The Intense Humming of Evil
May 19, 2020 17:12:42 GMT -5
𝓔𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓮 𝓜𝓾𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻 and Buddy Winchester like this
Post by anna on May 19, 2020 17:12:42 GMT -5
Have you ever entered a house so pristine it looks as if the apocalypse hasn’t touched it?
Everything in its proper place all sat out in the right order. Labels of medicine facing out. The walls are a pure white, not the kind of white you would find in a paint can. It is sheer blank serenity. The fruit is so nice and crisp and neat that you would almost think it was wax. All bright, all beautiful, all so very worthwhile. The cleanliness of towels fresh from the dryer, the polished steel, porcelain in its rightful place. It feels so calm and right and perfect. Most places are like that at first. Time seems to stand still. But it doesn’t. Not really.
A greasy haired nothing wakes up in this house and notices immediately that something is wrong. Not because of the brief flicker in the mirror or the slight manglement in the clock’s arms. He’s not that observant. No. He knows something’s wrong because he just doesn’t belong here. He fell asleep in a gutter somewhere in familiar desert scenes. But just the fact that he was here--a dirty blot in an empty place--just felt wrong. So wrong. Wrong beyond measure. His eyes dart along the walls of somebody’s bedroom as he lays on somebody’s bed like a shitty little Goldylocks on Baby Bear’s bed. As he rises, he makes some half assed attempt in his stupor to heighten his senses.
Instead, all that does is make him hungry.
He rises from the bed with all the grace of an elephant wearing untied tennis shoes. Still has his clothes on, clothes every bit as unimportant as him, the epitome of scum. After a while, he stumbles to the door and opens it. An unassuming upstairs hallway. Just as basic, just as simple. Just as b o r i n g. Stepping onto the bland carpeting, the most he could ever have was the silence. The floorboards don’t even creak and moan. He runs faster towards the stairway and through the mud.
...wait where did this mud come from?
Nothing happened. That’s what a madman tells himself. He wasn’t sinking. And the sinking is another dream and maybe he’ll wake up in his gutter if he only willed it. There is a movement of crash phenomenon and the ground under his feet gave way. It digs in that much deeper. A buzz from a cell phone.
The walkers are in the enclosed pool area.
As he sinks, he gargles out some stuff about DID and droogs.
“Is that what you like then? Half-assed assumptions and overall bullshit done in a cinematic fashion? Does that raise your cock a little?”
It’s unclear how that symphony of voices manages to emerge from one mouth, never mind form the same sentence. Yet they are there all the same. Males, females, everything in between and beyond of various ages and tones and temperaments pose the question to seemingly no one in particular as the figure of the Muse floats in view in what looks like a control room if it was decorated by Vincent Price and Salvador Dali. But they do stabilise (eventually) into a sharpened transatlantic accent.
“That does seem to be the way of this place and let us just say for the record that we are very VERY disappointed. A battleground is supposed to be a place of grit and grime. War is the closest thing to truth one can ever come to. Yet the promotion that calls itself battleground has no truth attached. It is all flash and no substance. You have a destroyer who can be so easily thrown into a fire, a riddle that never was, and an alleged warhorse who can barely deliver a powerbomb to a blind woman.”
It’s only now after saying all of that when we notice the sunglasses on her face and even then, they only mean a thing after being slid slightly down revealing kaleidoscope eyes. The colors swirl in her irises in dazzling combinations before shifting to green with a wink.
“No. Seeing what we’ve all seen so far, this place doesn’t even merit the title. This isn’t war. This isn’t battle. This is human children playing war. They strike at each other with rubber knives, shoot invisible bullets with brightly colored plastic guns, use ketchup as a proxy for fake blood, and fake dramatic death gargles. And here we were taking this serious. If you wish us to play games, children, at least have the common godsdamn sense to change the name. Union Playground is a much more fitting term.”
Clap.
“Sisi! Let us play then.”
From out of nowhere, a book floats in view and is grabbed to hold up to Cambot’s eye. It is a tome of evil which is clearly obvious because the cover is blacker than the blackest black times infinity and cover in enough blood red runes to make wanna be Satanists blush and at least one man shiver..
“This book. This book started the history between Micheal Hayden and ourselves. He knows it well. He even feared it once. Maybe in some small way, he still does even with all the problems that has so drastically brought him back down to Earth. Deep in the dream fights, we became rivals. He stole our TARDIS, brought his former selves for the ride, boasted about wanting to hold a belt for SEVEN YEARS, and overall was just a giant fucking annoyance to anybody. Inside the corridors of our darling son, the infamous Budokan, the both of us were destined to clash seemingly forever.”
Le shrug. She lets go of the tome. It goes elsewhere.
“Outside of it? We’re friendly. It’s not a close thing. We’re probably not the first he’d call for in case of emergency. But close enough to where we attempt to carry Limitless to new heights with our star power alone out of the goodness of our hearts seventy-five percent of the time. And despite the possibility of ring rust on his part, having not been an in ring competitor for a while, we can never fully rule him out because quite honestly even when he plays the nice guy? He’s still too crafty for this shit. Even with all the history between the two of us and all the bullshit, we only know a portion of his ways and he only knows a small fragment of ours.”
Smirk.
“Which is more that can be said for Morgan Payne. Morgy-porgy is walking into this bout knowing the bare minimum, the scantest amount possible. It could prove to be her advantage because she isn’t bogged down by knowledge. It can also prove to be her detriment. Because we’ve seen glimpses of her existence, ya see. Even before we got booked together, we would get bored enough to see bits and pieces of her running about with that strange little harem with Snake Girl and Pot Smoking Fraud and the eighty-five other girls and there was a guy in there at one point, we think. No real shade on that. It’s her life, she’s happy, they do moderately decent, and hey, if you’re gonna be a part of a harem, it might as well be a mutually beneficial one.”
The Muse does a backstroke, knowing full well that description never matters in these things. Nobody gives a shit. Why should she?
“And yes, we also knew all about her status amongst Na Fianna and how she earned her place. And yes, her aiming for Daniel is completely obvious. But can we be honest here? We know--and most importantly, Doggo knows--that there’s only one person-thing in that pack that has a shot at taking him down. Just one. She may have missed the memo, but it’s not her. She can aim for him all she wants to. She can try and use everyone as a stepping stone to him, use us as a stepping stone. But the main focus right now damn well should be
right
here.”
The shift in scene is instant, abrupt, and ultimately eye opening. Thousands of screens flickering to life revealing…
Them.
“Because in this land of make believe where Hayden is the Comeback King and Payne is the Killer Wolf, we’re the fucking queen! We’ve been humbling ourselves for over a decade. We’re the hive pretending to be a single worker. We’re everything poured into flesh and bone for our own enjoyment. We’re the goddess under the guise of a little old lady. We’re the infinite!”
The screens begin to buzz and brighten until they are blinding and loud. It almost sounds like a massive swarm of BEES. The Skull Kids would be pleased even as it would burn their eye holes even as it threatens to melt yours. And as you shut off the screen, a whisper enters your skull.
“We’re the zeitgeist.”
Piss off.
Everything in its proper place all sat out in the right order. Labels of medicine facing out. The walls are a pure white, not the kind of white you would find in a paint can. It is sheer blank serenity. The fruit is so nice and crisp and neat that you would almost think it was wax. All bright, all beautiful, all so very worthwhile. The cleanliness of towels fresh from the dryer, the polished steel, porcelain in its rightful place. It feels so calm and right and perfect. Most places are like that at first. Time seems to stand still. But it doesn’t. Not really.
A greasy haired nothing wakes up in this house and notices immediately that something is wrong. Not because of the brief flicker in the mirror or the slight manglement in the clock’s arms. He’s not that observant. No. He knows something’s wrong because he just doesn’t belong here. He fell asleep in a gutter somewhere in familiar desert scenes. But just the fact that he was here--a dirty blot in an empty place--just felt wrong. So wrong. Wrong beyond measure. His eyes dart along the walls of somebody’s bedroom as he lays on somebody’s bed like a shitty little Goldylocks on Baby Bear’s bed. As he rises, he makes some half assed attempt in his stupor to heighten his senses.
Instead, all that does is make him hungry.
He rises from the bed with all the grace of an elephant wearing untied tennis shoes. Still has his clothes on, clothes every bit as unimportant as him, the epitome of scum. After a while, he stumbles to the door and opens it. An unassuming upstairs hallway. Just as basic, just as simple. Just as b o r i n g. Stepping onto the bland carpeting, the most he could ever have was the silence. The floorboards don’t even creak and moan. He runs faster towards the stairway and through the mud.
...wait where did this mud come from?
Nothing happened. That’s what a madman tells himself. He wasn’t sinking. And the sinking is another dream and maybe he’ll wake up in his gutter if he only willed it. There is a movement of crash phenomenon and the ground under his feet gave way. It digs in that much deeper. A buzz from a cell phone.
The walkers are in the enclosed pool area.
As he sinks, he gargles out some stuff about DID and droogs.
“Is that what you like then? Half-assed assumptions and overall bullshit done in a cinematic fashion? Does that raise your cock a little?”
It’s unclear how that symphony of voices manages to emerge from one mouth, never mind form the same sentence. Yet they are there all the same. Males, females, everything in between and beyond of various ages and tones and temperaments pose the question to seemingly no one in particular as the figure of the Muse floats in view in what looks like a control room if it was decorated by Vincent Price and Salvador Dali. But they do stabilise (eventually) into a sharpened transatlantic accent.
“That does seem to be the way of this place and let us just say for the record that we are very VERY disappointed. A battleground is supposed to be a place of grit and grime. War is the closest thing to truth one can ever come to. Yet the promotion that calls itself battleground has no truth attached. It is all flash and no substance. You have a destroyer who can be so easily thrown into a fire, a riddle that never was, and an alleged warhorse who can barely deliver a powerbomb to a blind woman.”
It’s only now after saying all of that when we notice the sunglasses on her face and even then, they only mean a thing after being slid slightly down revealing kaleidoscope eyes. The colors swirl in her irises in dazzling combinations before shifting to green with a wink.
“No. Seeing what we’ve all seen so far, this place doesn’t even merit the title. This isn’t war. This isn’t battle. This is human children playing war. They strike at each other with rubber knives, shoot invisible bullets with brightly colored plastic guns, use ketchup as a proxy for fake blood, and fake dramatic death gargles. And here we were taking this serious. If you wish us to play games, children, at least have the common godsdamn sense to change the name. Union Playground is a much more fitting term.”
Clap.
“Sisi! Let us play then.”
From out of nowhere, a book floats in view and is grabbed to hold up to Cambot’s eye. It is a tome of evil which is clearly obvious because the cover is blacker than the blackest black times infinity and cover in enough blood red runes to make wanna be Satanists blush and at least one man shiver..
“This book. This book started the history between Micheal Hayden and ourselves. He knows it well. He even feared it once. Maybe in some small way, he still does even with all the problems that has so drastically brought him back down to Earth. Deep in the dream fights, we became rivals. He stole our TARDIS, brought his former selves for the ride, boasted about wanting to hold a belt for SEVEN YEARS, and overall was just a giant fucking annoyance to anybody. Inside the corridors of our darling son, the infamous Budokan, the both of us were destined to clash seemingly forever.”
Le shrug. She lets go of the tome. It goes elsewhere.
“Outside of it? We’re friendly. It’s not a close thing. We’re probably not the first he’d call for in case of emergency. But close enough to where we attempt to carry Limitless to new heights with our star power alone out of the goodness of our hearts seventy-five percent of the time. And despite the possibility of ring rust on his part, having not been an in ring competitor for a while, we can never fully rule him out because quite honestly even when he plays the nice guy? He’s still too crafty for this shit. Even with all the history between the two of us and all the bullshit, we only know a portion of his ways and he only knows a small fragment of ours.”
Smirk.
“Which is more that can be said for Morgan Payne. Morgy-porgy is walking into this bout knowing the bare minimum, the scantest amount possible. It could prove to be her advantage because she isn’t bogged down by knowledge. It can also prove to be her detriment. Because we’ve seen glimpses of her existence, ya see. Even before we got booked together, we would get bored enough to see bits and pieces of her running about with that strange little harem with Snake Girl and Pot Smoking Fraud and the eighty-five other girls and there was a guy in there at one point, we think. No real shade on that. It’s her life, she’s happy, they do moderately decent, and hey, if you’re gonna be a part of a harem, it might as well be a mutually beneficial one.”
The Muse does a backstroke, knowing full well that description never matters in these things. Nobody gives a shit. Why should she?
“And yes, we also knew all about her status amongst Na Fianna and how she earned her place. And yes, her aiming for Daniel is completely obvious. But can we be honest here? We know--and most importantly, Doggo knows--that there’s only one person-thing in that pack that has a shot at taking him down. Just one. She may have missed the memo, but it’s not her. She can aim for him all she wants to. She can try and use everyone as a stepping stone to him, use us as a stepping stone. But the main focus right now damn well should be
right
here.”
The shift in scene is instant, abrupt, and ultimately eye opening. Thousands of screens flickering to life revealing…
Them.
“Because in this land of make believe where Hayden is the Comeback King and Payne is the Killer Wolf, we’re the fucking queen! We’ve been humbling ourselves for over a decade. We’re the hive pretending to be a single worker. We’re everything poured into flesh and bone for our own enjoyment. We’re the goddess under the guise of a little old lady. We’re the infinite!”
The screens begin to buzz and brighten until they are blinding and loud. It almost sounds like a massive swarm of BEES. The Skull Kids would be pleased even as it would burn their eye holes even as it threatens to melt yours. And as you shut off the screen, a whisper enters your skull.
“We’re the zeitgeist.”
Piss off.