Post by 6ix Goddess on Jul 22, 2016 12:55:02 GMT -6
Our story begins with the ominous close-up shot of a swaying wrought-iron gate. It’s old and dilapidated – the years of elements have taken their toll in the form of rust and the subtle creep of vines along the bottom of the posts. The camera pans up slowly, a quiet and foreboding violin theme playing gently in the background as rain whips down from the sky – even though the setting seems to be in a densely wooded area which would provide excellent coverage from the rain. The gate continues to sway – perhaps in the breeze – with a single padlocked chain holding it in place. From above the camera, a woman drops down over the top and lands in the foliage of the overgrown path just beyond the gate. Her landing is anything but graceful; as she strikes the ground, she topples backwards causing her arms and legs to flail up. Sitting up, her hands raise to pick bits of leaves out of her long blonde hair, an expression of frustration crossing her heavily made-up face.
Thursday Kerrigan: Mother FUCKER! I just got this done a few days ago!
Thursday pushes herself from the ground, the oversized black fatigue jacket hanging loosely from her frame over a worn black t-shirt with gold letters: #6IXGODSEASYOU”. Her eyes look down, the camera following her gaze past long and lithe legs glad in black fishnets to a pair of knee-high black suede boots. At the most strenuous of glances, perhaps one could make out the vaguest sign of damage from the far – this, of course, was all too evident to Ms. Kerrigan. She let out an exasperated yell.
Thursday Kerrigan: And goddamnit! These are Stuart Weitzmans!
Turning back to the path, she grumbles something incomprehensible (and likely explicit), Thursday begins to make her way towards a distant light in the forest. The camera continues panning up and back to reveal a sign on the gate: “KEEP OUT! STRUCTURE UNSAFE”. The camera next cuts to broad daylight and the exterior façade of a gorgeous old Victorian manor which, like the gate, has seen better days. Perhaps once it was handsome, but neglect has run riot upon it – broken windows, a door barely on its hinges, and peeling paint mar the original beauty. It is also noticeably sunny and not raining at all because BBC shows could apparently give a shit about continuity between scenes within a three minute period. As Thursday reaches the front door, she pushes the old wooden portal out of the way and steps into the interior.
Inside the opening hall – a picture-perfect display of rotting elegance complete with a cobweb bedecked chandelier and a motley carpet of green and brown diamonds, Thursday looks around. Her brow furrows further in frustration (clearly having woken up on the other side of the bed) as her ruby red lips part.
Thursday Kerrigan: Hunter?! Dude, you’ve made me meet you in off-the-wall, sketchy places but this takes the fucking cake, man! Where are you?
With no response, her eyes drift from one side of the room to the other, the camera following her gaze along a garish matching wallpaper to an arc leading to the old sitting room. As she makes her way through, discarding the film-based scene description because the narrator has decided he hates writing in that style, she stops the examine the old room, just as elegant as the last. A second chandelier sits on the floor, wrapped in plastic and a thick coat of dust.
Thursday Kerrigan: Hunter, I swear to god, this better be the most fuego shit I’ve ever smoked or I’m gonna kick the shit out of you!
A fireplace sits empty and forgotten, the interior brick now crawling with writhing vines and ivy, the remnants of a charcoaled log sitting in an old metal crib. Her eyes go from the window, which offers a view into the overgrown backyard and gardens of the mansion, to a peel in the wall paper where a black scrawl can be ever so slightly seen on the blank wall beneath.
She cants her head to the side in curiosity, a slender hand reaching out to grip the corner of peeling wallpaper. As she tears it away, a series of frantically etched words appear to her, as though waiting years to be read:
Were we still doing the television-style narration, the music would crescendo with a dramatic crash of cymbals as the words were revealed. Instead, Thursday merely gasps. She reaches for a strip beneath, tearing more wallpaper from the wall to reveal another row of words and a complete phrase:
From the tears, more letters peak from atop the wallpaper. With another strip torn from the wall, more words reveal themselves:
She pauses, staring at the words for a moment. She exposes the message further:
She frowns, her hands reaching for another strip of paper to further vandalize the wall.
Her eyes widen, a hand raising to her mouth to cover a gasp of shock. Her other hand begins to tremble as she reaches forward to peel away a final strip of wallpaper.
Thursday thinks for a moment, her head tilting the other way as she considered the handwriting. It was familiar – but from where? As recollection hits her, she falls to the ground to narrowly dodge a brick hurling through the window behind her and slamming the wall in front of her. From the ground she rises and wheels to the window, staring out to look at a previously unnoticed accompaniment: the most peculiar statue of a man in a full suit and coat with long unkempt bangs made entirely of ice, his hands raised to cover his face (probably in shame from being Polar Phantasm). Her head snaps back to the message – “BEWARE THE GUARDIANS” – then back to the statue. After a moment of pondering, a smile crosses her lips before breaking out into a full blown laugh. Her hand comes down to her thigh, giving it a good slap.
Thursday Kerrigan: Holy shit! Someone made a fucking statue of that loser, Polar? Now, I’ve seen everything.
Her eyes go back to the wall as she reaches out to peel off a final strip of wallpaper, this new message causing both hands to rise to her mouth as two single tears slide down her cheeks:
Back at her fashionable little apartment in Los Angeles, Thursday’s cell phone rose to her ear. After three rings, the line clicked and the other side emitted a low groan.
Woman’s Voice: Hello?
Thursday Kerrigan: Rachel? Hey, it’s Thursday.
Rachel: Why the hell are you calling me at one in the morning?
Thursday Kerrigan: What? It’s not one in the morning; the sun was just shining brightly a scene ago.
Rachel: That’s what this awful BBC script says: “One in the morning”.
Thursday Kerrigan: They really don’t give a fuck about continuity do they?
Rachel: It’s embarrassing how many people watch this shit.
Thursday Kerrigan: Mother FUCKER! I just got this done a few days ago!
Thursday pushes herself from the ground, the oversized black fatigue jacket hanging loosely from her frame over a worn black t-shirt with gold letters: #6IXGODSEASYOU”. Her eyes look down, the camera following her gaze past long and lithe legs glad in black fishnets to a pair of knee-high black suede boots. At the most strenuous of glances, perhaps one could make out the vaguest sign of damage from the far – this, of course, was all too evident to Ms. Kerrigan. She let out an exasperated yell.
Thursday Kerrigan: And goddamnit! These are Stuart Weitzmans!
Turning back to the path, she grumbles something incomprehensible (and likely explicit), Thursday begins to make her way towards a distant light in the forest. The camera continues panning up and back to reveal a sign on the gate: “KEEP OUT! STRUCTURE UNSAFE”. The camera next cuts to broad daylight and the exterior façade of a gorgeous old Victorian manor which, like the gate, has seen better days. Perhaps once it was handsome, but neglect has run riot upon it – broken windows, a door barely on its hinges, and peeling paint mar the original beauty. It is also noticeably sunny and not raining at all because BBC shows could apparently give a shit about continuity between scenes within a three minute period. As Thursday reaches the front door, she pushes the old wooden portal out of the way and steps into the interior.
Inside the opening hall – a picture-perfect display of rotting elegance complete with a cobweb bedecked chandelier and a motley carpet of green and brown diamonds, Thursday looks around. Her brow furrows further in frustration (clearly having woken up on the other side of the bed) as her ruby red lips part.
Thursday Kerrigan: Hunter?! Dude, you’ve made me meet you in off-the-wall, sketchy places but this takes the fucking cake, man! Where are you?
With no response, her eyes drift from one side of the room to the other, the camera following her gaze along a garish matching wallpaper to an arc leading to the old sitting room. As she makes her way through, discarding the film-based scene description because the narrator has decided he hates writing in that style, she stops the examine the old room, just as elegant as the last. A second chandelier sits on the floor, wrapped in plastic and a thick coat of dust.
Thursday Kerrigan: Hunter, I swear to god, this better be the most fuego shit I’ve ever smoked or I’m gonna kick the shit out of you!
A fireplace sits empty and forgotten, the interior brick now crawling with writhing vines and ivy, the remnants of a charcoaled log sitting in an old metal crib. Her eyes go from the window, which offers a view into the overgrown backyard and gardens of the mansion, to a peel in the wall paper where a black scrawl can be ever so slightly seen on the blank wall beneath.
She cants her head to the side in curiosity, a slender hand reaching out to grip the corner of peeling wallpaper. As she tears it away, a series of frantically etched words appear to her, as though waiting years to be read:
BEWARE
Were we still doing the television-style narration, the music would crescendo with a dramatic crash of cymbals as the words were revealed. Instead, Thursday merely gasps. She reaches for a strip beneath, tearing more wallpaper from the wall to reveal another row of words and a complete phrase:
BEWARE THE GUARDIANS
OH, AND HIT THE DICK
She pauses, staring at the words for a moment. She exposes the message further:
WAIT, SHIT, MY BAD. I MEANT DECK. HIT THE DECK LOL.
THURSDAY, BAE
Her eyes widen, a hand raising to her mouth to cover a gasp of shock. Her other hand begins to tremble as she reaches forward to peel away a final strip of wallpaper.
FFS CHICK YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME GODDAMNIT JUST FUCKING DUCK
Thursday Kerrigan: Holy shit! Someone made a fucking statue of that loser, Polar? Now, I’ve seen everything.
Her eyes go back to the wall as she reaches out to peel off a final strip of wallpaper, this new message causing both hands to rise to her mouth as two single tears slide down her cheeks:
< 3 YOUR JAREBEAR
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Back at her fashionable little apartment in Los Angeles, Thursday’s cell phone rose to her ear. After three rings, the line clicked and the other side emitted a low groan.
Woman’s Voice: Hello?
Thursday Kerrigan: Rachel? Hey, it’s Thursday.
Rachel: Why the hell are you calling me at one in the morning?
Thursday Kerrigan: What? It’s not one in the morning; the sun was just shining brightly a scene ago.
Rachel: That’s what this awful BBC script says: “One in the morning”.
Thursday Kerrigan: They really don’t give a fuck about continuity do they?
Rachel: It’s embarrassing how many people watch this shit.
