My ears are ringing in pulsing waves, interlaced with muted silence.
(What the fuck is going on?)
It takes me a minute to understand what that hellish clown was saying to me.
(It's a game-)
(What kind of sicko plays games like this?)
My temples feel like someone shoved in an icepick, then twisted.
(He asked me a question-)
(Am I ready?)
My restraints dig into my wrists, making them ache.
My anger is begining to swell.
I realize the grinding sound I'm hearing is my teeth, jaw clenched and spasaming. I consciously relax my grimace, raising my eyes to meet his.
(Dead eyes.)
(He knows about blood.)
(We know about blood.)
I swallow, trying to coax some moisture over my dry tongue, throat still rough from screaming.
"Am.."
My throat is too dry to talk, I can feel a small tear leaking blood down the back of my tongue.
(Use it)
I swallow again, the blood making my tongue slick.
"..Am I ready?"
(Screaming)
I feel a clawed hand reaching up from a dark place inside of me, sinking its talons into my heart, feel the hatred pumping through me like bile and oil, surging, tinging everything red.
(Crying)
(Held down)
(A knife)
"Yeah.."
(Over and Over)
(Blood Blood BLOOD!!!)
My hands clench, jagged, like twisted metal.
("No, please! Help! STOP!!")
(A shriek that pierces through me)
My eyes bore into his, red rimmed with hate.
(I'll Kill you you son of a bitch! I'm going to tear your fucking throat out!)
I see his laughing face, capering infront of his nest of maggots, his demon children.
(LAUGH Clown! Laugh when I shove my thumbs in your fucking eyes. when I claw your face from your skull!!Laugh when I bite your still beating heart!!)
(And then I'll Laugh, when your imps turn on you, when you're wounded, when they feast on your corpse with the appetite you've whetted.
Our eyes meet, and I know he knows. Know this is why he does this. Know this is what makes him alive.
My Devil will dance with his Demon.
He Knows.
We Know.
"I'm Ready.."
I grin; a ferral mask that has nothing of humour in it, blood dripping from my cracked lips.
"...Are you?"
HEY KIDS! DO YOU LIKE HARROWING TALES OF EXCITEMENT AND DANGER?! IF NARROW ESCAPES, TWISTED HALLS, STABS IN THE BACK, AND SHOTS IN THE DARK ARE YOUR IDEA OF A GOOD TIME THEN YOU HAVE TUNED INTO RIGHT PLACE!! WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, TO PSYCHO BILLY'S HOUSE OF SLAUGHTER! THE PLACE WHERE FIVE CONTESTANTS ARE PUT TO THE TEST IN A SCAVENGER HUNT, TO THE DEATH!
Friday, April 30, 2010
YELLOW PLAYER: TUBULAR RASA
At first, your mind is blank. You don’t remember anything about your past but you know that you don’t know about your past. It is as if you are aware of something you cannot comprehend. It feels like you are being reborn from the womb of some alien mother. You know nothing of this new world save a vague feeling of familiarity. Everything has a surreal quality to it now as your eyes begin to function.
It is as if you were the chrysalis and now you cannot remember ever being the catapiller. You feel rather like something forged from previous material. Yet in all this you feel brand new. There is nothing beyond your base material assigning you as who you are other than the ever elusive situations of here and now. Both of these you are certain are happening for the first time and thus through some intuitive thinking you conclude, that you must be conscious for the first time. Like aroused from some fictitious dream, the sleeper awakens.
From a milky white wet-eyed blur you begin to pull your visual surroundings into focus. You can hear hissing all around you and you know that you are enclosed in cold metal. You can only tilt your head a few degrees in each direction and your arms and legs are strapped into place as if you were standing up straight. You feel as though you are vertical but that you had been horizontal for a long duration previous.
A small television screen sits uncomfortably close to your face. It is about half-a-foot squared with rounded edges and it is jammed up so close to your face it takes up nearly all of your immediate view. It has the intrusive quality of an aggravating conversationalist yet displays the simple phrase: “Please Stand By …”
A light static of elevator music is barely audible from its single speaker. You practically have to hold your breath to hear it. The melody is strangely recognizable and almost primordial as if it were the tune your mother would hum when you were a child. You know you were a child, but again as you try and recall your childhood, you draw a blank. There were words to this song, you remember that much. The part coming up, this is the part that you remember. The words come hauntingly each one the harbinger of the next.
“Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
'Relax,' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!”
The speaker is playing musack of The Eagles song Hotel California. How odd, you think but the truth is you really have no idea why.
It is as if you were the chrysalis and now you cannot remember ever being the catapiller. You feel rather like something forged from previous material. Yet in all this you feel brand new. There is nothing beyond your base material assigning you as who you are other than the ever elusive situations of here and now. Both of these you are certain are happening for the first time and thus through some intuitive thinking you conclude, that you must be conscious for the first time. Like aroused from some fictitious dream, the sleeper awakens.
From a milky white wet-eyed blur you begin to pull your visual surroundings into focus. You can hear hissing all around you and you know that you are enclosed in cold metal. You can only tilt your head a few degrees in each direction and your arms and legs are strapped into place as if you were standing up straight. You feel as though you are vertical but that you had been horizontal for a long duration previous.
A small television screen sits uncomfortably close to your face. It is about half-a-foot squared with rounded edges and it is jammed up so close to your face it takes up nearly all of your immediate view. It has the intrusive quality of an aggravating conversationalist yet displays the simple phrase: “Please Stand By …”
A light static of elevator music is barely audible from its single speaker. You practically have to hold your breath to hear it. The melody is strangely recognizable and almost primordial as if it were the tune your mother would hum when you were a child. You know you were a child, but again as you try and recall your childhood, you draw a blank. There were words to this song, you remember that much. The part coming up, this is the part that you remember. The words come hauntingly each one the harbinger of the next.
“Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
'Relax,' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!”
The speaker is playing musack of The Eagles song Hotel California. How odd, you think but the truth is you really have no idea why.
MEET BLUE PLAYER
The T.V. screen blips and then cuts to black for a split second. This drastic change causes your body to spasm and your mind to draw to immediate attention. Your vision is now consumed with the image of an entire audience of children screaming with excitement. The high-pitch of their fervor is enough to pierce your ears and cause your face to a grimace. Panning into the screen, in an unnaturally close close-up, you see a jubilant face painted like a clown brandishing a large and toothy smile.
“HI KIDDOS!! YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS??”
The children heighten the sharpness of their cheers.
“THAT’S RIGHT … PSYCHO BILLY’S HOUSE OF SLAUGHTER!!!”
As you brace yourself for more audible impact the children’s cheering is nearly unbearable for you.
“WE GOT A HELL OF A SHOW FOR YOU KIDS BECAUSE TODAY WE ARE MEETING THE BLUE PLAYER!!”
The cheering continues its jarring drone and the clown waves the tops of his fingers at you in a coochy-coo manner.
“HI BLUE PLAYER … HEYA … pft they are always a little scared at first like this …”
He rolls his eyes in an exaggerated way.
“CHEER UP!! YOU’RE HERE, ON THE BESTEST GAME-SHOW EVER TO GRACE GOD’S GREEN EARTH. Seriously, we gotta great fucking show for you man, yer gunna love it … WELCOME BLUE PLAYER!!! WELCOME TO MY HOUSE OF SSSLAUGHTER!!!”
There is calliope music that begins to play in a wonky way as its exasperated and muted notes compete with the hellish high-pitched voices of the youthful audience. The camera pans back now and you can see that this clown is certainly middle-aged but has a certain limber quality to his movements. Around him lie large objects of primary colors set onto a white background.
“WE WILL BE BACK KIDDO’S AND WHEN WE RETURN WE WILL FINALLY GET TO SEE THE BLUE PLAYER IN ACTION!!”
He takes a great deep exaggerated breath while he makes time for a dramatic pause. Then rapidly leans back to his uncomfortable close up to mumble:
“just like anyother game show we gotta bunch a rules around here but unlike any other game-show we love cheaters, hah, so listen, or don’t listen, I don’t fucking care, HAH!, now okay you are basically for all-intents-and-purposes my little play thing only I give you an element of free will, OKAY!?!, so you oughta really take a moment and appreciate that …”
“TIMES UP, thank you and I gotta say you may be my slave but I will let you free all you gotta do is gather the items from your scavenger list and I mean just six items can’t be that hard you can easily do that in a lifetime, RIGHT?!?”
“GOOD!! I SURE FUCKING HOPE SO!!! fer yer sssake. I am the one that not only brought you here but essentially created you, I am you’re alpha and I am gunna be your omega so you see you oughta just stick with me and trust me your gunna have a GRAND! OLD! TIME!!”
His face has bursted into an intimidating excitement and he inhales again his mannerisms chalk full of exaggeration.
“So yer gunna be a good contestant and stick to the game and give us a good show right?? Yer gunna play this thing through like a fucking shakesperean comi-tragedy right to the fucking last scene getting them all in stitches, huh?? Yer gunna sing and scream bloody murder all night long??”
It is during this brief pause that you notice the children have stopped their incessant drone but you are not certain for how long it has been dropped.
“GOOD, BLUE PLAYER GOOD FOR YOU!! ALRIGHT, WERE BACK!!”
The children’s chorus of pain begins sounding again assaulting your ears from either side.
“OKAY, WELL WE HAVE GONE OVER ALL THE RULES AND THERE IS ONLY ONE THING TO ASK …”
The children and the clown scream in an ear-drum battering unison
“ARE … YOU ... READY???”
The final word is left with a pause lasting longer than the previous pauses in this conversation. You have a sick feeling in the bottom of your stomach as you feel you are being watched.
The television has grown silent and motionless besides the clown’s subtle sway and blinks. The pneumatic tube hisses and continues to slide in its downward motion. Your pulse throbs from the center of your chest and outward pressing at the very things strapping you in.
What do you do?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
BLUE PLAYER: Last Thing I Remember..
(Alright, just calm down)
I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly, fogging the glass of the close pressed screen.
(What do I know?)
I slowly tense my body, testing the strength of my bonds.
(Metal. Shit.)
I can barely turn my head, no sense of moving air. I am enclosed.
(Like a Coffin-)
(Shut up!)
I feel the rough scrape of material against my neck. I’m wearing clothing.
(Try to remember, How did I get here? Am I dreaming? I used to have this dream where-)
PAIN.
Teeth clench in a fit of nausea, heart hammering in my chest.
(Fuck! What was That??)
My temples are pounding, my nostrils fill with the salt tang of something acrid. A bead of moisture runs from my hairline to my lips.
(Sweat. This isn’t a dream..)
I strain harder against my bonds, this time to centre myself, letting the pain relax me.
(God, I’m thirsty)
Eyes closed against the searing brightness of the Test Pattern. My head throbbing.
(Please Stand By, Please Stand by, Please. Stand. FUCKING. BY!)
"AHHHHHHHH!"
The sound muted in the confines of my private Hell deafeningly loud to my ears.
(I can talk…I can Talk!)
“HEEEELLLLLPP!!! ANYONE!! PLEASE HELP ME!!”
“….please, someone help me..”
I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly, fogging the glass of the close pressed screen.
(What do I know?)
I slowly tense my body, testing the strength of my bonds.
(Metal. Shit.)
I can barely turn my head, no sense of moving air. I am enclosed.
(Like a Coffin-)
(Shut up!)
I feel the rough scrape of material against my neck. I’m wearing clothing.
(Try to remember, How did I get here? Am I dreaming? I used to have this dream where-)
PAIN.
Teeth clench in a fit of nausea, heart hammering in my chest.
(Fuck! What was That??)
My temples are pounding, my nostrils fill with the salt tang of something acrid. A bead of moisture runs from my hairline to my lips.
(Sweat. This isn’t a dream..)
I strain harder against my bonds, this time to centre myself, letting the pain relax me.
(God, I’m thirsty)
Eyes closed against the searing brightness of the Test Pattern. My head throbbing.
(Please Stand By, Please Stand by, Please. Stand. FUCKING. BY!)
"AHHHHHHHH!"
The sound muted in the confines of my private Hell deafeningly loud to my ears.
(I can talk…I can Talk!)
“HEEEELLLLLPP!!! ANYONE!! PLEASE HELP ME!!”
“….please, someone help me..”
GREEN PLAYER: TUBULAR RASA
At first, your mind is blank. You don’t remember anything about your past but you know that you don’t know about your past. It is as if you are aware of something you cannot comprehend. It feels like you are being reborn from the womb of some alien mother. You know nothing of this new world save a vague feeling of familiarity. Everything has a surreal quality to it now as your eyes begin to function.
It is as if you were the chrysalis and now you cannot remember ever being the catapiller. You feel rather like something forged from previous material. Yet in all this you feel brand new. There is nothing beyond your base material assigning you as who you are other than the ever elusive situations of here and now. Both of these you are certain are happening for the first time and thus through some intuitive thinking you conclude, that you must be conscious for the first time. Like aroused from some fictitious dream, the sleeper awakens.
From a milky white wet-eyed blur you begin to pull your visual surroundings into focus. You can hear hissing all around you and you know that you are enclosed in cold metal. You can only tilt your head a few degrees in each direction and your arms and legs are strapped into place as if you were standing up straight. You feel as though you are vertical but that you had been horizontal for a long duration previous.
A small television screen sits uncomfortably close to your face. It is about half-a-foot squared with rounded edges and it is jammed up so close to your face it takes up nearly all of your immediate view. It has the intrusive quality of an aggravating conversationalist yet displays the simple phrase: “Please Stand By …”
A light static of elevator music is barely audible from its single speaker. You practically have to hold your breath to hear it. The melody is strangely recognizable and almost primordial as if it were the tune your mother would hum when you were a child. You know you were a child, but again as you try and recall your childhood, you draw a blank. There were words to this song, you remember that much. The part coming up, this is the part that you remember. The words come hauntingly each one the harbinger of the next.
“Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
'Relax,' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!”
The speaker is playing musack of The Eagles song Hotel California. How odd, you think but the truth is you really have no idea why.
It is as if you were the chrysalis and now you cannot remember ever being the catapiller. You feel rather like something forged from previous material. Yet in all this you feel brand new. There is nothing beyond your base material assigning you as who you are other than the ever elusive situations of here and now. Both of these you are certain are happening for the first time and thus through some intuitive thinking you conclude, that you must be conscious for the first time. Like aroused from some fictitious dream, the sleeper awakens.
From a milky white wet-eyed blur you begin to pull your visual surroundings into focus. You can hear hissing all around you and you know that you are enclosed in cold metal. You can only tilt your head a few degrees in each direction and your arms and legs are strapped into place as if you were standing up straight. You feel as though you are vertical but that you had been horizontal for a long duration previous.
A small television screen sits uncomfortably close to your face. It is about half-a-foot squared with rounded edges and it is jammed up so close to your face it takes up nearly all of your immediate view. It has the intrusive quality of an aggravating conversationalist yet displays the simple phrase: “Please Stand By …”
A light static of elevator music is barely audible from its single speaker. You practically have to hold your breath to hear it. The melody is strangely recognizable and almost primordial as if it were the tune your mother would hum when you were a child. You know you were a child, but again as you try and recall your childhood, you draw a blank. There were words to this song, you remember that much. The part coming up, this is the part that you remember. The words come hauntingly each one the harbinger of the next.
“Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
'Relax,' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!”
The speaker is playing musack of The Eagles song Hotel California. How odd, you think but the truth is you really have no idea why.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
BLUE PLAYER: TUBULAR RASA
At first, your mind is blank. You don’t remember anything about your past but you know that you don’t know about your past. It is as if you are aware of something you cannot comprehend. It feels like you are being reborn from the womb of some alien mother. You know nothing of this new world save a vague feeling of familiarity. Everything has a surreal quality to it now as your eyes begin to function.
It is as if you were the chrysalis and now you cannot remember ever being the catapiller. You feel rather like something forged from previous material. Yet in all this you feel brand new. There is nothing beyond your base material assigning you as who you are other than the ever elusive situations of here and now. Both of these you are certain are happening for the first time and thus through some intuitive thinking you conclude, that you must be conscious for the first time. Like aroused from some fictitious dream, the sleeper awakens.
From a milky white wet-eyed blur you begin to pull your visual surroundings into focus. You can hear hissing all around you and you know that you are enclosed in cold metal. You can only tilt your head a few degrees in each direction and your arms and legs are strapped into place as if you were standing up straight. You feel as though you are vertical but that you had been horizontal for a long duration previous.
A small television screen sits uncomfortably close to your face. It is about half-a-foot squared with rounded edges and it is jammed up so close to your face it takes up nearly all of your immediate view. It has the intrusive quality of an aggravating conversationalist yet displays the simple phrase: “Please Stand By …”
A light static of elevator music is barely audible from its single speaker. You practically have to hold your breath to hear it. The melody is strangely recognizable and almost primordial as if it were the tune your mother would hum when you were a child. You know you were a child, but again as you try and recall your childhood, you draw a blank. There were words to this song, you remember that much. The part coming up, this is the part that you remember. The words come hauntingly each one the harbinger of the next.
“Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
'Relax,' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!”
The speaker is playing musack of The Eagles song Hotel California. How odd, you think but the truth is you really have no idea why.
It is as if you were the chrysalis and now you cannot remember ever being the catapiller. You feel rather like something forged from previous material. Yet in all this you feel brand new. There is nothing beyond your base material assigning you as who you are other than the ever elusive situations of here and now. Both of these you are certain are happening for the first time and thus through some intuitive thinking you conclude, that you must be conscious for the first time. Like aroused from some fictitious dream, the sleeper awakens.
From a milky white wet-eyed blur you begin to pull your visual surroundings into focus. You can hear hissing all around you and you know that you are enclosed in cold metal. You can only tilt your head a few degrees in each direction and your arms and legs are strapped into place as if you were standing up straight. You feel as though you are vertical but that you had been horizontal for a long duration previous.
A small television screen sits uncomfortably close to your face. It is about half-a-foot squared with rounded edges and it is jammed up so close to your face it takes up nearly all of your immediate view. It has the intrusive quality of an aggravating conversationalist yet displays the simple phrase: “Please Stand By …”
A light static of elevator music is barely audible from its single speaker. You practically have to hold your breath to hear it. The melody is strangely recognizable and almost primordial as if it were the tune your mother would hum when you were a child. You know you were a child, but again as you try and recall your childhood, you draw a blank. There were words to this song, you remember that much. The part coming up, this is the part that you remember. The words come hauntingly each one the harbinger of the next.
“Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
'Relax,' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!”
The speaker is playing musack of The Eagles song Hotel California. How odd, you think but the truth is you really have no idea why.
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HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
"So if you see the Vulture coming, he's flying circles in your mind, remember there is no escaping for he will follow close behind. Only promised me a battle, battle for your soul and mine." Gil Scott-Heron - The Vulture
