Post by pretzelbender on May 4, 2020 22:39:31 GMT -5
Miles Lucky walks through Red Cliff, his worn shoes padding against the wet concrete of the near empty town. His chewed and scabbed fingers feeling the treasure in his pocket as he marches with a head full of replays-- the tooth of Indi Rhyder.
He got it from a reactive elbow knocking out her tooth and bringing him to tears. You see, hours before their match took place, Miles ripped a tooth of his out in a fit of delusion, rage and desperation. The same exact emotions he felt when he had his hands around her throat later, his heart jumping in his chest like a cheerleader as the face of Indi changed colors like the kaleidoscope she wanted to be. Her tooth in his left pocket right next to his. Everything felt strangely like fate, his eyes pouring in the overwhelming experience of it all.
He loves it, he loves how that felt. He’s had matches before, but nothing like that. He lost and yet, her tooth felt like a trophy. There’s a sickeningly sticky warmness inside of him when he digs the small root of the bone into the padding of his thumb.
“Michael Hayden.” He speaks slowly in a near mutter, “Flash Kassidy.”
They were next. This violent expulsion of his emotions, the fear and the paranoia and anger and everything in between that leaves him pacing his room at night-- all exhausted in a cathartic display. All to take place in the amazing and historical Washington D.C. He’s excited. The holes in his memories and the swelling of his mentally unfit brain left room for obsessions. Presidential assassinations is one of those things and maybe, just maybe, that’s why his feet carried him to the front of a rundown theater deeper into the ghost town. It was abandoned and like everything else, it was drenched from rain he doesn’t ever see fall.
He stares upon the structure until he darts his eyes to the side slightly and looks right at us. It’s jarring and sudden, taking away from the fogginess of the town and replacing it with a sharp turn.
“You know, this is happening in Washington D.C. and that’s really something else. I’ve been thinking about that place a lot and everything that has ever happened there. One thing I know that happened there is Honest Abe himself, getting his brains blown out at a theater.”
Miles turns to walk toward it until he is able to press his hands against the front entrance; one flat against it while his left hand still clenches the tooth of an Intergalactic Princess.
“I said it’s a lucky thing. They built him a monument and maybe you guys will get one too after this is all said and done. Something really nice, I heard his statue is nice, but I’ve never seen it in person. I’ve never been to Washington, D.C. Have you guys?” He clenches the tooth in a fist within his pocket. “I don’t think I’ve ever really been anywhere, but then I get to some place new and it’s almost like I’ve seen it before. Have you… Have you guys ever felt that way?”
The theater looks ancient and unwelcoming to him. Yet still, he pushes forward, right inside of the theater.
There’s an emptiness within it that just takes your breath away. There’s no low humming people upon a stage or the vibration of silent watchers on the other side of the auditorium doors. The wood is ripped up at certain parts of the floor, broken and easy to drop a foot through. The paint is chipping. There’s nothing, not even a ghost. Miles frowns and sighs.
“I feel that way when I think of Flash Kassidy. It’s almost like I’ve seen him before-- a million times on cable TV, a borrowed personality speaking in cliches and circles and rhymes like a mascot or kid’s book character. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s just the way I’m wired, maybe I’m seeing something that’s not there.
Or maybe all the smoke you’ve been blowing is dumbing you down enough to notice these things. You try to cover it up in scum, cum, piss and weed and I’m guessing that works. I bet some people even really like you despite those things. Heck, they associate a whole day with you because of your high hoped habits.”
Miles has begun walking through the halls of the building. His trophy is in his fist as his free hand traces the dust on the surfaces as he goes. If he listens carefully, he can hear crows outside.
“The problem is, it’s just like I said, it’s just a feeling I can’t shake. I’ve been here before, I’ve seen you before. I’ve seen this done better. Anyone can do it, no one is special. I see you in pieces, you’re categorized to the fullest. I can do it, you know. I could do it, so you know what I mean. Tear you apart into pieces and place you down real nice to take a picture and show your head. I could show you yourself. How empty you are in between your skin, how much of a shell you are.”
Miles stops to straighten a picture before staring at it. There’s nothing to see, the dust has rendered the artwork completely unrecognizable. Still, he ponders it for a while until he ultimately and bitterly looks disappointed.
“You’re like this theater, you’re like this town. You’re all fogged up and I hate it here. I guess I can just take it out on you.”
Miles shrugs, as if it were just that simple. It’s exhausting to see the same things constantly, to be in this theater, but he stays anyway. He uses his imagination. For as far as he’s fallen in his head, this is not unusual, so that’s what he does. It all comes to life for him and with the feeling of emptiness gone, so is any thought of Flash for the moment as Miles shifts his attention. He continues his journey in the now beautiful theater.
“I should slow down before Michael Hayden decides he wants to play a guessing game with my mind.
You think you know anything at all. You puff up your words to pretend you have a lot to say and that’s probably because you have nothing of value left to spit out. You’ve spread yourself thin across the board and I don’t know what you’re fixing to prove. I don’t know what you sit up at night thinking about. I don’t know how many times you have to hit your head collectively in each fucking promotion for you to even think that you can stand there and tell me about my own.”
Miles’ anger sprouts up. Grinding his teeth to relax himself, speaking through them.
“You go from place to place, town to town, saying the same things, giving the same speeches. Like a politician. Like a president. You can sit here and pretend to even grasp my mentality, but it’s all bullshit. You don’t know a fucking thing, so let me tell you a thing or two.”
It was a long journey up the steps of the theater, to where the balcony seats are. He pulls the door and steps out onto the darkness. Miles sees the back of that shaved head with those stupid curls and frills on a spot on top. He approaches slowly, his eyes seeing the crowd below for just a moment. Everyone unaware of him. He speaks to the back of the head, which doesn’t seem to pay him any mind.
“I’m Miles Lucky. I like to get hurt, I like to hurt people. I talk to myself. Sometimes, I go on a run for days. Sometimes, I can’t stop fucking crying. I rip my own skin apart and eat it. Things aren’t the way I left them after I leave them. Something’s pulling my leg or maybe it’s myself. I wrestle, I put my body on the line for the relief of that all. You wouldn’t know anything about that, you put your body down anywhere that will take you because you’re a cheap whore. No matter what you’ve accomplished, I know you won’t claw deep in yourself like I will for this, for my climb up Union. You can say I’m mentally unfit, but I’m wired for this and you wouldn’t survive a day with my brain. You don’t cut it.”
Miles raises a finger gun with his free hand, slowly with one eye close to line it up as best as he could with the head of the person he’s speaking to.
“Sometimes, I fantasize about things just like this. The guy, who thinks he knows me, turning his back on me and underestimating me. Telling me to prepare for a fucking match that’s going to see him lose part of his head!”
He presses his finger right against the head of the man then, with no reaction. Miles is screaming in returning anger now, his voice booming throughout the theater. However, the crowd doesn’t hear him. It doesn’t stop him, though. If anything, he relaxes him. He takes a deep breath, finger gun still to the back of the head.
“I’m taking you both down. Underestimate me, but one thing is for sure. One thing is clear, and it’s the one thing I’m going to keep making clear during my stay here. You can’t ignore me.”
There’s a loud bang, an extraordinary splatter and panic that follows. Some poor bastard slumping out of his chair as Miles runs out, hurrying to take the stage. When he gets on, everyone is still screaming and crying. They all look to him, they all see him. They’re all silent once more.
After killing Abraham Lincoln, John Wilkes Booth rushed to the stage to say “sic semper tyrannis", but this man is no Caesar. This man and this theater, they’re just an obstacle. Miles looks down at his left hand. He stares and realizes he had gripped her tooth so tightly, it broke into his skin and embedded itself there. Miles smiles and places that hand over his heart, looking back up at the now empty seats.
It’s an abandoned building once more. There he stands, upon that unstable stage. Miles takes a bow and says.
“Happy Pigeon Day.”
He got it from a reactive elbow knocking out her tooth and bringing him to tears. You see, hours before their match took place, Miles ripped a tooth of his out in a fit of delusion, rage and desperation. The same exact emotions he felt when he had his hands around her throat later, his heart jumping in his chest like a cheerleader as the face of Indi changed colors like the kaleidoscope she wanted to be. Her tooth in his left pocket right next to his. Everything felt strangely like fate, his eyes pouring in the overwhelming experience of it all.
He loves it, he loves how that felt. He’s had matches before, but nothing like that. He lost and yet, her tooth felt like a trophy. There’s a sickeningly sticky warmness inside of him when he digs the small root of the bone into the padding of his thumb.
“Michael Hayden.” He speaks slowly in a near mutter, “Flash Kassidy.”
They were next. This violent expulsion of his emotions, the fear and the paranoia and anger and everything in between that leaves him pacing his room at night-- all exhausted in a cathartic display. All to take place in the amazing and historical Washington D.C. He’s excited. The holes in his memories and the swelling of his mentally unfit brain left room for obsessions. Presidential assassinations is one of those things and maybe, just maybe, that’s why his feet carried him to the front of a rundown theater deeper into the ghost town. It was abandoned and like everything else, it was drenched from rain he doesn’t ever see fall.
He stares upon the structure until he darts his eyes to the side slightly and looks right at us. It’s jarring and sudden, taking away from the fogginess of the town and replacing it with a sharp turn.
“You know, this is happening in Washington D.C. and that’s really something else. I’ve been thinking about that place a lot and everything that has ever happened there. One thing I know that happened there is Honest Abe himself, getting his brains blown out at a theater.”
Miles turns to walk toward it until he is able to press his hands against the front entrance; one flat against it while his left hand still clenches the tooth of an Intergalactic Princess.
“I said it’s a lucky thing. They built him a monument and maybe you guys will get one too after this is all said and done. Something really nice, I heard his statue is nice, but I’ve never seen it in person. I’ve never been to Washington, D.C. Have you guys?” He clenches the tooth in a fist within his pocket. “I don’t think I’ve ever really been anywhere, but then I get to some place new and it’s almost like I’ve seen it before. Have you… Have you guys ever felt that way?”
The theater looks ancient and unwelcoming to him. Yet still, he pushes forward, right inside of the theater.
There’s an emptiness within it that just takes your breath away. There’s no low humming people upon a stage or the vibration of silent watchers on the other side of the auditorium doors. The wood is ripped up at certain parts of the floor, broken and easy to drop a foot through. The paint is chipping. There’s nothing, not even a ghost. Miles frowns and sighs.
“I feel that way when I think of Flash Kassidy. It’s almost like I’ve seen him before-- a million times on cable TV, a borrowed personality speaking in cliches and circles and rhymes like a mascot or kid’s book character. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s just the way I’m wired, maybe I’m seeing something that’s not there.
Or maybe all the smoke you’ve been blowing is dumbing you down enough to notice these things. You try to cover it up in scum, cum, piss and weed and I’m guessing that works. I bet some people even really like you despite those things. Heck, they associate a whole day with you because of your high hoped habits.”
Miles has begun walking through the halls of the building. His trophy is in his fist as his free hand traces the dust on the surfaces as he goes. If he listens carefully, he can hear crows outside.
“The problem is, it’s just like I said, it’s just a feeling I can’t shake. I’ve been here before, I’ve seen you before. I’ve seen this done better. Anyone can do it, no one is special. I see you in pieces, you’re categorized to the fullest. I can do it, you know. I could do it, so you know what I mean. Tear you apart into pieces and place you down real nice to take a picture and show your head. I could show you yourself. How empty you are in between your skin, how much of a shell you are.”
Miles stops to straighten a picture before staring at it. There’s nothing to see, the dust has rendered the artwork completely unrecognizable. Still, he ponders it for a while until he ultimately and bitterly looks disappointed.
“You’re like this theater, you’re like this town. You’re all fogged up and I hate it here. I guess I can just take it out on you.”
Miles shrugs, as if it were just that simple. It’s exhausting to see the same things constantly, to be in this theater, but he stays anyway. He uses his imagination. For as far as he’s fallen in his head, this is not unusual, so that’s what he does. It all comes to life for him and with the feeling of emptiness gone, so is any thought of Flash for the moment as Miles shifts his attention. He continues his journey in the now beautiful theater.
“I should slow down before Michael Hayden decides he wants to play a guessing game with my mind.
You think you know anything at all. You puff up your words to pretend you have a lot to say and that’s probably because you have nothing of value left to spit out. You’ve spread yourself thin across the board and I don’t know what you’re fixing to prove. I don’t know what you sit up at night thinking about. I don’t know how many times you have to hit your head collectively in each fucking promotion for you to even think that you can stand there and tell me about my own.”
Miles’ anger sprouts up. Grinding his teeth to relax himself, speaking through them.
“You go from place to place, town to town, saying the same things, giving the same speeches. Like a politician. Like a president. You can sit here and pretend to even grasp my mentality, but it’s all bullshit. You don’t know a fucking thing, so let me tell you a thing or two.”
It was a long journey up the steps of the theater, to where the balcony seats are. He pulls the door and steps out onto the darkness. Miles sees the back of that shaved head with those stupid curls and frills on a spot on top. He approaches slowly, his eyes seeing the crowd below for just a moment. Everyone unaware of him. He speaks to the back of the head, which doesn’t seem to pay him any mind.
“I’m Miles Lucky. I like to get hurt, I like to hurt people. I talk to myself. Sometimes, I go on a run for days. Sometimes, I can’t stop fucking crying. I rip my own skin apart and eat it. Things aren’t the way I left them after I leave them. Something’s pulling my leg or maybe it’s myself. I wrestle, I put my body on the line for the relief of that all. You wouldn’t know anything about that, you put your body down anywhere that will take you because you’re a cheap whore. No matter what you’ve accomplished, I know you won’t claw deep in yourself like I will for this, for my climb up Union. You can say I’m mentally unfit, but I’m wired for this and you wouldn’t survive a day with my brain. You don’t cut it.”
Miles raises a finger gun with his free hand, slowly with one eye close to line it up as best as he could with the head of the person he’s speaking to.
“Sometimes, I fantasize about things just like this. The guy, who thinks he knows me, turning his back on me and underestimating me. Telling me to prepare for a fucking match that’s going to see him lose part of his head!”
He presses his finger right against the head of the man then, with no reaction. Miles is screaming in returning anger now, his voice booming throughout the theater. However, the crowd doesn’t hear him. It doesn’t stop him, though. If anything, he relaxes him. He takes a deep breath, finger gun still to the back of the head.
“I’m taking you both down. Underestimate me, but one thing is for sure. One thing is clear, and it’s the one thing I’m going to keep making clear during my stay here. You can’t ignore me.”
There’s a loud bang, an extraordinary splatter and panic that follows. Some poor bastard slumping out of his chair as Miles runs out, hurrying to take the stage. When he gets on, everyone is still screaming and crying. They all look to him, they all see him. They’re all silent once more.
After killing Abraham Lincoln, John Wilkes Booth rushed to the stage to say “sic semper tyrannis", but this man is no Caesar. This man and this theater, they’re just an obstacle. Miles looks down at his left hand. He stares and realizes he had gripped her tooth so tightly, it broke into his skin and embedded itself there. Miles smiles and places that hand over his heart, looking back up at the now empty seats.
It’s an abandoned building once more. There he stands, upon that unstable stage. Miles takes a bow and says.
“Happy Pigeon Day.”