Post by weareanarchy on Aug 16, 2016 19:09:28 GMT -5
Somewhere, USA. A strip mall stands on a well lit street. It is late, stars fill the sky and the moon shines brightly down on the scene below. In the center of the strip mall is an Office for the Donald Trump Presidential campaign. It is a glass fronted building with two glass doors, one is shattered into a massive pile of broken glass that spills out onto the sidewalk like some kind of night-time jewels twinkling beneath the starlight. The other door has two holes in it with cracks spreading from the holes. Following the trail of mayhem inside, a security guard lies on the floor with a large wound in his chest which has bled buckets through his blue uniform shirt dyeing a large portion of it a bloody lavender, like some horrid flower that bloomed in blood and pain. A second massive wound in his abdomen has exposed his intestines leaving them black and jellylike, exposed to the view of any who pass by.
The blue carpeted floor is spattered with blood, and in places there are reddish black pools glistening in the darkening light. Papers, many of them spattered with blood, lie here and there all over the floor. A printer chitters idiotically to an uncaring darkness as it prints copy after copy of some unseen document that piles up in drifts on the floor around it. In the center of the room is a man in a business suit. A broken pair of glasses lies on the floor near him and blood spurts slowly from a wound in his head exposing gleaming white bone. A large knife protrudes from his back as he drags himself with one hand towards a phone. His stertorous breathing echoes through the room sounding more like the final noise of some machine in need of repair than a noise humans make. He reaches forward almost reaching a simple black phone before he makes one more rattling, shuddering breath and then collapses unmoving.
A woman lies on the floor her red hair glinting against some unseen light source in the darkness. A spreading pool of blackness beneath her head suggests the manner of her death and also suggests that her hair color may not, in fact, be red. Sitting on a desk in the rear of the room is the head of a youngish man with a full head of hair. A smile is forever frozen on his face and it only stops at his eyes which are filled with terror. A pool of blood has spread across the desk and is now dripping down the front joining with the ocean that seems to be soaking into the carpet.
One more door and going through it, the scene that appears there seems picked from a woodcut of Hell. Jackdaw is standing on a ladder beside the door, he has a woman in his arms that he is wiring to the ceiling. She is naked, a brunette with pale skin, dead and yet somehow beautiful even missing one of her eyes. Her eye dangles from the socket, blood dripping from it as the silent Jackdaw goes about the process of wiring her to the ceiling like he was 12 and she was a model of a World War II airplane. Brother Maylock stands in a shiny black trenchcoat, smoking a cigar and drinking from a bottle of bourbon. He looks at a camera and smiles as he nods towards Lunacy.
Lunacy, in his bizarre mask, his dirty trenchcoat and his fedora are standing on the corpse of a man. In point of fact, he is jumping up and down on the corpse’s chest. Plastic hoses have been inserted into the man’s neck and the hoses are filled with blood leading to a giant plastic bottle of the sort they use in water coolers…but in this instance is half full of human blood. As Lunacy jumps up and down on the man’s chest, blood spurts through the tubes and into the bottle. Lunacy looks up as if seeing the camera for the first time.
‘THERE YOU ARE,’ he says and reaches out towards the camera, ‘I do soooo hate it when you get out of my head.’
There is a lurching motion and a brief period where it looks like Lunacy is attempting to stuff a miniature version of himself into his ear through his mask. Suddenly there is a faint ‘pop’ and the scene goes back to the view we had before.
‘Sorry about that, I do so HATE it when my point of view escapes. Nice to be back inside my own head.’
He pulls three fish out of the air and begins to juggle them. He does so for several seconds before he finally tosses them to a group of seals that have appeared out of nowhere.
‘Ah politics, the game EVERYONE can play and enjoy the stink of corruption! You may wonder what I am doing. Well, first of all, Mr. Trump has, upon several occasions, mentioned his support for veterans who have NEVER been caught by the enemy in time of war. I found his comments to be INCREDIBLY rude, offensive and shortsighted…but then again, who cares? I mean, if I killed EVERYONE who said something stupid and offensive…the world would be a mighty small place. I might not even make the cut.’
Looks right, looks left. Leans toward the camera frame and holds up a hand as he whispers.
‘I WOULD make the cut.’
With that he jumps up and down on the man’s chest once more, spurting more blood into the bottle.He cocks his head slightly sideways.
‘You see, Trump’s comments made me think about the nature of heroism. We love heroes…at least I think we do. Batman, Wonder Woman, Superman are all around 75 years old.’
A cartoon Wonder Woman, Superman and Batman appear ancient with white hair in wheel chairs being pushed by orderlies across the screen. As the characters near the edge, Superman farts without seeming to notice. Wonder Woman gets a disgusted looking face, Batman cackles loudly as the orderlies push them off screen.
‘Meanwhile characters like Spider-Man and Hulk are dallying with fifty…maybe even 60.’
A cartoon Hulk and Spider-man appear on screen, both having hands in the small of their back, long beards and canes as they hobble across the screen. As they near the edge of the screen Hulk farts without noticing. A mushroom cloud appears above ancient Spider-Man’s head. He dissolves into a pile of ash and his two distinctive eyes. Also his beard and cane remain intact. Hulk continues off screen. An orderly returns, sweeps up Spidey’s remains and exits the screen again.
‘We even like real heroes. After all, Joe McCarthy’s war record allowed him to lead the country on a campaign of hate only rivaled in this day and age by Trump himself. Other heroes, well their names would be harder for you to remember. Perhaps you can name a hero from World War I other than Alvin York or the Red Baron and perhaps you know a name or two from World War II other than Audie Murphy or Private Ryan or Tom Hanks.’
Lunacy pauses staring at the screen.
‘YES, I KNOW Private Ryan and Tom Hanks aren’t real people…it was a joke! I swear some of you are so dumb you make Snooki seem well educated. Now, where was I?’
He reaches off screen grabs a script and begins flipping through it. Mumbling to himself, he suddenly stops and faces the camera once more.
‘The point is heroes from those wars AND others, their names grace monuments both here and abroad. We collect the fallen in cemeteries of great importance and carve their names into the very living rock to honor their memories…but we don’t truly KNOW anything about them. Brother Maylock can tell you better than I that there are THOUSANDS of heroes working every single day on the police forces all around this country, all of them trying to make the world a better place. All of them unknown, slaving in darkness. But who DO you know? Hitler and Himmler. Goebbels and Göring. Manson. Gacy. Bundy. Ramirez. Nightstalker. Son of Sam. The Zodiac I and II. Or perhaps you know the names of politicians who failed like Weiner or Boehner or Trump or Hillary. In short, when it comes to real life…all you know, most of you, anyway, are the bad guys.
Other than that, your tiny minds are full of failures, sports legends like Pete Rose and ‘Shoeless’ Joe Jackson who committed the unforgivable sin of gambling on games they were involved in. Or perhaps Michael Jackson whose obsession with children was certainly unhealthy but a certain segment of the public at large felt it went beyond unhealthy and that is truly all they remember about the man is his failure and the fact that he essentially took his own life. In short, the only thing you like better than a villain is a failed and destroyed hero.’
He leaps once more upon the inert body under his feet shooting a last few precious drops of blood into the bottle. Afterwards, he steps off, approaching the camera.
‘And this is part of why we band together because we are by no means heroes. Unlike your heroes, we are brave enough to tell you the truth. The truth is, the life you live is empty and it is a lie. Whatever company you work for, whatever your skill set, you are a monkey pushing buttons placated by a few toys, some food and the odd trip to a playground someplace you have never been. Most of you will die mourned by families that care more about your money and your possessions than YOU! Most of you are more into tweeting, Facebooking, hashtagging and posting snapchats and vines then you are about being vigilant about your freedoms and you seem to cheer a bit more and a bit louder each time the government curtails a little more of your liberty. The truth is, none of you are truly ‘free’. Your heroes will never tell you that, and in fact, will spend their time thanking you, justifying your pointless lives and making you feel special. And most of you will settle for that feeling and spend another day in slavery to your Corporate Masters.’
He shivers, the shudder obvious running through his frame as he continues. He looks up, notices a vent and slides it closed.
‘And this is why it is always better to be the bad guy. I can tell you the truth. I can tell you that YOU aren’t special. Myself and these two men…we are special, we carry within us the seeds of destiny and when we are gone, we will be unforgettable. We are teachers and we are educators to the great unwashed…but you will cheer your lying useless heroes again and again no matter how many of them I leave bleeding in my wake. No matter how many of them I expose as self-aggrandizing cowards.
You, on the other hand, are cattle.’
Lunacy is briefly replaced by the image of a cow before the image reverting back to him.
‘Moo. Cows being led to the slaughter, faceless and forgettable. And still you take it, you suck it up…you absorb it like the stupid herd you are…because the smart know that the only change that really lasts…is Revolution.’
'The Parade of Victims has begun and at its head is Nathan Saniti, a man who did not heed my warnings and did NOT move on from where our paths crossed. The first fake hero I have exposed...and his head decorates a pole in my heart. Dontevius Ellis, I have nothing against you personally. However, I have no liking for you either. Your choice, my friend, is simple. Get out of my way…or become the next attraction in the Parade of Victims.
'
The blue carpeted floor is spattered with blood, and in places there are reddish black pools glistening in the darkening light. Papers, many of them spattered with blood, lie here and there all over the floor. A printer chitters idiotically to an uncaring darkness as it prints copy after copy of some unseen document that piles up in drifts on the floor around it. In the center of the room is a man in a business suit. A broken pair of glasses lies on the floor near him and blood spurts slowly from a wound in his head exposing gleaming white bone. A large knife protrudes from his back as he drags himself with one hand towards a phone. His stertorous breathing echoes through the room sounding more like the final noise of some machine in need of repair than a noise humans make. He reaches forward almost reaching a simple black phone before he makes one more rattling, shuddering breath and then collapses unmoving.
A woman lies on the floor her red hair glinting against some unseen light source in the darkness. A spreading pool of blackness beneath her head suggests the manner of her death and also suggests that her hair color may not, in fact, be red. Sitting on a desk in the rear of the room is the head of a youngish man with a full head of hair. A smile is forever frozen on his face and it only stops at his eyes which are filled with terror. A pool of blood has spread across the desk and is now dripping down the front joining with the ocean that seems to be soaking into the carpet.
One more door and going through it, the scene that appears there seems picked from a woodcut of Hell. Jackdaw is standing on a ladder beside the door, he has a woman in his arms that he is wiring to the ceiling. She is naked, a brunette with pale skin, dead and yet somehow beautiful even missing one of her eyes. Her eye dangles from the socket, blood dripping from it as the silent Jackdaw goes about the process of wiring her to the ceiling like he was 12 and she was a model of a World War II airplane. Brother Maylock stands in a shiny black trenchcoat, smoking a cigar and drinking from a bottle of bourbon. He looks at a camera and smiles as he nods towards Lunacy.
Lunacy, in his bizarre mask, his dirty trenchcoat and his fedora are standing on the corpse of a man. In point of fact, he is jumping up and down on the corpse’s chest. Plastic hoses have been inserted into the man’s neck and the hoses are filled with blood leading to a giant plastic bottle of the sort they use in water coolers…but in this instance is half full of human blood. As Lunacy jumps up and down on the man’s chest, blood spurts through the tubes and into the bottle. Lunacy looks up as if seeing the camera for the first time.
‘THERE YOU ARE,’ he says and reaches out towards the camera, ‘I do soooo hate it when you get out of my head.’
There is a lurching motion and a brief period where it looks like Lunacy is attempting to stuff a miniature version of himself into his ear through his mask. Suddenly there is a faint ‘pop’ and the scene goes back to the view we had before.
‘Sorry about that, I do so HATE it when my point of view escapes. Nice to be back inside my own head.’
He pulls three fish out of the air and begins to juggle them. He does so for several seconds before he finally tosses them to a group of seals that have appeared out of nowhere.
‘Ah politics, the game EVERYONE can play and enjoy the stink of corruption! You may wonder what I am doing. Well, first of all, Mr. Trump has, upon several occasions, mentioned his support for veterans who have NEVER been caught by the enemy in time of war. I found his comments to be INCREDIBLY rude, offensive and shortsighted…but then again, who cares? I mean, if I killed EVERYONE who said something stupid and offensive…the world would be a mighty small place. I might not even make the cut.’
Looks right, looks left. Leans toward the camera frame and holds up a hand as he whispers.
‘I WOULD make the cut.’
With that he jumps up and down on the man’s chest once more, spurting more blood into the bottle.He cocks his head slightly sideways.
‘You see, Trump’s comments made me think about the nature of heroism. We love heroes…at least I think we do. Batman, Wonder Woman, Superman are all around 75 years old.’
A cartoon Wonder Woman, Superman and Batman appear ancient with white hair in wheel chairs being pushed by orderlies across the screen. As the characters near the edge, Superman farts without seeming to notice. Wonder Woman gets a disgusted looking face, Batman cackles loudly as the orderlies push them off screen.
‘Meanwhile characters like Spider-Man and Hulk are dallying with fifty…maybe even 60.’
A cartoon Hulk and Spider-man appear on screen, both having hands in the small of their back, long beards and canes as they hobble across the screen. As they near the edge of the screen Hulk farts without noticing. A mushroom cloud appears above ancient Spider-Man’s head. He dissolves into a pile of ash and his two distinctive eyes. Also his beard and cane remain intact. Hulk continues off screen. An orderly returns, sweeps up Spidey’s remains and exits the screen again.
‘We even like real heroes. After all, Joe McCarthy’s war record allowed him to lead the country on a campaign of hate only rivaled in this day and age by Trump himself. Other heroes, well their names would be harder for you to remember. Perhaps you can name a hero from World War I other than Alvin York or the Red Baron and perhaps you know a name or two from World War II other than Audie Murphy or Private Ryan or Tom Hanks.’
Lunacy pauses staring at the screen.
‘YES, I KNOW Private Ryan and Tom Hanks aren’t real people…it was a joke! I swear some of you are so dumb you make Snooki seem well educated. Now, where was I?’
He reaches off screen grabs a script and begins flipping through it. Mumbling to himself, he suddenly stops and faces the camera once more.
‘The point is heroes from those wars AND others, their names grace monuments both here and abroad. We collect the fallen in cemeteries of great importance and carve their names into the very living rock to honor their memories…but we don’t truly KNOW anything about them. Brother Maylock can tell you better than I that there are THOUSANDS of heroes working every single day on the police forces all around this country, all of them trying to make the world a better place. All of them unknown, slaving in darkness. But who DO you know? Hitler and Himmler. Goebbels and Göring. Manson. Gacy. Bundy. Ramirez. Nightstalker. Son of Sam. The Zodiac I and II. Or perhaps you know the names of politicians who failed like Weiner or Boehner or Trump or Hillary. In short, when it comes to real life…all you know, most of you, anyway, are the bad guys.
Other than that, your tiny minds are full of failures, sports legends like Pete Rose and ‘Shoeless’ Joe Jackson who committed the unforgivable sin of gambling on games they were involved in. Or perhaps Michael Jackson whose obsession with children was certainly unhealthy but a certain segment of the public at large felt it went beyond unhealthy and that is truly all they remember about the man is his failure and the fact that he essentially took his own life. In short, the only thing you like better than a villain is a failed and destroyed hero.’
He leaps once more upon the inert body under his feet shooting a last few precious drops of blood into the bottle. Afterwards, he steps off, approaching the camera.
‘And this is part of why we band together because we are by no means heroes. Unlike your heroes, we are brave enough to tell you the truth. The truth is, the life you live is empty and it is a lie. Whatever company you work for, whatever your skill set, you are a monkey pushing buttons placated by a few toys, some food and the odd trip to a playground someplace you have never been. Most of you will die mourned by families that care more about your money and your possessions than YOU! Most of you are more into tweeting, Facebooking, hashtagging and posting snapchats and vines then you are about being vigilant about your freedoms and you seem to cheer a bit more and a bit louder each time the government curtails a little more of your liberty. The truth is, none of you are truly ‘free’. Your heroes will never tell you that, and in fact, will spend their time thanking you, justifying your pointless lives and making you feel special. And most of you will settle for that feeling and spend another day in slavery to your Corporate Masters.’
He shivers, the shudder obvious running through his frame as he continues. He looks up, notices a vent and slides it closed.
‘And this is why it is always better to be the bad guy. I can tell you the truth. I can tell you that YOU aren’t special. Myself and these two men…we are special, we carry within us the seeds of destiny and when we are gone, we will be unforgettable. We are teachers and we are educators to the great unwashed…but you will cheer your lying useless heroes again and again no matter how many of them I leave bleeding in my wake. No matter how many of them I expose as self-aggrandizing cowards.
You, on the other hand, are cattle.’
Lunacy is briefly replaced by the image of a cow before the image reverting back to him.
‘Moo. Cows being led to the slaughter, faceless and forgettable. And still you take it, you suck it up…you absorb it like the stupid herd you are…because the smart know that the only change that really lasts…is Revolution.’
'The Parade of Victims has begun and at its head is Nathan Saniti, a man who did not heed my warnings and did NOT move on from where our paths crossed. The first fake hero I have exposed...and his head decorates a pole in my heart. Dontevius Ellis, I have nothing against you personally. However, I have no liking for you either. Your choice, my friend, is simple. Get out of my way…or become the next attraction in the Parade of Victims.
'