HELLO YELLOW!!

The T.V. screen blips and then cuts to black for a split second. This drastic change causes your body to spam 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.

“OKAY BOYS AND GIRLS, PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR THE YELLOW PLAYER!!!”

The cheering continues its jarring drone and the clown waves the tops of his fingers at you in a coochy-coo manner.

“HI YELLOW PLAYER … HEYA … HOWS MY YELLOW PLAYER HOLDING UP?? I HOPE YOUR NOT CLAUSTROPHOBIC!!”

He rolls his eyes in an exaggerated way.

“BECAUSE YOU ARE MY GUEST ON THE BESTEST GAME-SHOW EVER TO GRACE GOD’S GREEN EARTH. We got guns, knives, grenades … we got robbers, jocks and fighter pilots … we got so much for you to play with … WELCOME YELLOW PLAYER!!! WELCOME TO MY HOUSE OF SSSLAUGHTER!!!”

There is calliope music that begins to play in a wonky way as its exaperated 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.

He takes a great deep exaggerated breath while he makes time for a dramatic pause. Then rapidly leans back to his uncomortable close up to mumble:

“this is a game show where you are a contestant and so in order to make it to the final round all you gotta do I collect the six items on your scavenger list that are hidden somewhere on the playing field below… should be easy right, should be a walk in the park?? Well you gotta ask yerself if you have what it takes… go ahead ASK, DO I the FUCKING YELLOW PLAYER have what it takes to see THIS THROUGH??”

“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 exageratively.

“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.

“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?

COMMERCIAL BREAK

"WE WILL MEET YELLOW PLAYER AFTER A WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS"

*CLIP FROM OLD COWBOY AND INDIAN MOVIE, HORSEBACK GUN-BATTLE*
*GUNSHOT SOUNDS*

"CAN YOU PUT A PRICE ON HUMAN LIFE?
HOW ABOUT ONE BULLET??
ONE BULLET IS ALL IT TAKES TO SAVE A LIFE.
ONE BULLET CAN MEAN THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH
WHY RISK RUNNING OUT?
WHY EVER RUN AT ALL?
YOU CAN NEVER HAVE TOO MUCH AMMO
IF YOU NEED SOME AMMO AND YOU NEED IT PRONTO
THEN LOOK FOR THE VENDING MACHINE NAMED 'EL BANDITO'"

*CLIP FROM DIRTY HARRY*
*GUNSHOT SOUNDS*

*WORDS ON SCREEN: 'EL BANDITO'*
*MUSICAL JINGLE ON OUTDATED KEYBOARD WITH FEMALE POP VOICES RE-ITERATING THE NAME*

"A WOMAN THINKS A MAN'S GUN SURE IS NEATO
SO GET YOURSELF A BIG ONE AT 'EL BANDITO'"

BLUE TUBE

“HO, HO, HO!! DIDN’T I TELL YOU HE WAS A KNOCKOUT KIDS?? DIDN’T I TELL YOU?!?”

The cheer of the hell-choir forces your teeth into a gnash only fueling your anger.

“YOU LOOK READY ENOUGH TO ME!!”

And with that you feel your ecasement shudder and you feel of a sickly light weight as you feel your blood shift upward.

The T.V. switches back to ‘please stand by…’ and in this moment you feel a great come-down. Like the removal of some awakening force from your body. Perhaps it’s that the clown is gone, maybe the cheering, or maybe it’s because you feel like attention has been drawn elsewhere.

The quiet returns but this time your mind races with thoughts. It’s as if each moment is the only to cling to so your mind is actively sweeping it till the point of familiarity. The tube around you still shuddering and hissing your ears can barely pick up new music on the radio of this small but imposing television.

WELCOME GREEN PLAYER!!

The T.V. screen blips and then cuts to black for a split second. This drastic change causes your body to spam 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.

“ALL RIGHT KIDDOS, BRACE YOURSELVES! AND GIVE A BIG WARM WELCOME TO THE GREEN PLAYER!!”

The cheering continues its jarring drone and the clown waves the tops of his fingers at you in a coochy-coo manner.

“HI GREEN PLAYER … HEYA … pft … LOOK AT THIS GUY, ASLEEP BEHIND THE WHEEL, HE HAS NO IDEA WHATS GOING ON!!”

He rolls his eyes in an exaggerated way.

“WAKE UP!! YOU’RE HERE, ON THE BESTEST GAME-SHOW EVER TO GRACE GOD’S GREEN EARTH. No need to dream my friend, all that you were meant for is right fucking here … WELCOME GREEN PLAYER!!! WELCOME TO MY HOUSE OF SSSLAUGHTER!!!”

There is calliope music that begins to play in a wonky way as its exaperated 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 WE WILL SEE IF WE CAN FINALLY AWAKE THE GREEN PLAYER!”

He takes a great deep exaggerated breath while he makes time for a dramatic pause. Then rapidly leans back to his uncomortable close up to mumble:

“only gunna say this once green player, so LISTEN THE FUCK UP!! This IS the end times my friend and your very soul is at stake, you are a PAWN on the very CHESS BOARD OF THE GODS!!! And if you wanna get through this you are gunna have to finish your chores, OTHERWISE YOU’LL BE GROUNDED … like for life, IN A BOX!!!”

“deep in your pocket you have a list. each item on that list is somewhere down the the hell you are heading towards. Get those items and I will set you free. Get those items and I will bring you to me. AND FOR THE GODS SAKE DON’T DILLY-DALLY!!!”

“WANNA CLAIM WHATS YOURS?? YOUR VERY FUCKING BIRTH-RIGHT FOR BEING THE BEAST THAT YOU ARE?!? LIKE THOSE ONE-THOUSAND FOOLS WHO FOLLOWED THE BATTFIELD, TO! THEIR! ENDS! AND THE END OF ALL!! THINGS!!!?!?”

“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 exageratively.

“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.

“HEH HAH!! WE FINALLY GOT THE GREEN PLAYER AWAKE!! 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?

GREEN PLAYER: Finally...

Always the same dream.
Some call it judgment day, Day of one billion souls. Ragnarok.
I stand over my vanquished enemies. Slain. Dismembered. Heads arranged neatly in preparation for the sacrifice to Odin. And I see him smiling down at me. Chuckling in that diabolically heinous way. Was this really a dream. No. The prophecy.

They say the Gods of Destruction will send their heroes in many forms.
The fat man at the mall. The little girl in the park. My father.
They say it is the duty of the Jotunn to desecrate these bastards in the name of Loki.
This weakens the power of the gods so that we may finally persevere with our war.

They say I'm insane. This is all some kind of schizophrenic delusion created in my subconscious to give me a legitimate reason to kill innocents.
But he has made me realize the truth.
This is my last objective.
This is what I must do.
That laugh. That fucking laugh.
He won't be laughing when my hands rip his head from his spine and carve up his skull for one last offering.

These restraints will not hold me long.
Odin's assassin has called me out.
This will be my finest hour.
But why the fuck did he have to send a clown.
Creepy fuckers those clowns are.

BLUE PLAYER: Grease Paint and Monkey Brains..

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?"

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.