Post by graves on Jul 3, 2007 1:10:55 GMT -6
The scene fades in on a lightbulb. It's swaying lightly by it's cord from the ceiling. It's fairly high powered, and giving the entire room a white hue...not that there's much in the room to give a hue to. The only furniture in the room being a small bed and a single chair, which at the moment is pointed toward the corner. Someone's sitting in it, and cigarette smoke is slowly rising up from the right of them. From the back, all we can tell of him is that his back is covered in dozens of large scars, his pants and his hair are black, and he's very white. Not even the power of the lightbulb could change the paleness of the man's natural skintone. He's leaning forward, and his hands are clasped over the back of his head. If we listen closely, we can hear him half-singing to himself.
? ? ? ?: A Dead World, A Dark Path,
Not Even Crossroads To Choose From,
All The Bloodred Carpets Before Me,
Behold This Fair Creation Of God.
My Only Wish To Leave Behind,
All The Days Of Earth,
An Everyday Hell Of My Kingdom Come.
He abruptly stops, and his hands come down from his head. He sits up straight, and we can hear the crack of many joints in his neck and back. He stands up slowly, and once more the cracking is heard, this time coming from his knees. He walks around the chair, grabbing the back of it as he does, spinning it with him. He faces us, as does the chair. He sits down once more, clasping his hands in his lap. Now we get a good look at him. His hair isn't unkempt, nor is it tidy. His face looks hollow, like someone in the depths of starvation. His ribs jut out, further enhancing the look. The ironical "UNSCARRED" tattoo sticks out amongst paler patches of scar tissue all around it. His ice-blue eyes stand out brilliantly in the drab monochrome black and white of the rest of the scenery. He raises the cigarette in his right hand up to his lips, and takes a long drag off of it, before pushing the smoke out of his nose. Some of the smoke refuses to go the way he told it, and seeps out through the corners of his mouth. No emotion has shown on his face this entire time, and no emotion can be detected by the way he's carrying himself. The perfect sense of being stoic. Then, without reason, he grins. It's utterly fake, and thus all the more terrifying. Though we don't really know who this man is, we can safely guess that it's POW New England's latest signee, Graves. He takes another long pull from his cigarette, then begins to speak, smoking trailing from his mouth. His voice doesn't fit his psychotic outlooks, but sounds like it belongs to a harvard graduate. It has an accent that's unidentifiable, but certainly isn't from anywhere in America.
Graves: "Most days, when I'm not working, I like to just sit in this room and smoke. The nicotine settles my nerves, and I like watching the smoke drift. It's formless, and utterly free. Nothing tells it what to do, or what to be. It does as it pleases. But recently, something has begun to disturb me. In the middle of the night, when I do most of my thinking and smoking, the smoke tends to draw toward the window. The window's open, and the airflow is of course going in and out of that one opening in my domecile, so that doesn't bother me so much. What does, is what I see out that window. I don't see anything like bigfoot, or aliens, so don't think I'm that much over the edge. What I see, is light. It's not that I'm afraid of light, as you can tell, my room is rather bright at the moment. What I can't wrap my mind around is where that light comes from. It looks like the sun rising, without the changes in the rest of the sky. Just over the horizon is a bright glow. I don't know what it is, and I'm not sure I want to know. All I do know, is that I want it gone, because it's starting to unravel the threads to the part of my mind that I still have wrapped up quite tight. And since I just began working for a new company, I'm not so sure that's the best thing to have happen. I don't want to...accidentally...hurt someone more than I should, and end up getting terminated from my contract. I need my money, so I can continue to buy cigarettes. Because without these, I probably would have snapped and killed every f**king thing on the planet by now."
Graves takes a drag from his cigarette, then looks out the window. He looks at a small clock sitting on the edge of the bed, which states that it's 2:44 AM. Graves exhales his smoke rather quickly.
Graves: "Look out the window, quick!"
The camera pans to the window, with the clock on the bed still barely in view. When it hits 2:45, a strange bright light begins to eminate from just over the horizon, exactly how he explained it. The light has a rather drawing quality on it, like moths to the flame. The camera pans back over to Graves, who has smoked almost half a cigarette in a minute's timespan. He smokes the very last bit of it, then with precision, flicks it seven feet out of the open window. It's quite obvious he's had a lot of practice doing this trick. Like clockwork, another cigarette is produced from his pocket, and is in his mouth. A lighter comes from the other pocket, and lights it. He takes the mandatory first drag which is spat back out, then takes the first real pull. It burns down quite fast, and he exhales it. He takes another, then begins to speak again.
Graves: "Now, this light, as it might have done to you, seems to call to me. Every night I sit in this chair, and stare at it as my smoke drifts off towards it. Sometimes I think about going towards it, and sometimes I think about not doing it. If it wasn't for my preoccupation of this camera, I'd most likely be thinking of one of those right now. It's like some sort of malevolent bugzapper, and I'm just a mere mosquito. I mean, I do have what some might say is an unhealthy obsession with blood, but I don't drink it, I just spill it everywhere, so I can't be a mosquito. I see trucks and cars go up to that place all the time, but they never come back. I sometimes think if I actually did walk up there, I'd find a boneyard of ancient skeletons and deserted vehicles. Keys, money, and jewelry inside. And beyond it, one person sitting in a booth, operating it. Their eyes driven white by the deadlights. The corpse of many lay beyond them, because everyone who goes has to kill the previous person in order to have the distinguished ability to operate it. If I went up there, I'd walk, and leave nothing behind up there for someone to identify me. I'd kill whoever was there at the moment, and I'd be in that booth until the threads of eternity faded into nothing. Because no one would be able to kill me and take my place. I'd kill them, and take their cigarettes. Money means nothing when you don't leave your post, you know? I don't know what I'd do for sustenance, I mean, I could eat the people, but I don't really like pork, and that's what all the cannibals say we taste like. I could eat berries and stuff, but not during the night. At night I'd just stare at the light like I do now."
He's been smoking whilst talking, and his current smoke is down to almost nothing. Taking a last drag, he then flicks it out the window like the one before it. He swallows hard, ingesting the smoke instead of inhaling it, and then lets out a scream. Something inside him has snapped, and this will not end well. He stands up, walking up to an extreme closeup view of the camera.
Graves: "Did you actually buy into that psychobabble bullshit? Did you think you were listening to some deep, thoughtful mind? Well, you came to the wrong man. The only thing you'll get out of me is bloodshed, the only story I tell is a story of bloody bodies and broken bones left along my way to the top, written with the broken bones of those who've opposed me and in the blood of those who've fallen along the way to my hand. I'm the meanest dog in the yard, and I've killed those who've dared barked at me. No man nor woman is safe from my wrath, and everyone who's unlucky enough to be put on POW New England along with me is soon to learn that. FOR MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE COMING OF THE GLORY OF THE GRAVES! EACH OF THEM FILLED SIX FEET FULL OF BLOOD! I don't know when my first match will be, and I don't really care. Because whoever gets put in that ring with me better have enough spare change lined in their disease ridden pockets to buy a coffin. Because after I embarass you, after I kill you, after I desecrate your remains, I WILL f**kING BURY YOU!"
Graves grabs the chair from behind him, and whips it up and forward, smashing the lightbulb. It explodes fantastically, leaving behind a flashbulb effect, Graves' face being illuminated. The camera pans to the side, showing the window and the clock again. The former white light beyond the horizon is now blood red, and the clock at the head of the bed reads "6:66." The light over the horizon fades out, and the clock is flung at the camera. A smash is heard, then static.
? ? ? ?: A Dead World, A Dark Path,
Not Even Crossroads To Choose From,
All The Bloodred Carpets Before Me,
Behold This Fair Creation Of God.
My Only Wish To Leave Behind,
All The Days Of Earth,
An Everyday Hell Of My Kingdom Come.
He abruptly stops, and his hands come down from his head. He sits up straight, and we can hear the crack of many joints in his neck and back. He stands up slowly, and once more the cracking is heard, this time coming from his knees. He walks around the chair, grabbing the back of it as he does, spinning it with him. He faces us, as does the chair. He sits down once more, clasping his hands in his lap. Now we get a good look at him. His hair isn't unkempt, nor is it tidy. His face looks hollow, like someone in the depths of starvation. His ribs jut out, further enhancing the look. The ironical "UNSCARRED" tattoo sticks out amongst paler patches of scar tissue all around it. His ice-blue eyes stand out brilliantly in the drab monochrome black and white of the rest of the scenery. He raises the cigarette in his right hand up to his lips, and takes a long drag off of it, before pushing the smoke out of his nose. Some of the smoke refuses to go the way he told it, and seeps out through the corners of his mouth. No emotion has shown on his face this entire time, and no emotion can be detected by the way he's carrying himself. The perfect sense of being stoic. Then, without reason, he grins. It's utterly fake, and thus all the more terrifying. Though we don't really know who this man is, we can safely guess that it's POW New England's latest signee, Graves. He takes another long pull from his cigarette, then begins to speak, smoking trailing from his mouth. His voice doesn't fit his psychotic outlooks, but sounds like it belongs to a harvard graduate. It has an accent that's unidentifiable, but certainly isn't from anywhere in America.
Graves: "Most days, when I'm not working, I like to just sit in this room and smoke. The nicotine settles my nerves, and I like watching the smoke drift. It's formless, and utterly free. Nothing tells it what to do, or what to be. It does as it pleases. But recently, something has begun to disturb me. In the middle of the night, when I do most of my thinking and smoking, the smoke tends to draw toward the window. The window's open, and the airflow is of course going in and out of that one opening in my domecile, so that doesn't bother me so much. What does, is what I see out that window. I don't see anything like bigfoot, or aliens, so don't think I'm that much over the edge. What I see, is light. It's not that I'm afraid of light, as you can tell, my room is rather bright at the moment. What I can't wrap my mind around is where that light comes from. It looks like the sun rising, without the changes in the rest of the sky. Just over the horizon is a bright glow. I don't know what it is, and I'm not sure I want to know. All I do know, is that I want it gone, because it's starting to unravel the threads to the part of my mind that I still have wrapped up quite tight. And since I just began working for a new company, I'm not so sure that's the best thing to have happen. I don't want to...accidentally...hurt someone more than I should, and end up getting terminated from my contract. I need my money, so I can continue to buy cigarettes. Because without these, I probably would have snapped and killed every f**king thing on the planet by now."
Graves takes a drag from his cigarette, then looks out the window. He looks at a small clock sitting on the edge of the bed, which states that it's 2:44 AM. Graves exhales his smoke rather quickly.
Graves: "Look out the window, quick!"
The camera pans to the window, with the clock on the bed still barely in view. When it hits 2:45, a strange bright light begins to eminate from just over the horizon, exactly how he explained it. The light has a rather drawing quality on it, like moths to the flame. The camera pans back over to Graves, who has smoked almost half a cigarette in a minute's timespan. He smokes the very last bit of it, then with precision, flicks it seven feet out of the open window. It's quite obvious he's had a lot of practice doing this trick. Like clockwork, another cigarette is produced from his pocket, and is in his mouth. A lighter comes from the other pocket, and lights it. He takes the mandatory first drag which is spat back out, then takes the first real pull. It burns down quite fast, and he exhales it. He takes another, then begins to speak again.
Graves: "Now, this light, as it might have done to you, seems to call to me. Every night I sit in this chair, and stare at it as my smoke drifts off towards it. Sometimes I think about going towards it, and sometimes I think about not doing it. If it wasn't for my preoccupation of this camera, I'd most likely be thinking of one of those right now. It's like some sort of malevolent bugzapper, and I'm just a mere mosquito. I mean, I do have what some might say is an unhealthy obsession with blood, but I don't drink it, I just spill it everywhere, so I can't be a mosquito. I see trucks and cars go up to that place all the time, but they never come back. I sometimes think if I actually did walk up there, I'd find a boneyard of ancient skeletons and deserted vehicles. Keys, money, and jewelry inside. And beyond it, one person sitting in a booth, operating it. Their eyes driven white by the deadlights. The corpse of many lay beyond them, because everyone who goes has to kill the previous person in order to have the distinguished ability to operate it. If I went up there, I'd walk, and leave nothing behind up there for someone to identify me. I'd kill whoever was there at the moment, and I'd be in that booth until the threads of eternity faded into nothing. Because no one would be able to kill me and take my place. I'd kill them, and take their cigarettes. Money means nothing when you don't leave your post, you know? I don't know what I'd do for sustenance, I mean, I could eat the people, but I don't really like pork, and that's what all the cannibals say we taste like. I could eat berries and stuff, but not during the night. At night I'd just stare at the light like I do now."
He's been smoking whilst talking, and his current smoke is down to almost nothing. Taking a last drag, he then flicks it out the window like the one before it. He swallows hard, ingesting the smoke instead of inhaling it, and then lets out a scream. Something inside him has snapped, and this will not end well. He stands up, walking up to an extreme closeup view of the camera.
Graves: "Did you actually buy into that psychobabble bullshit? Did you think you were listening to some deep, thoughtful mind? Well, you came to the wrong man. The only thing you'll get out of me is bloodshed, the only story I tell is a story of bloody bodies and broken bones left along my way to the top, written with the broken bones of those who've opposed me and in the blood of those who've fallen along the way to my hand. I'm the meanest dog in the yard, and I've killed those who've dared barked at me. No man nor woman is safe from my wrath, and everyone who's unlucky enough to be put on POW New England along with me is soon to learn that. FOR MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE COMING OF THE GLORY OF THE GRAVES! EACH OF THEM FILLED SIX FEET FULL OF BLOOD! I don't know when my first match will be, and I don't really care. Because whoever gets put in that ring with me better have enough spare change lined in their disease ridden pockets to buy a coffin. Because after I embarass you, after I kill you, after I desecrate your remains, I WILL f**kING BURY YOU!"
Graves grabs the chair from behind him, and whips it up and forward, smashing the lightbulb. It explodes fantastically, leaving behind a flashbulb effect, Graves' face being illuminated. The camera pans to the side, showing the window and the clock again. The former white light beyond the horizon is now blood red, and the clock at the head of the bed reads "6:66." The light over the horizon fades out, and the clock is flung at the camera. A smash is heard, then static.