Post by graves on Aug 12, 2007 3:47:25 GMT -6
We fade in on a familiar looking lightbulb, swaying lightly in the wind coming from the open window. The camera pans down and to the side, showing Graves sitting in the corner on his bed. He's shirtless, and the bright white light is making his skin that much paler, giving it a surreal kind of glow. The scars on his body are slightly more illuminated, making the entire sight even odder. But just to top it off, he's not in his normal angered state. He seems calm - whimsical, even. His head is leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. A grin is fixed in place. As he leans his head back forward, staring at the camera, we see that in place of "SICK" written on his forehead, we see "DEAD" in it's place. Graves raises his hand, which, as always, has a lit cigarette in it. He raises it, takes a strong pull from it, and inhales deeply. As the smoke begins to seep from his mouth, he speaks.
Graves: "It seems that some people are talking about powers which they do not know nor comprehend. That certain people are passing judgment on those who shouldn't be judged. That people who are at the bottom of the food chain are chomping on the feet of those at the top. You know who I'm speaking of. Kyle Neverwinter. You speak so derogatively of those you're facing, yet your mind is so singletracked you can't get it off of Kaleb Shadix. You try and compare me to a buffoon such as Nightkiller. This proves your ignorance and idiocy. He's a big, buffoonish manbeast, who needs some kind of masochistic midget to speak for him. We share a liking of violence - that much is the same. But I prefer using my bare hands to tear every hope and shred of dignity to pieces. I like to shove my thumbs through someones eyesockets slowly, allowing the underside of my fingernails to be the last thing they see. I prepare their suffering meticulously, as I am a perfectionist. That f**king manchild just punches whatever is in his way. Nightkiller isn't even in my f**king league. Neither are you, for that matter. You wish to talk about fate. You want to pass judgment on those you face. Perhaps you should shuffle your tarot deck a bit more you f**king miscreant. You need to pull out your own card, and look upon it. Gasp in fear as your eyes read the five letter word and stare at the robe and scythe above it. It reads "Death." It doesn't mean literal death, of course. It just means "The End." The end of what? The end of your sad pitiful excuse for a career. You sit on your couch with your hair dyed black, and cookie cutter dime-a-dozen tattoos and call others ripoffs. You sit with your black iPod, wearing girls jeans, listening to Papa Roach's new CD and dare to say someone is unoriginal. You're a product of the mainstream that labels itself the anti-product. You rebel by being just like everyone else. Your very existance is created by MTV and record label executives who know how to pull the strings of the f**king sheep who watch music videos and listen to music. I'm done with you until you decide to open your conformist maw again. Go listen to some more Linkin Park and cut yourself, you emo f**k."
The cigarette that Graves has been smoking this entire time is about out, and he flicks it out the window. He raises his other hand, which has a conspicuously pre-lit cigarette. He chuckles a bit, and takes a long, harsh drag off of it. He breathes it in slow, and holds it in his lungs before blowing it out through his nose.
Graves: "Next up on the list of those whose burial ground needs filling is Night. You lost to the Stoned Raiders. Seriously, are you going to even bother showing up? You might aswell just sit at home with Daye and cuddle your titles before you lose them to someone even more embarassing than a couple of burned out weed fiends who're wrestling just to pay their dealer. You don't even deserve for me to waste my breath on you. Then again, neither does Kaleb Shadix. You beat Scott Lanegan by cheating, go have a cookie. Anyone can win that way. Eddie Jones...some leftover refuse from the Nirvana era whom I beat years ago in Ring Of Union. Been there, done that, not worried about him. Now, onto the ones I am somewhat worried about. Flap Flannegan...the somewhat dopey, seemingly half-retarded brother of Reck Maverick, the uber-ninja. I haven't been here for very long, but word travels fast. You're good. You're damned good. I should be honored to even be in the ring with your helmet-wearing self. But I'm not. You're just another body in the way of my destruction. Another blip on my radar. Another pimple on the ass of progress. Just because you're good, don't underestimate me. You don't intimidate me...or anyone else for that matter. Your goofy demeanor may be the downfall of some, but I won't be one of them."
Graves slowly stands up off his bed, and walks toward the camera, his head downwards. As he passes by it, he looks up and flashes a grin that could kill any innocent it happened to appear to. He walks to the door and opens it, the light from the room flooding the hallway it opens into. Slowly, he walks out into the hallway. After a few feet, all we can really see of him is his cigarette bobbing as he walks. Before long, the cigarette stops, and presumably, Graves does aswell. A light click is heard, and the overhead flourscent lights pop on with a hum. If the light in his room was bright, then these are the sun. Everything has a godawful white hue to it, much more violently white than the single bulb. He's looking down with his head raised, now, and the sick grin has become much worse. Now his eyes seem to match it. Startlingly blue in the first place, they pop out much worse in the brightness of everything. The hallway, now lit, seem to prove his story of living in an abandoned mental asylum. There are a couple of old shock therapy machines just sitting around casually, and one of them has caked blood on it. Graves begins to speak very low, his voice just barely audible.
Graves: "And then there were two to speak of. First, is Gypsy. I have my own moral code: Never hit a woman who does what she's been told to do. So, Gypsy, this is my advice to you. Don't show up. Don't try and play with the big boys. Because they stop being boys once they commit rape. I don't neccessarily mean normal, run-of-the-mill rape involving sex. I meant the rape of your spirit and soul. The rape of your short career. Do you think you really have a chance at beating seven men? Every one of us..and I mean every one, are bigger than you. We're all in much better conditioning. We all want that prize that's on the line a lot more than you. No one will stand in my way - not even if they have a pair of tits. So if you do decide to show up, my dear, heed my warning: Don't even f**king touch me. If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours. The other six men have some kind of thing against beating up a woman. I don't. If you get in my way, I will f**king crush you under my heels and dress you in a burial shroud."
The grin becomes a grimace, and he takes one last drag of the cigarette in his hand before tossing it to a random part of the already filthy hallway. He walks forward, towards the camera, and his eyes have become bloodshot in the last thirty seconds of speaking. Red veins stick out around his ice blue eyes, and we begin to actually see the inner workings of his mind appear on his face - the man who was acting calm, cool, and collected, is on the edge of a breakdown. The eyes we're looking into seem to reflect the very depths of a man's insanity.
Graves: "And last, but not least, is Scott Lanegan. Lanegan, you miserable, pathetic f**k. You, of all people, have the nerve to call ME DECENT!? DECENT!? DECENT IS THE QUALITY OF SERVICE AT MIDAS! DECENT IS THE FOOD AT A THREE STAR RESTAURANT! DECENT IS MEDIOCRE! You're the only one here who's "decent", Scott. My entire life has been spent in grueling pain and sluggish recovery. A day without pain is foreign to me, Scott. Do you know what it's like to wake up in the morning and hear every joint in your body crack in a chorus of pain? Have you ever been shanked because you told a fellow inmate something he didn't want to hear? Well, it's time for you to hear something you don't want to hear: I'm not afraid of you. I'm not intimidated by you. You make the match that much easier. While you try and take on everyone at once, I'll sit back and wait. Sooner or later, it'll come down to you and I. We'll all see who the better man is, Lanegan. And it doesn't matter which of us it is. Because even if you win, I'll still take the AAA Medallions. Because no matter whether I win or lose, I will kill you. I will kill you...I will kill you..."
Graves repeats the lines over and over, as he holds his head and looks down at the floor. He looks up for the last time, and see that his eyes have gone from bloodshot to completely red, save the blue iris.
Graves: "I WILL KILL YOU AND I WILL f**kING BURY YOU!"
Graves looks down away from the light, and grabs ahold of a large switch. He slams it down with a loud crash, and the flourescent lighting begins to explode from one end of the other. Soon, they're all gone, and the only light source comes from Graves' open door. The camera fixates on it for a moment, before we see a shadow walks past the light. The door slams shut, leaving us in complete darkness as the camera fades out.
Graves: "It seems that some people are talking about powers which they do not know nor comprehend. That certain people are passing judgment on those who shouldn't be judged. That people who are at the bottom of the food chain are chomping on the feet of those at the top. You know who I'm speaking of. Kyle Neverwinter. You speak so derogatively of those you're facing, yet your mind is so singletracked you can't get it off of Kaleb Shadix. You try and compare me to a buffoon such as Nightkiller. This proves your ignorance and idiocy. He's a big, buffoonish manbeast, who needs some kind of masochistic midget to speak for him. We share a liking of violence - that much is the same. But I prefer using my bare hands to tear every hope and shred of dignity to pieces. I like to shove my thumbs through someones eyesockets slowly, allowing the underside of my fingernails to be the last thing they see. I prepare their suffering meticulously, as I am a perfectionist. That f**king manchild just punches whatever is in his way. Nightkiller isn't even in my f**king league. Neither are you, for that matter. You wish to talk about fate. You want to pass judgment on those you face. Perhaps you should shuffle your tarot deck a bit more you f**king miscreant. You need to pull out your own card, and look upon it. Gasp in fear as your eyes read the five letter word and stare at the robe and scythe above it. It reads "Death." It doesn't mean literal death, of course. It just means "The End." The end of what? The end of your sad pitiful excuse for a career. You sit on your couch with your hair dyed black, and cookie cutter dime-a-dozen tattoos and call others ripoffs. You sit with your black iPod, wearing girls jeans, listening to Papa Roach's new CD and dare to say someone is unoriginal. You're a product of the mainstream that labels itself the anti-product. You rebel by being just like everyone else. Your very existance is created by MTV and record label executives who know how to pull the strings of the f**king sheep who watch music videos and listen to music. I'm done with you until you decide to open your conformist maw again. Go listen to some more Linkin Park and cut yourself, you emo f**k."
The cigarette that Graves has been smoking this entire time is about out, and he flicks it out the window. He raises his other hand, which has a conspicuously pre-lit cigarette. He chuckles a bit, and takes a long, harsh drag off of it. He breathes it in slow, and holds it in his lungs before blowing it out through his nose.
Graves: "Next up on the list of those whose burial ground needs filling is Night. You lost to the Stoned Raiders. Seriously, are you going to even bother showing up? You might aswell just sit at home with Daye and cuddle your titles before you lose them to someone even more embarassing than a couple of burned out weed fiends who're wrestling just to pay their dealer. You don't even deserve for me to waste my breath on you. Then again, neither does Kaleb Shadix. You beat Scott Lanegan by cheating, go have a cookie. Anyone can win that way. Eddie Jones...some leftover refuse from the Nirvana era whom I beat years ago in Ring Of Union. Been there, done that, not worried about him. Now, onto the ones I am somewhat worried about. Flap Flannegan...the somewhat dopey, seemingly half-retarded brother of Reck Maverick, the uber-ninja. I haven't been here for very long, but word travels fast. You're good. You're damned good. I should be honored to even be in the ring with your helmet-wearing self. But I'm not. You're just another body in the way of my destruction. Another blip on my radar. Another pimple on the ass of progress. Just because you're good, don't underestimate me. You don't intimidate me...or anyone else for that matter. Your goofy demeanor may be the downfall of some, but I won't be one of them."
Graves slowly stands up off his bed, and walks toward the camera, his head downwards. As he passes by it, he looks up and flashes a grin that could kill any innocent it happened to appear to. He walks to the door and opens it, the light from the room flooding the hallway it opens into. Slowly, he walks out into the hallway. After a few feet, all we can really see of him is his cigarette bobbing as he walks. Before long, the cigarette stops, and presumably, Graves does aswell. A light click is heard, and the overhead flourscent lights pop on with a hum. If the light in his room was bright, then these are the sun. Everything has a godawful white hue to it, much more violently white than the single bulb. He's looking down with his head raised, now, and the sick grin has become much worse. Now his eyes seem to match it. Startlingly blue in the first place, they pop out much worse in the brightness of everything. The hallway, now lit, seem to prove his story of living in an abandoned mental asylum. There are a couple of old shock therapy machines just sitting around casually, and one of them has caked blood on it. Graves begins to speak very low, his voice just barely audible.
Graves: "And then there were two to speak of. First, is Gypsy. I have my own moral code: Never hit a woman who does what she's been told to do. So, Gypsy, this is my advice to you. Don't show up. Don't try and play with the big boys. Because they stop being boys once they commit rape. I don't neccessarily mean normal, run-of-the-mill rape involving sex. I meant the rape of your spirit and soul. The rape of your short career. Do you think you really have a chance at beating seven men? Every one of us..and I mean every one, are bigger than you. We're all in much better conditioning. We all want that prize that's on the line a lot more than you. No one will stand in my way - not even if they have a pair of tits. So if you do decide to show up, my dear, heed my warning: Don't even f**king touch me. If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours. The other six men have some kind of thing against beating up a woman. I don't. If you get in my way, I will f**king crush you under my heels and dress you in a burial shroud."
The grin becomes a grimace, and he takes one last drag of the cigarette in his hand before tossing it to a random part of the already filthy hallway. He walks forward, towards the camera, and his eyes have become bloodshot in the last thirty seconds of speaking. Red veins stick out around his ice blue eyes, and we begin to actually see the inner workings of his mind appear on his face - the man who was acting calm, cool, and collected, is on the edge of a breakdown. The eyes we're looking into seem to reflect the very depths of a man's insanity.
Graves: "And last, but not least, is Scott Lanegan. Lanegan, you miserable, pathetic f**k. You, of all people, have the nerve to call ME DECENT!? DECENT!? DECENT IS THE QUALITY OF SERVICE AT MIDAS! DECENT IS THE FOOD AT A THREE STAR RESTAURANT! DECENT IS MEDIOCRE! You're the only one here who's "decent", Scott. My entire life has been spent in grueling pain and sluggish recovery. A day without pain is foreign to me, Scott. Do you know what it's like to wake up in the morning and hear every joint in your body crack in a chorus of pain? Have you ever been shanked because you told a fellow inmate something he didn't want to hear? Well, it's time for you to hear something you don't want to hear: I'm not afraid of you. I'm not intimidated by you. You make the match that much easier. While you try and take on everyone at once, I'll sit back and wait. Sooner or later, it'll come down to you and I. We'll all see who the better man is, Lanegan. And it doesn't matter which of us it is. Because even if you win, I'll still take the AAA Medallions. Because no matter whether I win or lose, I will kill you. I will kill you...I will kill you..."
Graves repeats the lines over and over, as he holds his head and looks down at the floor. He looks up for the last time, and see that his eyes have gone from bloodshot to completely red, save the blue iris.
Graves: "I WILL KILL YOU AND I WILL f**kING BURY YOU!"
Graves looks down away from the light, and grabs ahold of a large switch. He slams it down with a loud crash, and the flourescent lighting begins to explode from one end of the other. Soon, they're all gone, and the only light source comes from Graves' open door. The camera fixates on it for a moment, before we see a shadow walks past the light. The door slams shut, leaving us in complete darkness as the camera fades out.