Deep breaths.
10..
9..
8..
That question.
It brings a horrific grimace to my face.
My answer is obvious.
7..
6..
I was brought up to hate them and everything they stand for.
The kings of Valhalla.
But part of my duty is to respect them until their very last drop of blood has been split upon unholy ground.
5..
4..
It takes all of my will power to keep from telling this clown fucker to release me from this pod or I`ll rip his testicles inside out through his throat.
True story. Managed to kill a rottweiler assassin sent by Balder himself in such a way.
3..
2..
Calm.
I remain calm.
``Born ready...``
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, May 14, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
WHITE 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.
Monday, May 10, 2010
RED PLAYER: finding my way
standing up I look around the room and try to wipe the cold sweat from my face. I begin to search the room methodically heading down the hallway in search of anything that might help me get out of here. Man I need a drink I don't know what brought me here or why I have this list but I know I gotta get out of here by any means necessary.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
GEE YELLOW, I DON'T THINK WE ARE IN KANSAS ANY MORE!!
“THEN WE ARE ALL READY THEN, RIGHT KIDDOS!?!”
The overzealous screams of the children fills your tubular confines with sound forcing your face to squint. You flex at what is strapping you in with great strength and there is not the slightest of a bend. There was, however, a brief pause before your answer got a response. It was difficult to notice but you are going to gather that this ‘broadcast’ is not without delay but the signal all must be contained relatively close in proximity. Again you wonder how it is you know any of this.
The face of the clown presses close to the screen which imposes a forced closeness to you.
“WELL THEN YELLOW PLAYER, GOOD FUCKING LUCK!!”
And with that you feel your encasement 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 those god-awful children, or maybe its because for this moment you feel like you are back in some sort of limbo between two worlds.
The quiet returns but this time your mind races with thoughts. It’s as if each moment is the only thing to cling on 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.
Anticipation rises again as you feel new sounds coming from ahead of you and with the television lifting upwards you feel as if you are about be brought-out of your confines. There is an instant and overwhelming excitement for the return of your free-will that builds up in your stomach until the rest of your body tingles.
The door ahead of you comes into form with the auto-mechanical rearrangement of objects ahead of you and with a hiss this door too begins to open. And with a sudden violent motion the tube shifts forward slightly and drops you onto the marble floor that stands before you. Lumbering up from your newly assumed fetal position you begin to feel a sudden newness to your being.
The large tube embedded into the wall behind you looks not unlike the décor that surrounds it. Faded wallpaper and plastered ceiling imply that you are in some sort of building, maybe even a house. Although the stank stale air and general feeling of unease would suggest that this house is not intended for comfortable living. If you had to guess by the floor, wallpaper and general structure you would say that this ‘house’ is probably more like a ‘mansion’ from the early fifties. But with the tubes and stale air you are most definitely underground. So, could this be some sort of ritzy bunker built during the early Cold War era?
The lights from the pneumatic tube light a hallway ahead of you that is roughly fifteen feet apart and they stretch thirty feet away from the base of the tube and further into darkness. Just at the darkest edge of each wall you can see a door of sorts. It looks large, rounded and metal something like what you would have seen in a submarine movie. Yes, you remember DAS BOOT, if for only a second. It is hard to make out any details about them from this distance but these doors are certainly shut.
You are not quite sure where you are but it is certain that you feel a long way from home.
The overzealous screams of the children fills your tubular confines with sound forcing your face to squint. You flex at what is strapping you in with great strength and there is not the slightest of a bend. There was, however, a brief pause before your answer got a response. It was difficult to notice but you are going to gather that this ‘broadcast’ is not without delay but the signal all must be contained relatively close in proximity. Again you wonder how it is you know any of this.
The face of the clown presses close to the screen which imposes a forced closeness to you.
“WELL THEN YELLOW PLAYER, GOOD FUCKING LUCK!!”
And with that you feel your encasement 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 those god-awful children, or maybe its because for this moment you feel like you are back in some sort of limbo between two worlds.
The quiet returns but this time your mind races with thoughts. It’s as if each moment is the only thing to cling on 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.
Anticipation rises again as you feel new sounds coming from ahead of you and with the television lifting upwards you feel as if you are about be brought-out of your confines. There is an instant and overwhelming excitement for the return of your free-will that builds up in your stomach until the rest of your body tingles.
The door ahead of you comes into form with the auto-mechanical rearrangement of objects ahead of you and with a hiss this door too begins to open. And with a sudden violent motion the tube shifts forward slightly and drops you onto the marble floor that stands before you. Lumbering up from your newly assumed fetal position you begin to feel a sudden newness to your being.
The large tube embedded into the wall behind you looks not unlike the décor that surrounds it. Faded wallpaper and plastered ceiling imply that you are in some sort of building, maybe even a house. Although the stank stale air and general feeling of unease would suggest that this house is not intended for comfortable living. If you had to guess by the floor, wallpaper and general structure you would say that this ‘house’ is probably more like a ‘mansion’ from the early fifties. But with the tubes and stale air you are most definitely underground. So, could this be some sort of ritzy bunker built during the early Cold War era?
The lights from the pneumatic tube light a hallway ahead of you that is roughly fifteen feet apart and they stretch thirty feet away from the base of the tube and further into darkness. Just at the darkest edge of each wall you can see a door of sorts. It looks large, rounded and metal something like what you would have seen in a submarine movie. Yes, you remember DAS BOOT, if for only a second. It is hard to make out any details about them from this distance but these doors are certainly shut.
You are not quite sure where you are but it is certain that you feel a long way from home.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
YELLOW PLAYER: Where are we
Our fucking head is throbbing, and all that noise isn't helping. We fucking hate kids. Strange, we know that we hate children, and The Eagles, fucking Don Henley, but we can't remember our name.
We should be worm food.
Yes, that stands out as well, not the how or why, but that we should be fucking dead. Maybe this is Hell.
Could be, could be. Never thought the afterlife would have television though. So what if this is Hell?
Then fucking game over. No more hunt, looming over the city, waiting for the prey to show itself then cutting through the night to snip their fucking strings.
Leaving behind a beautiful, broken marionette upon a stage of blood. but even if we are in The Pit it doesn't mean an end to our fun. Hell may hold the greatest quarry of all, can The Devil be killed?
Fuck, that's fucking brilliant, lets find out. First we need to get out of this fucking tin can.
Wait, wait, this isn't just some television show, that clown is talking to us!?!
We listen intently, a grin slowly spreading across our face. As the clown finishes, muscles straining against whatever is holding us down, we yell "YES, WE ARE READY!"
A scavenger hunt, this might be fun. Could that fucking clown be The Devil?
We better kill him just to make sure.
We should be worm food.
Yes, that stands out as well, not the how or why, but that we should be fucking dead. Maybe this is Hell.
Could be, could be. Never thought the afterlife would have television though. So what if this is Hell?
Then fucking game over. No more hunt, looming over the city, waiting for the prey to show itself then cutting through the night to snip their fucking strings.
Leaving behind a beautiful, broken marionette upon a stage of blood. but even if we are in The Pit it doesn't mean an end to our fun. Hell may hold the greatest quarry of all, can The Devil be killed?
Fuck, that's fucking brilliant, lets find out. First we need to get out of this fucking tin can.
Wait, wait, this isn't just some television show, that clown is talking to us!?!
We listen intently, a grin slowly spreading across our face. As the clown finishes, muscles straining against whatever is holding us down, we yell "YES, WE ARE READY!"
A scavenger hunt, this might be fun. Could that fucking clown be The Devil?
We better kill him just to make sure.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
BLUE PLAYER: Perhaps You Had Better Start From the Begining...
I lean heavily against the wall, the tattered paper coarse against my fingertips, as though they're new to feeling. I take a ragged breath, heart racing.
(Steady.)
I close my eyes.
(In through the nose)
I inhale slowly.
(Out through the mouth)
A shuttering breath whistles emptily through my teeth.
(OK, better.)
I open my eyes, LOOKING around the hallway.
(So if this is a 'Game', there must be 'Players')
I turn and LOOK to the RASA TUBE.
(A new-hatched bird had everything it needed in its egg..maybe it's the same for me)
As I reach into the Tube to SEARCH, I look at my arms, the dark blue of my cover-alls catching my eye.
(He called me the 'Blue Player'..So maybe it's a colour thing)
(Let's see.. Colours..)
(Red)
(Orange)
(Yellow)
(Green)
(Blue, me)
(Indigo)
(Violet)
(Seven. Excluding me, six.)
(Unless there's Black and White too?)
"Fuck. Eight. Assume eight."
"Well that's just fucking perfect."
As I continue to SEARCH, the RASA TUBE, I find myself looking at the backs of my hands.
I study the rough calluses, veins standing out in the pale flesh, peppered with flecks of melanin, pink at the knuckles and nails. I have a few scars across the second knuckle of my left thumb, hair like copper wires standing out from the backs of my wrists. A man's hands; maybe late twenties, early thirties.
(Who the hell am I?)
I reach up, tentatively touching my face, trying to get a sense of what I look like.
(Sharp high cheekbones)
(Squared jaw with a pointed chin; some morning scruff)
(Deep-set eyes with a jutting brow ridge, contoured forehead)
(Straight nose with a high bridge, feels like it might have been broken at one point)
"Well.. Pleased to meet you, Blue Player."
TAKING what I can from the TUBE, I PROCEED down the HALLWAY, one hand grazing the wall; CROUCHED low, ALERT for the slightest change.
"One down, Eight to go..."
(Steady.)
I close my eyes.
(In through the nose)
I inhale slowly.
(Out through the mouth)
A shuttering breath whistles emptily through my teeth.
(OK, better.)
I open my eyes, LOOKING around the hallway.
(So if this is a 'Game', there must be 'Players')
I turn and LOOK to the RASA TUBE.
(A new-hatched bird had everything it needed in its egg..maybe it's the same for me)
As I reach into the Tube to SEARCH, I look at my arms, the dark blue of my cover-alls catching my eye.
(He called me the 'Blue Player'..So maybe it's a colour thing)
(Let's see.. Colours..)
(Red)
(Orange)
(Yellow)
(Green)
(Blue, me)
(Indigo)
(Violet)
(Seven. Excluding me, six.)
(Unless there's Black and White too?)
"Fuck. Eight. Assume eight."
"Well that's just fucking perfect."
As I continue to SEARCH, the RASA TUBE, I find myself looking at the backs of my hands.
I study the rough calluses, veins standing out in the pale flesh, peppered with flecks of melanin, pink at the knuckles and nails. I have a few scars across the second knuckle of my left thumb, hair like copper wires standing out from the backs of my wrists. A man's hands; maybe late twenties, early thirties.
(Who the hell am I?)
I reach up, tentatively touching my face, trying to get a sense of what I look like.
(Sharp high cheekbones)
(Squared jaw with a pointed chin; some morning scruff)
(Deep-set eyes with a jutting brow ridge, contoured forehead)
(Straight nose with a high bridge, feels like it might have been broken at one point)
"Well.. Pleased to meet you, Blue Player."
TAKING what I can from the TUBE, I PROCEED down the HALLWAY, one hand grazing the wall; CROUCHED low, ALERT for the slightest change.
"One down, Eight to go..."
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"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
