Post by Sicko on Jun 16, 2019 13:18:43 GMT -5
His bald head is slumped, his massive shoulders are hunched, and he is sat upon a comedically tiny stool, bellied up to a bar in the common area. His eyes are as dull as a cow's. He barely even seems to comprehend how to hold a spoon, and he digs the tool in with a hamfisted grip, mining down into a mound of ice cream. Still with the same faraway, shellshocked look in his eyes, he scoops the ice cream out, holding it up to his face with a look that borders on mindless fixation, before shovelling it messily into his gob. Unknown, behind his back, two sets of eyes are watching him.
The cocky blonde, decked out in punk attire and with a sneer of Napoleonic martinet disdain, eyes the big man seated on the stool in the kitchen. "This is your weapon, Jason?"
His first partner, and the secret, Machievellian heart of this burgeoning enterprise, stands beside him, arms crossed, trying not to see Danny's displeasure and lack of regard for their new charge himself. He wants to be fatalistic, looking at this mindless beast. To admit that he should cut his losses, say he made a mistake, and send him back to the hole where he came from. He had had to use multiple powers of manipulation and charisma to get social workers and therapists to push the paperwork through, get Ephrain Ortiz released, and... for this. He had to be honest, if only in this one moment of assessment. He was expecting to have released a killer out onto the world. Instead, he had sprung a vegetable.
The big moose smashed the spoon into lips that barely parted. Chocolate, melting, smeared around his mouth.
The erstwhile leader of this daring new faction threw his arms up, complaining. "All he does it eat, Jason. He'll eat us out of house and home. We were supposed to be putting together an elite stable of ruthless, hungry mercenaries with no allegiances and no moral compass. We got hungry, right there."
Jason itched his chin, mumbling, "I don't know why but something about ice cream... keeps him engaged, at least... his eyeblink rate and breathing increases... it's something..."
"Oh!" Danny scoffed, "Well that's just great, what are we supposed to do, get him to speak by reciting ice cream facts? Have him hit opponents in the ring with a pint of rocky road?"
They walked from the kitchen, watching Ephrain, to the living room area of the new Inner Circle club house, the outfitted raiders warehouse with it's spacious areas. In a setup with a couch and a rather nice big screen tv, one of their other new recruits, the urban young Eminem acolyte (read: wannabe) that traded on the sobriquet Redd Dogg was yelling and cursing as he played a game on the Playstation 2 he had set up, treating this like some overnight session at a friends sleepover instead of the training center where a team would be forged. Still, Danny gestured back to the mindless brute sitting in the kitchen.
"This was your get, Jason. You told me that getting Ephrain Ortiz out of that hole was going to be worth it."
"And it will, look. Danny. Ephrain is a complete tabula rasa. He is a man of freak physical size and strength, this guy tested top of the charts when he was a firefighter and he was peak human potential..."
They looked back at the wasted, dead-eyed human, slopping ice cream into his mouth from the bowl. His deteriorated muscles, his growing bulge of stomach.
"...At one time."
"At one time..." Danny mocked back, rolling his eyes. Jason held his hand up. "AND. His mind is a blank slate, he was completely mind wiped. But he has seen darkness, Danny. His mind has touched the essence of purest, nihilistic horror. He should have died when the furnace exploded and killed his family... anyone else would have. But he survived. But his mind was completely shredded, his personality submerged."
The trout-mouthed little prick blinked. He didn't get it. To Danny, anything that had nothing to do with him lacked a spark of interest, and his narcissism did not give him a reason to see any interest to him in the mental makeup of a man that had seen the face of the god of death and walked away, profoundly altered, yet marked by the dark god, an eye on him all that time. Jason despaired, and more than a little bit lamented that he had to work with a man of such limited imagination.
"Ahhhh, fuck, he killed me again!" Redd Dogg yelled, throwing his controller. Both men looked at him, then Danny looked at their other waste of a recruit.
Danny's lip curled. "So, what? His mind is a blank tape, and you want to write over it?"
"Ephrain's mind is malleable, and... his will... is nonexistent. Right now."
"Yeah, that's because he has to wear diapers so he doesn't shit himself."
Jason held a hand up, the understood gesture of I promise. "I'm confident that if I get the right balance of medication on him, and talk to him and teach him, I can get his mind functioning in a way that benefits us. Danny... he has physical gifts. A lot of them."
What he did not tell him, what he would never tell him is that he could mold this fat slob, this mindless husk of wasted meat, could mold and manipulate his mind, and forge him into a golem, an animated war machine. But he would never be Danny's. With keeping his hand on the leash of the pills Ephrain would need to take, with subtle guidance and nudging him with simple words against the Redd Doggs and whoever else... he would make sure that Ephrain remained subservient to him and him only. He would never be the Inner Circle's monster. He would belong to Jason Twisted, until the day he felt like letting him go.
And what then? He had a momentary flash of insight. Suppose he did his job too well. Suppose he built Ephrain into a creature of unimaginable strength, despite his limitations. Suppose Ephrain surpassed the chains he would have to put in place, developed a will strong enough to push through the mind games and ignore the obligations of loyalty. Suppose Ephrain Ortiz, deep down in the nub of what remained of his heart, was stronger than anyone ever could imagine? Maybe the will of what made Ephrain a good, strong man was not totally destroyed in the fire, and could reassert itself somewhere down the line, making him dangerous and unable to be controlled?
Hmmm.
Nahh.
He discarded that as soon as the thoughts flickered through his head.
As long as he kept Ephrain on the pills... as long as Ephrain listened to him, and him only, he had a dragon by the tail. A beast that he could turn on whoever he wanted.
The secret thrill rippled through him, with even Danny not guessing at it. He surpressed a smile.
Danny sighed, looked unhappily over at Jason. "Okay... but. Look. Just this guy, he isn't going to strike terror in anybody. He's hairless, for one thing. And the burn scars, they inspire sympathy more than anything."
"True," Jason mused, "But, think about it, Danny. He can be whatever we want. So, we can shape him into something that strikes real, primal terror into anyone he faces." And, he thought to himself, I will be the one giving him this identity, so it will bond him to me, most of all.
"Ughh, fuck! I hate this clown!" Redd Dogg said, raging at the game. Both men, annoyed by the young wannabe white rapper, looked over. He was playing Twisted Metal, and the haunting visage of a burning clown's face loomed on the screen. "Clowns creep me out so much, yo."
"Redd... that clown..." Jason mused, transfixed by the bosses laughing face. Wheels were already turning in his head. Sure, it would mean he would have to adapt this video game character from Twisted Metal whole cloth, but the aesthetic of it... was intriguing. And what's more, it struck that primal note, the right lingering fear in the back of the mind.
"What? Sweet Tooth? Yeah he's a bitch, yo. Fuckin ass clown. I'm gonna write a rhyme about him, you wanna hear me freestyle?"
"No." Danny snapped.
Jason smiled, however. In theory, clowns are figures of fun, intended to provoke amusement and laughter with their hijinks, not screams of horror. Big smiley faces, slapstick, party tricks, bright colors; none of these things are typically associated with intense fear. And yet, when combined in the form of a clown, they regularly cause the exact opposite reaction to the one intended. It’s important to remember that clowns are people. People in elaborate costumes, but people nonetheless. But there's a curious effect of the human psyche called the uncanny valley effect, where things that look human but aren’t quite there are incredibly unsettling.
Often they remind us of death and corpses. Provides a recognizably-human face which doesn’t behave as it should, which is very unsettling on a deep subconscious level.
The face paint is an avatar, a mimic of a corpse.
It all made so much sense.
"Hey, dudes, is someone gonna get the sicko? He's drooling over there..." Redd pointed.
Jason smiled enigmatically, thinking of clowns, thinking of people who have seen the true face of death... and thinking of monsters that could be turned. "Oh, don't worry, Redd.
I'll take care of him."
And so he would.
The cocky blonde, decked out in punk attire and with a sneer of Napoleonic martinet disdain, eyes the big man seated on the stool in the kitchen. "This is your weapon, Jason?"
His first partner, and the secret, Machievellian heart of this burgeoning enterprise, stands beside him, arms crossed, trying not to see Danny's displeasure and lack of regard for their new charge himself. He wants to be fatalistic, looking at this mindless beast. To admit that he should cut his losses, say he made a mistake, and send him back to the hole where he came from. He had had to use multiple powers of manipulation and charisma to get social workers and therapists to push the paperwork through, get Ephrain Ortiz released, and... for this. He had to be honest, if only in this one moment of assessment. He was expecting to have released a killer out onto the world. Instead, he had sprung a vegetable.
The big moose smashed the spoon into lips that barely parted. Chocolate, melting, smeared around his mouth.
The erstwhile leader of this daring new faction threw his arms up, complaining. "All he does it eat, Jason. He'll eat us out of house and home. We were supposed to be putting together an elite stable of ruthless, hungry mercenaries with no allegiances and no moral compass. We got hungry, right there."
Jason itched his chin, mumbling, "I don't know why but something about ice cream... keeps him engaged, at least... his eyeblink rate and breathing increases... it's something..."
"Oh!" Danny scoffed, "Well that's just great, what are we supposed to do, get him to speak by reciting ice cream facts? Have him hit opponents in the ring with a pint of rocky road?"
They walked from the kitchen, watching Ephrain, to the living room area of the new Inner Circle club house, the outfitted raiders warehouse with it's spacious areas. In a setup with a couch and a rather nice big screen tv, one of their other new recruits, the urban young Eminem acolyte (read: wannabe) that traded on the sobriquet Redd Dogg was yelling and cursing as he played a game on the Playstation 2 he had set up, treating this like some overnight session at a friends sleepover instead of the training center where a team would be forged. Still, Danny gestured back to the mindless brute sitting in the kitchen.
"This was your get, Jason. You told me that getting Ephrain Ortiz out of that hole was going to be worth it."
"And it will, look. Danny. Ephrain is a complete tabula rasa. He is a man of freak physical size and strength, this guy tested top of the charts when he was a firefighter and he was peak human potential..."
They looked back at the wasted, dead-eyed human, slopping ice cream into his mouth from the bowl. His deteriorated muscles, his growing bulge of stomach.
"...At one time."
"At one time..." Danny mocked back, rolling his eyes. Jason held his hand up. "AND. His mind is a blank slate, he was completely mind wiped. But he has seen darkness, Danny. His mind has touched the essence of purest, nihilistic horror. He should have died when the furnace exploded and killed his family... anyone else would have. But he survived. But his mind was completely shredded, his personality submerged."
The trout-mouthed little prick blinked. He didn't get it. To Danny, anything that had nothing to do with him lacked a spark of interest, and his narcissism did not give him a reason to see any interest to him in the mental makeup of a man that had seen the face of the god of death and walked away, profoundly altered, yet marked by the dark god, an eye on him all that time. Jason despaired, and more than a little bit lamented that he had to work with a man of such limited imagination.
"Ahhhh, fuck, he killed me again!" Redd Dogg yelled, throwing his controller. Both men looked at him, then Danny looked at their other waste of a recruit.
Danny's lip curled. "So, what? His mind is a blank tape, and you want to write over it?"
"Ephrain's mind is malleable, and... his will... is nonexistent. Right now."
"Yeah, that's because he has to wear diapers so he doesn't shit himself."
Jason held a hand up, the understood gesture of I promise. "I'm confident that if I get the right balance of medication on him, and talk to him and teach him, I can get his mind functioning in a way that benefits us. Danny... he has physical gifts. A lot of them."
What he did not tell him, what he would never tell him is that he could mold this fat slob, this mindless husk of wasted meat, could mold and manipulate his mind, and forge him into a golem, an animated war machine. But he would never be Danny's. With keeping his hand on the leash of the pills Ephrain would need to take, with subtle guidance and nudging him with simple words against the Redd Doggs and whoever else... he would make sure that Ephrain remained subservient to him and him only. He would never be the Inner Circle's monster. He would belong to Jason Twisted, until the day he felt like letting him go.
And what then? He had a momentary flash of insight. Suppose he did his job too well. Suppose he built Ephrain into a creature of unimaginable strength, despite his limitations. Suppose Ephrain surpassed the chains he would have to put in place, developed a will strong enough to push through the mind games and ignore the obligations of loyalty. Suppose Ephrain Ortiz, deep down in the nub of what remained of his heart, was stronger than anyone ever could imagine? Maybe the will of what made Ephrain a good, strong man was not totally destroyed in the fire, and could reassert itself somewhere down the line, making him dangerous and unable to be controlled?
Hmmm.
Nahh.
He discarded that as soon as the thoughts flickered through his head.
As long as he kept Ephrain on the pills... as long as Ephrain listened to him, and him only, he had a dragon by the tail. A beast that he could turn on whoever he wanted.
The secret thrill rippled through him, with even Danny not guessing at it. He surpressed a smile.
Danny sighed, looked unhappily over at Jason. "Okay... but. Look. Just this guy, he isn't going to strike terror in anybody. He's hairless, for one thing. And the burn scars, they inspire sympathy more than anything."
"True," Jason mused, "But, think about it, Danny. He can be whatever we want. So, we can shape him into something that strikes real, primal terror into anyone he faces." And, he thought to himself, I will be the one giving him this identity, so it will bond him to me, most of all.
"Ughh, fuck! I hate this clown!" Redd Dogg said, raging at the game. Both men, annoyed by the young wannabe white rapper, looked over. He was playing Twisted Metal, and the haunting visage of a burning clown's face loomed on the screen. "Clowns creep me out so much, yo."
"Redd... that clown..." Jason mused, transfixed by the bosses laughing face. Wheels were already turning in his head. Sure, it would mean he would have to adapt this video game character from Twisted Metal whole cloth, but the aesthetic of it... was intriguing. And what's more, it struck that primal note, the right lingering fear in the back of the mind.
"What? Sweet Tooth? Yeah he's a bitch, yo. Fuckin ass clown. I'm gonna write a rhyme about him, you wanna hear me freestyle?"
"No." Danny snapped.
Jason smiled, however. In theory, clowns are figures of fun, intended to provoke amusement and laughter with their hijinks, not screams of horror. Big smiley faces, slapstick, party tricks, bright colors; none of these things are typically associated with intense fear. And yet, when combined in the form of a clown, they regularly cause the exact opposite reaction to the one intended. It’s important to remember that clowns are people. People in elaborate costumes, but people nonetheless. But there's a curious effect of the human psyche called the uncanny valley effect, where things that look human but aren’t quite there are incredibly unsettling.
Often they remind us of death and corpses. Provides a recognizably-human face which doesn’t behave as it should, which is very unsettling on a deep subconscious level.
The face paint is an avatar, a mimic of a corpse.
It all made so much sense.
"Hey, dudes, is someone gonna get the sicko? He's drooling over there..." Redd pointed.
Jason smiled enigmatically, thinking of clowns, thinking of people who have seen the true face of death... and thinking of monsters that could be turned. "Oh, don't worry, Redd.
I'll take care of him."
And so he would.
