ever was (talking heads)

Friday, September 16, 2005

Cool...and Totally Weird...part 2

editor's note: The second installment of The Tomb. If you're not up to speed check the explination in part 1 and if you want to link to the game site go to the previous post. My sentences are in red, and the funniest sentence ever is in green (I don't know if I'll get that far, but the person on my team who wrote it is a fucking genius)

Starflyer 59 reflects the mood of the evening as I am surrounded by a mythos of allegation- a construct both intangible and overwhelming, while the saline taste is no longer enough to brush away memories stained in blood. As these nonsensical thoughts keep racing through my mind, I realized it was because my mind was slowing time down that I was seeing things move so slowly like I was in "An Occurance At Owl Creek Bridge" and the drugs were making my thoughts so thoroughly random. The beggining and the end overlapped eachother, moving forward became inpossible, I was trapped. I was unaware if I would hit the next intended mark; I soon found myself pulled into the next frame. I then saw my doppelganger, he said to me, "Hey guy, how about some Xanax?" I remember the last time my mother spoke to me, how she told me that monsters don't exist and it makes me wonder what she would make of this current situation her son finds himself in now: scared, confused, lonely, and wishing to be somewhere else or sometime else. It only takes a matter of seconds for the chadelier to fall from the high rise ceiling, shattering itself into thousends of shards on the hardwood floor when we look at each other at the same time, the same expression tied to both of our faces like "What the hell?" The body hitting the ground looks almost surreal like a scene from a bad action film. The pungent scent of rancidly decaying coagulated blood whiffs in upon the fridgidly desultory breeze that is emanating from the invisible oblivion twisting its way admist the exquisite corpse. I take the steak knife that lay next to my uneaten Kobe beef steak and kneel down next to the corpse which rests in the chandelier shards like a silent angel and I ask myself, is there no peace or love in this city anymore? I hear the sound of an object flying through the air as a hard pain spreads through my head. It was a can of Play-doh and I was, of course, bleeding. I removed some of the soft doh from the can and placed it over the wound.

"Better than bleeding to death," I thought. I stood up slowly, holding the wound tightly and feeling briefly annoyed that my Perry Ellis shirt was almost definitely ruined by the bloodstains, and lumbered towards the desk, specifically the drawer where I kept a small revolver, a .38, stored with two bottles, one half empty, of Ketel-One. Twilight had settled across the horizon and my bloodied drunken haze was then fixated on my diamond platinum gold Rolex that I had consumed from one of the extrodinarly exquisitely exhumed corpses. The black K on the blood red background giving motivation for my hand to grab the Colt wood grained grip. The weapon felt good in my hand as I brought it to an aiming stance.

As I aim I glance at my Omega 300 M I remember that Le Miz starts in 20 minutes uptown, if I want to make it I will have to leave now, so I slam my Am Ex on the table and I pay my bill. There's a harsh wind outside pulling the raindrops almost horizontal, so I pull the Prada overcoat close as I raise my prosthetic hand to hail a cab. The cab pulls to the curb with a hard squeal of the tires that leaves a horrible rubbery stench. My voice is toned slickly as I announce the destination to the cab driver, he looks over his shoulder and glares with faux spite, and has everything has distorted into an emptying psychotic delusion of grandiose purpose. Before getting out, I have to chuckle at the taxi driver's joke, the one about the one armed man and the hooker from Paris, I offer him five dollars telling him to turn up the radio, Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" on WYNN. As I step onto the sidewalk I bury my hands into my pockets and finger the sharp, metallic object I have concealed on me.

"Oh, what fun this will be," I thought. The object being an exquisite Mont Blanc writing insturment that I took from one of the other victims of the night. I'm suicidal, thinking of inserting the Mont Blanc into my brain. Instead I pour another glass of Stoli and lime and continue listening to the cab driver, wishing all the while that the Zodiac killer had been his last fare. I take the Mont Blanc pen out of my Burberry suit coat and stab the driver in the neck, he was the monster wasn't he? The driver just sits there and stares and the song ends.

"21.50," he says, I hand him the money, no tip, I get out and look at the large brown brick building in front of me, I could feel him, I thought, he is near. I slam the door of the cab and try to ignore the switching between present and past tense thought that I've been suffering, and I reach into my pocket for the bottle of Xanax that with any luck will keep me focused and calm as I start towards the massive double doors. Looming above me like a monolithic cathedral the building overwhelms me as I approach, heaving myself against the gothic-style doors in anticipation of their dancing weight only to find myself dazed against glass shards on the floor of the hotel lobby, a door with an empty pane in behind me. I'm on my feet just in time to avoid the doorman who's fast approaching with a mixture of anger, fear, and let's face it-disgust twisting his face. I feel around in my waistband for the knife I am hiding. As I pull the knife out of my waistband I hear a police siren behind me and a cop yell commands, but my blood pounding through my skull mumbles them.

I keep waiting for the director to yell, "Cut", for the marker to snap, to wake up in a sweat drenched hotel bed, but the director wants more emotion so I keep running and by the time I hit 13th street I realize, London isn't really that bad of a place. However, the reality before me sobers me up quicker than an egg Mcmuffin and a diet coke: the horror I feel is beyond incomprehensible, it's the kind of horror felt by a junior high kid hitting a crack pipe.

The moment passes, I cut a line through the twilight, the destruction I have caused: I am wrought with a sense of misery, I am caught by the necessity of moving forward, I am tired of the blood, I am tired of being a construct of the intangible, I am sick of being a monster caught inside a tomb. All metaphors aside, a real monster, big and blue, still waits for me inside a real tomb, craving cookies like I crave a glass of vodka, so I open my desk drawer with my Ketel One and my .38 taking the half-empty bottle and the gun. Ready to face my own nightmare that has been chasing me for years now.

I move the ivy aside to reveal a dark and musty cave, the cries from inside pull me in, but the darkness blinds me. As my eyes get used to the light I can see that this cave was clearly man-made. I knew that there would be no Tower Records, no Spago's at the end of this cave, but rather a brutal end for one of us. The fact that the Tower Records wasn't in my future sent me into a murderous rage, seeing as I needed to buy a new copy of London Calling. That thought now filling my head with sounds of the Four Horsemen giving my purpose its own soundtrack. As I turned the corner, my heart beating with the thunder of the horsemen's feet, I raised my fist as I approaced the creature in the mirror's reflection. I reached for the knife in my pocket taking comfort from its cold steel. It's the only thing that I know is real, and I draw on its meager reassurance for the courage to exit the room. As I exit this hell hole I'm in, I have a flashback on the first real, brutal beating I saw as a child. It was my father, in Neiman Marcus with someone who had tried to snatch his Gucci money clip.

I whistled for a cab, and when it came near, the license plate read, "FRESH" and there was dice in the mirror. The cab pulled over but suddenly the car suddenly seemed terrifyingly familiar and instead of getting in, I turned and began stumbling down the sidewalk, taking my Calvin Klein wallet out of my pocket and counting the bills because I wanted to find a pharmacy and bribe the attendant for some Valium. The cab slowly followed behind me as I walked further into the night. Though its headlight were off, it was inching closer; I could feel its heat, hearing the laboring wheeze of a badly cared for combustion engine, but I refused to turn and acknowledge what I was sure was-and wasn't-there. Finally it hit me: the fender. My body was sent skyward twisting and turning like a rag doll. A phrase runs through my head for what seems like an eternity, before the anticipated pain washes over me: you're too late to die. I am not to late to feel the explosive sensation of a million nerve endings screaming out in agony.

editor's note (2): I am positive the Fresh Prince of Bell Aire reference won us this thing. Please read that last paragraph over again and get a mental picture of the cab in the opening credits of FPoBA stalking someone. Fucking hysterical. BTW more to come.