Post by anna on Mar 30, 2020 10:26:57 GMT -5
This is an era of error. A moment of walls being broken, on purpose or by nature. And this is the year of hindsight, stretching out into the infinite abyss that is life. One scans the past and the future both. Finding the loops and making it all concrete and whole again.
Each of us has a role to play in this brain. Me? I’m just the one cronicalling. I am She-Who-Writes. Storyteller. My moments are my bonds and sometimes, the words I spew make no sense. But that’s fine. Maybe things aren’t meant to make sense here. I mean, look around at this world. This warped little planet that we’ve called home for over a decade now. How people can cause each other carnage and still bounce back, the faces easily changeable like underwear, and the madness once contained is everywhere now. Even what’s left of the “normal” people--normality being a rather fragile concept to begin with--are corrupted. Though they themselves don’t know it yet.
Ah, humanity. You band of dolts.Your halfassed “differences” still keep you braindead even as the tide of the world tries to teach you otherwise. You’re no different from other races on other lands. You’re just weaker, that’s all. And we refuse to be such things. There have been a few times where we’ve been weak and this weakness did nothing but hurt us.
It’s hard to accept change when it’s forced upon you. We still feel the splinters in our fingertips from the doorframe we clinged onto being pried away from our broodmare. We remember the tears we shed as we screamed for a mother that never really existed. She had done her job, that was all. She had birthed us with her hate and raised us with her scorn and did nothing as we cried for her and taken away. And as we sat in our metal room, a cell we were forced into, we clinched our fists and placed our curse on the one that abandoned us. She would die by our hand. In a way, she did. We learned to become strong for the only thing that mattered: for Gallifrey.
We remember sucking our soul into a fobwatch. In a horrid attempt to be human, we joined this profession--being bred a warrior and yet a lover of the fantastic--and linked to like-minded beasts who didn’t know who they are. Formed together by a jackal man, all four of us threw him out and swore our loyalty towards each other under dunken suds...only for them to disappear shortly thereafter. So when the jackal man came back for revenge, he found not an army.
He found us.
Weak, useless, human us.
And oh, how he took advantage! How the chloroform still burns in our senses! How he held us for seven days. SEVEN DAYS of abuse. He injected his poison into us because we were the only ones that stood the ground when the rest fled. And we--the fucking almighty idiot!--accepted this as our fate! We took the hit for our brothers-in-arms. We took our form from spread legs to bound together. We became a mockery of the crucifixion and nobody gave a single thought to look for us! And when we were left for dead, we had just enough strength to break the cuffs and call strangers to help us. Strangers that didn’t give a solid fuck. Oh, they came around eventually and we lied in their faces when they asked questions and they gave us a can of pepper spray and a taser.
Our blood boils with that memory. More so when one realises that our brothers-in-arms did come back. And they proceeded to not honor their covenant. Didn’t even think about us. Never bother to ask “what happened since we left?” We learned to become strong for ourselves.
When we were taken again, it was by a friend. Our fault, really, for knocking ourself out while avenging ourself. But at least, the capture was brief and there was no abuse. Just a quick change of clothing. Yet...when we opened our eyes, our king was there.
jacky…
Sweet boy. We hadn’t corrupted him then. He was still so innocent and neon lit and daydream and his love hit us like a freight train like it much continues to do. But even with half-remembed visions of the jackal man in our skull, the thing that killed us the most were our lover’s eyes. Sometimes, they were wild and sometimes, they would squint. But on that night, they broke our hearts and very much still do. Interlaced in the freight train was something we never really saw before.
Worry.
jackyjacky
He was worried about us. And though that incident brought the both of us closer, we learned to become strong for him.
jackyjackyjackyjackyjackyjackyjACKYJACKYJACKYJACKYJACKYJA--
WILL YOU PIPE DOWN? I’M ON A RAMBLE HERE!
…
jacky
What’s the point in these stories, Storyteller?
Becoming one who learns about strength and weakness the hard way means we can see, touch, taste, and smell such things. We can easily kidnap a Union Battleground cameraman and force him into taping our ramblings about the weakness of the man we’ve dubbed Riddledumb. We can boast about how we demolished him though that entire match. We can laugh at his failed attempts to be imitating. When you say things like “My opponent’s survival rate will fall to zero”, we honestly expect you to at least...ya know, try. The coronavirus kills more people than him. Super topical. That would give us bonus points!
We could rip into his shortcomings about how he tried to shove his body of work in our face as a testament to his greatness without giving the slightest thought on the greatness standing just across the ring from him. And despite his brilliance in stealing the win, we ain’t talking about Willie Pete. That’s still a stupid fucking name, by the way. Here’s Cyrus Riddle wanking off to his greatest hits in 4CW which aren’t very many and are a huge boon in the fight against insomnia taking on a nearly indestructable, well traveled, well seasoned cosmic abomination. Did ya really think you were going to shrug us off that easy?
Oh, wait. Yes, he did.
We can laugh even harder at his horny and equally useless manager. Because even if the wrestler decides to be a complete and utter failure at life, there has to still be a chance of success because he has a manager, right? Managers are supposed to do the thinking for the clients who barely know which way is up. And yet...this one not only doesn’t seem to understand the concept of somebody being married and not wanting to jump his bones, he blows a metric fuckton of smoke up his guy’s ass and allows Ol’ Cy to fall into the trap of underestimating people you think are crazy.
Which given that professional wrestling has been around for a good long while, that trap isn’t really hidden anymore. It practically has neon paint all over it and a giant blinking sign that says DO NOT STEP INTO THIS PIT FULL OF MINDRAPE AND PAIN. But alas! Genre blindness is the worst disease. We should just pull a Benny Hinn and palm thrust them both into some brains. Hope you find a Tijuana prostitute that that doesn’t stab you in the kidneys and steal your money, Mr. Manager-Guy-Whose-Name-Is-Rather-Unimportant.
Oh, yes indeed. We could expel every bit of this in front of a camera and Riddledumb can give a little pitiful mewling response to try to bolster himself up. But why talk about his weaknesses when we can show them? We can show him just how simple his knuckle bones go snipper-snap and turn into strands of mangled flesh and bone spaghetti. It would be so delish with a fine wine and a decent sauce. We can turn his face into a Picasso masterpiece with our strikes and sell the decapitated skull to someone less fortunate. We can play with his warped-yet-utterly dull self-deception and pluck a new tune with his heartstrings. So many possibilities to humiliate a man. So many ways to rewire one.
Maybe there’s a plus side to this era. When something is already mangled beyond repair, there’s no fear of damaging it more.
Each of us has a role to play in this brain. Me? I’m just the one cronicalling. I am She-Who-Writes. Storyteller. My moments are my bonds and sometimes, the words I spew make no sense. But that’s fine. Maybe things aren’t meant to make sense here. I mean, look around at this world. This warped little planet that we’ve called home for over a decade now. How people can cause each other carnage and still bounce back, the faces easily changeable like underwear, and the madness once contained is everywhere now. Even what’s left of the “normal” people--normality being a rather fragile concept to begin with--are corrupted. Though they themselves don’t know it yet.
Ah, humanity. You band of dolts.Your halfassed “differences” still keep you braindead even as the tide of the world tries to teach you otherwise. You’re no different from other races on other lands. You’re just weaker, that’s all. And we refuse to be such things. There have been a few times where we’ve been weak and this weakness did nothing but hurt us.
It’s hard to accept change when it’s forced upon you. We still feel the splinters in our fingertips from the doorframe we clinged onto being pried away from our broodmare. We remember the tears we shed as we screamed for a mother that never really existed. She had done her job, that was all. She had birthed us with her hate and raised us with her scorn and did nothing as we cried for her and taken away. And as we sat in our metal room, a cell we were forced into, we clinched our fists and placed our curse on the one that abandoned us. She would die by our hand. In a way, she did. We learned to become strong for the only thing that mattered: for Gallifrey.
We remember sucking our soul into a fobwatch. In a horrid attempt to be human, we joined this profession--being bred a warrior and yet a lover of the fantastic--and linked to like-minded beasts who didn’t know who they are. Formed together by a jackal man, all four of us threw him out and swore our loyalty towards each other under dunken suds...only for them to disappear shortly thereafter. So when the jackal man came back for revenge, he found not an army.
He found us.
Weak, useless, human us.
And oh, how he took advantage! How the chloroform still burns in our senses! How he held us for seven days. SEVEN DAYS of abuse. He injected his poison into us because we were the only ones that stood the ground when the rest fled. And we--the fucking almighty idiot!--accepted this as our fate! We took the hit for our brothers-in-arms. We took our form from spread legs to bound together. We became a mockery of the crucifixion and nobody gave a single thought to look for us! And when we were left for dead, we had just enough strength to break the cuffs and call strangers to help us. Strangers that didn’t give a solid fuck. Oh, they came around eventually and we lied in their faces when they asked questions and they gave us a can of pepper spray and a taser.
Our blood boils with that memory. More so when one realises that our brothers-in-arms did come back. And they proceeded to not honor their covenant. Didn’t even think about us. Never bother to ask “what happened since we left?” We learned to become strong for ourselves.
When we were taken again, it was by a friend. Our fault, really, for knocking ourself out while avenging ourself. But at least, the capture was brief and there was no abuse. Just a quick change of clothing. Yet...when we opened our eyes, our king was there.
jacky…
Sweet boy. We hadn’t corrupted him then. He was still so innocent and neon lit and daydream and his love hit us like a freight train like it much continues to do. But even with half-remembed visions of the jackal man in our skull, the thing that killed us the most were our lover’s eyes. Sometimes, they were wild and sometimes, they would squint. But on that night, they broke our hearts and very much still do. Interlaced in the freight train was something we never really saw before.
Worry.
jackyjacky
He was worried about us. And though that incident brought the both of us closer, we learned to become strong for him.
jackyjackyjackyjackyjackyjackyjACKYJACKYJACKYJACKYJACKYJA--
WILL YOU PIPE DOWN? I’M ON A RAMBLE HERE!
…
jacky
What’s the point in these stories, Storyteller?
Becoming one who learns about strength and weakness the hard way means we can see, touch, taste, and smell such things. We can easily kidnap a Union Battleground cameraman and force him into taping our ramblings about the weakness of the man we’ve dubbed Riddledumb. We can boast about how we demolished him though that entire match. We can laugh at his failed attempts to be imitating. When you say things like “My opponent’s survival rate will fall to zero”, we honestly expect you to at least...ya know, try. The coronavirus kills more people than him. Super topical. That would give us bonus points!
We could rip into his shortcomings about how he tried to shove his body of work in our face as a testament to his greatness without giving the slightest thought on the greatness standing just across the ring from him. And despite his brilliance in stealing the win, we ain’t talking about Willie Pete. That’s still a stupid fucking name, by the way. Here’s Cyrus Riddle wanking off to his greatest hits in 4CW which aren’t very many and are a huge boon in the fight against insomnia taking on a nearly indestructable, well traveled, well seasoned cosmic abomination. Did ya really think you were going to shrug us off that easy?
Oh, wait. Yes, he did.
We can laugh even harder at his horny and equally useless manager. Because even if the wrestler decides to be a complete and utter failure at life, there has to still be a chance of success because he has a manager, right? Managers are supposed to do the thinking for the clients who barely know which way is up. And yet...this one not only doesn’t seem to understand the concept of somebody being married and not wanting to jump his bones, he blows a metric fuckton of smoke up his guy’s ass and allows Ol’ Cy to fall into the trap of underestimating people you think are crazy.
Which given that professional wrestling has been around for a good long while, that trap isn’t really hidden anymore. It practically has neon paint all over it and a giant blinking sign that says DO NOT STEP INTO THIS PIT FULL OF MINDRAPE AND PAIN. But alas! Genre blindness is the worst disease. We should just pull a Benny Hinn and palm thrust them both into some brains. Hope you find a Tijuana prostitute that that doesn’t stab you in the kidneys and steal your money, Mr. Manager-Guy-Whose-Name-Is-Rather-Unimportant.
Oh, yes indeed. We could expel every bit of this in front of a camera and Riddledumb can give a little pitiful mewling response to try to bolster himself up. But why talk about his weaknesses when we can show them? We can show him just how simple his knuckle bones go snipper-snap and turn into strands of mangled flesh and bone spaghetti. It would be so delish with a fine wine and a decent sauce. We can turn his face into a Picasso masterpiece with our strikes and sell the decapitated skull to someone less fortunate. We can play with his warped-yet-utterly dull self-deception and pluck a new tune with his heartstrings. So many possibilities to humiliate a man. So many ways to rewire one.
Maybe there’s a plus side to this era. When something is already mangled beyond repair, there’s no fear of damaging it more.