Jack Mirror Part 3: The Twinklight Zone
Oct 24, 2017 19:36:48 GMT -6
SHADOWLOVE, Bonnie Blue, and 2 more like this
Post by Jack "The Crack" Schlongson on Oct 24, 2017 19:36:48 GMT -6
A white sheet over a foam ball hung from the ceiling; that's a ghost. Red paint splattered along floor and walls; the site of a murder. A discolored rubber arm planted to point reaching to the sky; the souls of hell trying to escape their earthly grave to feast on the flesh of the living. Lost in the festive debris swirling through the air, barest images conjure and project the soul of the macabre on every street corner and doorstep. Sleepy towns transcend their mundane nature, morphing to become vessels for restless spirits of all kinds. For a month (or longer for the lazy), the country, by and large, becomes enraptured by the parading of monsters...really tacky monsters.
Payaso wondered if I had ever been hunted. A very funny thing to ask a man like me in a society like this...
Imagine being me, attending a backwards High School where kids grin wildly at any chance to BASH THE FAG. Imagine running late for class. I moved down an empty hallway.
Three skull masks approached from behind. A laugh. A look over my shoulder. A slow descent into chaos as the walk turns into a run. The chase leads down a corridor and into the janitor's closet where the door slams shut and I sit with a racing heart as three large teens pound on a door with thunderous blows, trying to lure me out with fear. Surely, if I had open the door, I would've been walking home with a limp, if I walked home at all. For an hour I stayed in that closet, to scared to open the door. All I could think was A whole month dedicated to this... A whole month where scare tactics are flaunted in all their festive force. Masks galore and no way to know who wore them.
Imagine being me, deep in THE WAVE. Waking to the sound of a shattering window, I walk out to find scattered bits of pumpkin strewn across the living room floor. A shadow outlined by a street light bearing in through the new violent opening. The shadow has something in his right hand. He pumps it in both hands, the item making sounds of a loud cocking mechanism. Dropping down to our knees, we do nothing as the house is robbed. The shadow leaves through his violent entrance, bits of pumpkin and glass as his calling card before disappearing into the wee morning hours of November 1st.
Imagine feeling no where is safe.
Imagine horror movies no longer being fun as you wake to find yourself living in one.
Imagine feeling like the one you love might never sleep again, and that, even now, he checks the security system this time every year, despite the new neighborhood.
Imagine looking at every pumpkin and knowing it shares a shadow with a night so long ago.
No amount of Charlie Brown specials, hokey movie marathons, or mountains worth of candy could instill the heart in me that such a day gleefully gave others.
I hate Halloween. I hate it so much. From the tip of every haunted mansion to the deepest cracks of a red devil infest hell, it makes me groan and sigh. So, imagine my surprise when Killing Floor becomes a long and tedious celebration for the pulpish and drab holiday. Blood and Guts and Cheap Aesthetics: The Tale of UCI's Fading Legacy. A book I might one-day pen if need be.
So, little does Payaso know, being hunted is not just an act, but a state of being for some, especially for this little champion.
The hunt? I'm use to it by now. Those who hunt no longer scare me, because I've gotten good at leading the hunter off the edge, Payaso, my adorable spanish spice.
Thousands will flock. Thousands will foam at the mouth. Thousands will gather from far and wide in the hopes that some splatter of blood might hit them.
They live for this. This violence. This fear. This holiday.
En masse, they are the walking dead. The mindless hordes. Craving and aching for their hunger to be satiated. They cannot be killed. They cannot be overcome.
So...
If you can't beat them, join 'em!
SPOOKY SCARY SKELETONS SEND SHIVERS DOWN YOUR SPINE!
In lore, there are many one-eyed monsters. In life, there are two, and this one sits ready as the red light flashes on and it pulls forwards into a transformed set. Formally the setting for 'DILF 2: Dad Jokes and Dad Pokes', it has been partially refaceted into a haunted cabin Evil Dead style. Fog pours along the outside of the once innocuous campgrounds (with occasionally hardcore assplay) as various headstones poke out from under the smokey apparatus. The camera moves forward and the cabin door swings open by unseen forces to a room shrouded in shadows. It enters the room at a crawling pace while the song "Spooky Scary Skeleton" blares.
SHRIEKING SKULLS WILL SHOCK YOUR SOUL, SEAL YOUR DOOM TONIGHT!
It grows louder as the camera progresses. Bran, painted poorly to resemble that of a zombie, leaps out from behind a door to send the peering eye jumping back in freight. Bran moans and reaches out towards his shaking victim, but the camera quickly darts around him and moves forward through a hallway. The wood creeks, the single light flickers overhead.
SPOOKY SCARY SKELETONS SPEAK WITH SUCH A SCREECH!
To another open room, the camera peers around to reveal the remnants of a gruesome scene. Furniture turned over or shattered into millions of pieces. A window is shatters inwards and from the center of the room to the cellar trapdoor, there is a large street of blood and signs of a violent struggle.
YOU'LL SHAKE AND SHUTTER IN SURPRISE WHEN YOU HEAR THESE ZOMBIES SHRIEK!
The camera, in its ill-advised curiosity, moves towards the cellar door, but before the operator can reach down and unhook the chains Richard in ghoulish make-up (and a large nose which may or may not be a painted dildo) violently pushes up, the ascent only stopped by the thick chains which hold him in. He screams and hollers in freakish delight as the camera quickly backs away and watches as Richard reaches out and tries to grab the patron.
"COME TO ME, PRETTY, LET ME FILL YOU UP!" Richard screeches.
"Richard, shut up, you're not supposed to have any lines," Bran yells from off screen.
Richard, dejected, sinks down below the floorboards once more, leaving the room, and the shaking camera man in it, in a terrible silence.
WE'RE SO SORRY SKELETONS, YOU'RE SO MISUNDERSTOOD!
The camera regains its steady hand and moves to a screen door at the back of the cabin. It hesitates before pushing the door open. A long cornfield spans the length of the frame, and smack dab right in the middle of the field is a scarecrow. A lightening bolt brightens the sky, but soon as the light dies, the figure upon the wooden poll has disappeared.
YOU ONLY WANT TO SOCIALIZE, BUT I DON'T THINK WE SHOULD!
A rustling spreads down the field in the direction of the camera, stopping only a few feet short of the clearing. A head covered in a burlap sack of a mask peeks through the stocks of corn, tilting ever-so-slightly.
CAUSE SPOOKY SCARY SKELETONS SHOUT STARTLING SHRILLY SCREAMS!
The scarecrow figure exits the cornfield and moves closer to the camera until it is mere inches away, a heavy breathing just barely audible over the music.
THEY'LL SNEAK FROM THERE SARCOPHAGUS AND JUST WON'T LEAVE YOU BE!
"If only I had a brain," the music begins to die as the figure reaches up and pulls of the mask, revealing myself underneath, face painted like that of a Jack O'lantern, "could I have yours? Hehe."
Backing away from the camera, I pose to display all my 'spooky' allure. "Do you like it? I had to jump someone's bones to get this made on such short notice," I giggle, "Truth be told, though, I've never cared much for masks, I'm afraid. Something so...dishonest about them. Plus, they cover my ravishing good looks, wouldn't you agree?
"But such are the times I guess. That doesn't matter much to you, does it, El Payaso, my lil' Spanish Fly, as you seem to don your disguise year round. No judgement, as a victim of society's celebrity obsessed culture, I understand the need to hide, but what exactly is it that you're afraid of?
"Everyone is afraid of something. For some, its a concept more so than a monster. The end of the world. The loss of a loved one. The idea of silence, blindness, or hopelessness. For a large portion of middle America and plenty more around the world, its me. Can you imagine that? Lil' ole' me striking fear into the heart of America?! No knife, gun, or supernatural powers to speak of, and yet there are people who tremble at the idea of me being on television week in and week out! But what about you, Papi? Something must send such shivers down your spine in order for you to hide every bit of evidence of who you are. Oh, trust me, I looked. All redacted or just non-existence, no matter how many palms I grease in UCI's legal and HR department.
"May I take a guess, oh great luchadore of yore? Humiliation. To walk along the streets of any populated city with your history would be a treacherous endeavor indeed! Three, COUNT THEM, three attempts at the television title and no prize to show for it. That is the narrative that the world reads when your face...er...mask appears on the screen, but before you get it twisted, know that I am not one of them.
"See, I - being the rather fabulous individual I am - have quite the eye for detail. See, much like you did with me, I did my own research, and in that research I noticed a rather interesting trend. Now, to be able to examine this thoroughly, you must be honest with yourself, Papi. When you came in you were...well...scary bad. Well, at least in the frame of reference to the level of competition in MY UCI.
"BUT! Over time, I saw something impressive take place. As your competition grew in fierceness, you rose to the challenge, not a feat often accomplished in this profession as the weak are often left to wither and fall from the tree. You kept improving, but alas, it seems you were a step behind as the difficulty curve was steeper than you could train for, and thus the horror story of Little Loser Loco. Zombie, The Stache Bros, etc. etc. Monsters in your tale as the losses started piling up like a vile ooze over powering you and cutting off your air. Panic began to set in and poor Payaso made a fatal mistake, injuring himself and taking him out of his own story. Day after day, you had to be the man behind the mask, the thing without the legacy or hype. Yes, that which does not bear the brunt of humiliation, but to me, to be the human behind the costume would be so much worse.
"But then a miracle occurred, you came back! You could wear your mask again, wear your name again, and continue to be the hero you've always wanted to be. The glistening light in the world of fiery indignation and immoral pious! And what more, your return would be celebrated with a shot at one of UCI's beloved and highly coveted titles! Surely this would be the comeback you had always dreamed of. Unshackled of the burden of having to face the likes of the Stache bros, you would ascend to new heights!"
I pause, an ominous tone beginning to fill the score as a smirk spreads along my face, "You must know where this is heading, don't you? We've done all the set-up and context and now, like any good horror movie, its time to queue the on-coming disaster. What is a scary story without its devil? Oh my poor amante, as much as you've grown, as delightful as your return might have been at first, you are looking into the eyes of something much bigger than yourself.
"See, even though you got better, I arrived great and remained as such. With the list of those who had to take an L from ole' 'Jackie', I've become something of a boogieman for UCI, to put it a way. You might see it that I got a good opportunity teaming with Andre, but the truth is I TAMED Andre. My highest accolade isn't losing to champions/future champions, its beating them to take their belts from their waists and put it around my own, and despite your silly need to refer to me as 'rookie', its never taken me more than one shot to win a title.
"In fact, to highlight the LACK of parallels in our career, let me backtrack through the months and bring up words of your very own. Oh, I believe they were, in your debut week, 'I am the newest acquisition to the roster, and soon to be revealed as the most valuable signee in UCI history'. A bold claim indeed, but while you were saying it, I became it. I won the matches, I drew the numbers, I made the headlines, and I mainevented the shows.
"So, much like a sex-hungry teenage stoner in a generic slasher, I've been enjoying watching you stumble helplessly into a certain demise almost as quickly as you entered the screen. I hope that you stick around long enough to take this as a learning experience...rookie, because it seems you've forgotten that the last time we shared the ring, it didn't go so well for you then either. Being that it seems your memory isn't the best, and the match of ours allows for certain...fun, I'll definitely take great pleasure in beating that lesson into, along with a second one that I think you will find most helpful."
The light around me dies, the sky is killed to leave only my eyes, with their white emanating in the dark, practically burning a hole through the lens with their glare, "That which being, in matches like these, the champion is not the one who will be hunted. Much like how humans can only remain on top by continuing to outsmart their prey, the most dangerous game starts with US and ends with ME, and with you as MY prize. Never forget this lesson, dear prince encantador. It might save your life."
The eyes close, leaving only the dark, a shroud for El Payaso Loco to get lost in. A shadow to haunt him. A hole for him to fall into. A torture for him to relive over and over and over again.
And you're right, Payaso, in the words of the Father of the Nuclear Bomb, Oppenheimer:
Payaso wondered if I had ever been hunted. A very funny thing to ask a man like me in a society like this...
Imagine being me, attending a backwards High School where kids grin wildly at any chance to BASH THE FAG. Imagine running late for class. I moved down an empty hallway.
Three skull masks approached from behind. A laugh. A look over my shoulder. A slow descent into chaos as the walk turns into a run. The chase leads down a corridor and into the janitor's closet where the door slams shut and I sit with a racing heart as three large teens pound on a door with thunderous blows, trying to lure me out with fear. Surely, if I had open the door, I would've been walking home with a limp, if I walked home at all. For an hour I stayed in that closet, to scared to open the door. All I could think was A whole month dedicated to this... A whole month where scare tactics are flaunted in all their festive force. Masks galore and no way to know who wore them.
Imagine being me, deep in THE WAVE. Waking to the sound of a shattering window, I walk out to find scattered bits of pumpkin strewn across the living room floor. A shadow outlined by a street light bearing in through the new violent opening. The shadow has something in his right hand. He pumps it in both hands, the item making sounds of a loud cocking mechanism. Dropping down to our knees, we do nothing as the house is robbed. The shadow leaves through his violent entrance, bits of pumpkin and glass as his calling card before disappearing into the wee morning hours of November 1st.
Imagine feeling no where is safe.
Imagine horror movies no longer being fun as you wake to find yourself living in one.
Imagine feeling like the one you love might never sleep again, and that, even now, he checks the security system this time every year, despite the new neighborhood.
Imagine looking at every pumpkin and knowing it shares a shadow with a night so long ago.
No amount of Charlie Brown specials, hokey movie marathons, or mountains worth of candy could instill the heart in me that such a day gleefully gave others.
I hate Halloween. I hate it so much. From the tip of every haunted mansion to the deepest cracks of a red devil infest hell, it makes me groan and sigh. So, imagine my surprise when Killing Floor becomes a long and tedious celebration for the pulpish and drab holiday. Blood and Guts and Cheap Aesthetics: The Tale of UCI's Fading Legacy. A book I might one-day pen if need be.
So, little does Payaso know, being hunted is not just an act, but a state of being for some, especially for this little champion.
The hunt? I'm use to it by now. Those who hunt no longer scare me, because I've gotten good at leading the hunter off the edge, Payaso, my adorable spanish spice.
Thousands will flock. Thousands will foam at the mouth. Thousands will gather from far and wide in the hopes that some splatter of blood might hit them.
They live for this. This violence. This fear. This holiday.
En masse, they are the walking dead. The mindless hordes. Craving and aching for their hunger to be satiated. They cannot be killed. They cannot be overcome.
So...
If you can't beat them, join 'em!
SPOOKY SCARY SKELETONS SEND SHIVERS DOWN YOUR SPINE!
In lore, there are many one-eyed monsters. In life, there are two, and this one sits ready as the red light flashes on and it pulls forwards into a transformed set. Formally the setting for 'DILF 2: Dad Jokes and Dad Pokes', it has been partially refaceted into a haunted cabin Evil Dead style. Fog pours along the outside of the once innocuous campgrounds (with occasionally hardcore assplay) as various headstones poke out from under the smokey apparatus. The camera moves forward and the cabin door swings open by unseen forces to a room shrouded in shadows. It enters the room at a crawling pace while the song "Spooky Scary Skeleton" blares.
SHRIEKING SKULLS WILL SHOCK YOUR SOUL, SEAL YOUR DOOM TONIGHT!
It grows louder as the camera progresses. Bran, painted poorly to resemble that of a zombie, leaps out from behind a door to send the peering eye jumping back in freight. Bran moans and reaches out towards his shaking victim, but the camera quickly darts around him and moves forward through a hallway. The wood creeks, the single light flickers overhead.
SPOOKY SCARY SKELETONS SPEAK WITH SUCH A SCREECH!
To another open room, the camera peers around to reveal the remnants of a gruesome scene. Furniture turned over or shattered into millions of pieces. A window is shatters inwards and from the center of the room to the cellar trapdoor, there is a large street of blood and signs of a violent struggle.
YOU'LL SHAKE AND SHUTTER IN SURPRISE WHEN YOU HEAR THESE ZOMBIES SHRIEK!
The camera, in its ill-advised curiosity, moves towards the cellar door, but before the operator can reach down and unhook the chains Richard in ghoulish make-up (and a large nose which may or may not be a painted dildo) violently pushes up, the ascent only stopped by the thick chains which hold him in. He screams and hollers in freakish delight as the camera quickly backs away and watches as Richard reaches out and tries to grab the patron.
"COME TO ME, PRETTY, LET ME FILL YOU UP!" Richard screeches.
"Richard, shut up, you're not supposed to have any lines," Bran yells from off screen.
Richard, dejected, sinks down below the floorboards once more, leaving the room, and the shaking camera man in it, in a terrible silence.
WE'RE SO SORRY SKELETONS, YOU'RE SO MISUNDERSTOOD!
The camera regains its steady hand and moves to a screen door at the back of the cabin. It hesitates before pushing the door open. A long cornfield spans the length of the frame, and smack dab right in the middle of the field is a scarecrow. A lightening bolt brightens the sky, but soon as the light dies, the figure upon the wooden poll has disappeared.
YOU ONLY WANT TO SOCIALIZE, BUT I DON'T THINK WE SHOULD!
A rustling spreads down the field in the direction of the camera, stopping only a few feet short of the clearing. A head covered in a burlap sack of a mask peeks through the stocks of corn, tilting ever-so-slightly.
CAUSE SPOOKY SCARY SKELETONS SHOUT STARTLING SHRILLY SCREAMS!
The scarecrow figure exits the cornfield and moves closer to the camera until it is mere inches away, a heavy breathing just barely audible over the music.
THEY'LL SNEAK FROM THERE SARCOPHAGUS AND JUST WON'T LEAVE YOU BE!
"If only I had a brain," the music begins to die as the figure reaches up and pulls of the mask, revealing myself underneath, face painted like that of a Jack O'lantern, "could I have yours? Hehe."
Backing away from the camera, I pose to display all my 'spooky' allure. "Do you like it? I had to jump someone's bones to get this made on such short notice," I giggle, "Truth be told, though, I've never cared much for masks, I'm afraid. Something so...dishonest about them. Plus, they cover my ravishing good looks, wouldn't you agree?
"But such are the times I guess. That doesn't matter much to you, does it, El Payaso, my lil' Spanish Fly, as you seem to don your disguise year round. No judgement, as a victim of society's celebrity obsessed culture, I understand the need to hide, but what exactly is it that you're afraid of?
"Everyone is afraid of something. For some, its a concept more so than a monster. The end of the world. The loss of a loved one. The idea of silence, blindness, or hopelessness. For a large portion of middle America and plenty more around the world, its me. Can you imagine that? Lil' ole' me striking fear into the heart of America?! No knife, gun, or supernatural powers to speak of, and yet there are people who tremble at the idea of me being on television week in and week out! But what about you, Papi? Something must send such shivers down your spine in order for you to hide every bit of evidence of who you are. Oh, trust me, I looked. All redacted or just non-existence, no matter how many palms I grease in UCI's legal and HR department.
"May I take a guess, oh great luchadore of yore? Humiliation. To walk along the streets of any populated city with your history would be a treacherous endeavor indeed! Three, COUNT THEM, three attempts at the television title and no prize to show for it. That is the narrative that the world reads when your face...er...mask appears on the screen, but before you get it twisted, know that I am not one of them.
"See, I - being the rather fabulous individual I am - have quite the eye for detail. See, much like you did with me, I did my own research, and in that research I noticed a rather interesting trend. Now, to be able to examine this thoroughly, you must be honest with yourself, Papi. When you came in you were...well...scary bad. Well, at least in the frame of reference to the level of competition in MY UCI.
"BUT! Over time, I saw something impressive take place. As your competition grew in fierceness, you rose to the challenge, not a feat often accomplished in this profession as the weak are often left to wither and fall from the tree. You kept improving, but alas, it seems you were a step behind as the difficulty curve was steeper than you could train for, and thus the horror story of Little Loser Loco. Zombie, The Stache Bros, etc. etc. Monsters in your tale as the losses started piling up like a vile ooze over powering you and cutting off your air. Panic began to set in and poor Payaso made a fatal mistake, injuring himself and taking him out of his own story. Day after day, you had to be the man behind the mask, the thing without the legacy or hype. Yes, that which does not bear the brunt of humiliation, but to me, to be the human behind the costume would be so much worse.
"But then a miracle occurred, you came back! You could wear your mask again, wear your name again, and continue to be the hero you've always wanted to be. The glistening light in the world of fiery indignation and immoral pious! And what more, your return would be celebrated with a shot at one of UCI's beloved and highly coveted titles! Surely this would be the comeback you had always dreamed of. Unshackled of the burden of having to face the likes of the Stache bros, you would ascend to new heights!"
I pause, an ominous tone beginning to fill the score as a smirk spreads along my face, "You must know where this is heading, don't you? We've done all the set-up and context and now, like any good horror movie, its time to queue the on-coming disaster. What is a scary story without its devil? Oh my poor amante, as much as you've grown, as delightful as your return might have been at first, you are looking into the eyes of something much bigger than yourself.
"See, even though you got better, I arrived great and remained as such. With the list of those who had to take an L from ole' 'Jackie', I've become something of a boogieman for UCI, to put it a way. You might see it that I got a good opportunity teaming with Andre, but the truth is I TAMED Andre. My highest accolade isn't losing to champions/future champions, its beating them to take their belts from their waists and put it around my own, and despite your silly need to refer to me as 'rookie', its never taken me more than one shot to win a title.
"In fact, to highlight the LACK of parallels in our career, let me backtrack through the months and bring up words of your very own. Oh, I believe they were, in your debut week, 'I am the newest acquisition to the roster, and soon to be revealed as the most valuable signee in UCI history'. A bold claim indeed, but while you were saying it, I became it. I won the matches, I drew the numbers, I made the headlines, and I mainevented the shows.
"So, much like a sex-hungry teenage stoner in a generic slasher, I've been enjoying watching you stumble helplessly into a certain demise almost as quickly as you entered the screen. I hope that you stick around long enough to take this as a learning experience...rookie, because it seems you've forgotten that the last time we shared the ring, it didn't go so well for you then either. Being that it seems your memory isn't the best, and the match of ours allows for certain...fun, I'll definitely take great pleasure in beating that lesson into, along with a second one that I think you will find most helpful."
The light around me dies, the sky is killed to leave only my eyes, with their white emanating in the dark, practically burning a hole through the lens with their glare, "That which being, in matches like these, the champion is not the one who will be hunted. Much like how humans can only remain on top by continuing to outsmart their prey, the most dangerous game starts with US and ends with ME, and with you as MY prize. Never forget this lesson, dear prince encantador. It might save your life."
The eyes close, leaving only the dark, a shroud for El Payaso Loco to get lost in. A shadow to haunt him. A hole for him to fall into. A torture for him to relive over and over and over again.
And you're right, Payaso, in the words of the Father of the Nuclear Bomb, Oppenheimer:
I Am Become Death.
