Post by Murdoc on Sept 30, 2006 22:42:41 GMT -5
"Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood."
--Marie Curie
<How in the HELL does someone get away with wearing ORANGE TENNIS SHOES?>. A pearl of wisdom locked well away from the outside world...deep within the bounds of Marcus Murdoc's mind. God, how much better off the world would have been had he decided to ask that question to the great people of the planet. But, a greedy and hoarding Prophet he was...he kept this thought quiet.
His eyes locked tight on the bright, nearly blinding orange leather canvassing of said tennis shoes...he was in a perfect position to miss every singly word that flew his way. Instead, his only thoughts were of those god-awful shoes. He wagered that enough pairs of those shoes could end night-time car accidents nationwide.
He couldn't even realistically call them orange. No...there was some other, more fitting name for this...this ABOMINATION. Nuclear Holocaust fit the mold pretty well. Or Scorchers! Kind of like Skechers, only for those with severe need to be spotted by on-the-beat police officers at night. As his creative juices begin to dream up an advertising campaign to get behind such a product (or a company who would place their seal of approval on such a thing in the FIRST place), he notices the light toe-tapping of the right orange foot...and in that, he knew that he was busted.
Instantly, his head bolted upright. Face meeting with his guest's, he attempted to discern what he had missed. Unfortunately for Marcus, the man wasn't forthcoming. Hands plastered to his hips in an akimbo sort of stance, the guy looks less-than-enthused as he waits for an answer. Thoughts bounding as gears begin to turn, one can almost HEAR the metallic grinding.
"...WHOO! Did you see that spider? H-Holy hell!". As he says this, a nondescript black boot is brought down upon the hardwood floor, a large THUNK echoing out as he grinds the toe of his shoe against the boards (albeit gently). "Damn...it got away. Oh well...anyways, what were we talking about...?". Flashing that charming smile he was known for in private circles, it's painfully clear that his guest isn't going to fall for it.
"..'we'...? I was the one doing all the talking. I asked you why the hell you called me back over here? I still have red marks on my neck...!". One of the hardest things to do, Marcus found, is to keep a straight face when something is extremely...EXTREMELY funny. Thank god his poker face is up to snuff, because if his mind were connected to a loudspeaker...wow. That man would be ANGRY.
Letting out a cough in an attempt to clear his throat, Marcus shoves the urge to laugh deep, deep within his core before he would allow himself to speak again. "Y-yeah...about that, listen...I just called you over here to apologize. Sincerely. It was WRONG of me to manhandle you like I did a-and frankly, I'm ashamed of myself.". Stunned, the man finds his jaw slackening a little.
"...what?". Nodding heavily, Marcus' hair shifts freely...no band holding it together. "That's right. I just want your forgiveness.". The man looked completely up-ended. His thoughts were thrown into a tailspin. Probably expecting to get into another brou-ha-ha, the man has probably spent the whole morning working up the nerve to cross the threshold of this house again.
"W-well, it's not that simple you see. I think that...". <Aaaaaaaaaaand here we go again...>. Marcus nodding his head at the man, his gaze began to fall yet again to the footwear of his lecturer. For some reason, he just could not manage to rid his mind...NOR his sight...of those damned titian hued tennis shoes! It was going to get him in a bit of trouble, he just knew it. And yet, he can't help it. Along the way, as his eyes trace the black shoelaces...he wonders if Phinehas had ever seen orange tennis shoes.
He wonders if he had seen a lot of things. He was fairly certain that Phinehas had lived a full life, had seen many a thing along his travels. But he was also certain that he himself had seen a great deal in his lifetime. There was the inherent possibility that Phinehas had seen a pair of orange tennis shoes. Or a pair of green ones. Yellow, perhaps. Purple maybe?
Somewhere along the way, Mr. Grimm and himself had crossed the same spot on the same trails. The only question was WHERE? If he could figure out where along the path their respective steps had taken them, perhaps THEN he can begin to understand the man. Was it too late to understand Phinehas Grimm, though? Mere days away, and he would be staring at him, instead of a pair of ratty old shoes. The blaringly loud sneakers would be replaced by blaring loud violence, and perhaps the maelstrom of fluorescent light streaming from the ceiling...eager to meet a prone body.
"You're totally not listening, are you?!". The outburst caused Marcus to look up, as if being caught with his hand in a forbidden cookie jar. Eyes wide, the man is positively fuming now. And it shows, as a torrent of raged and incensed words fall into the air. "You know what? FUCK YOU! I came over here because you say you wanted to discuss something, and what do I find but you IGNORING me! I'm not standing here and putting up with this shit...".
Stammering to explain his absent-mindedness to his guest, he finds himself floundering and failing miserably as belongings are gathered, at least one farewell spoken as the man storms off. At the last possible moment, Marcus found himself...AND the words to speak...
"Wait! I need your help!"
...only to be spoken to a closed door.
~FIN~
--Marie Curie
***
<How in the HELL does someone get away with wearing ORANGE TENNIS SHOES?>. A pearl of wisdom locked well away from the outside world...deep within the bounds of Marcus Murdoc's mind. God, how much better off the world would have been had he decided to ask that question to the great people of the planet. But, a greedy and hoarding Prophet he was...he kept this thought quiet.
His eyes locked tight on the bright, nearly blinding orange leather canvassing of said tennis shoes...he was in a perfect position to miss every singly word that flew his way. Instead, his only thoughts were of those god-awful shoes. He wagered that enough pairs of those shoes could end night-time car accidents nationwide.
He couldn't even realistically call them orange. No...there was some other, more fitting name for this...this ABOMINATION. Nuclear Holocaust fit the mold pretty well. Or Scorchers! Kind of like Skechers, only for those with severe need to be spotted by on-the-beat police officers at night. As his creative juices begin to dream up an advertising campaign to get behind such a product (or a company who would place their seal of approval on such a thing in the FIRST place), he notices the light toe-tapping of the right orange foot...and in that, he knew that he was busted.
Instantly, his head bolted upright. Face meeting with his guest's, he attempted to discern what he had missed. Unfortunately for Marcus, the man wasn't forthcoming. Hands plastered to his hips in an akimbo sort of stance, the guy looks less-than-enthused as he waits for an answer. Thoughts bounding as gears begin to turn, one can almost HEAR the metallic grinding.
"...WHOO! Did you see that spider? H-Holy hell!". As he says this, a nondescript black boot is brought down upon the hardwood floor, a large THUNK echoing out as he grinds the toe of his shoe against the boards (albeit gently). "Damn...it got away. Oh well...anyways, what were we talking about...?". Flashing that charming smile he was known for in private circles, it's painfully clear that his guest isn't going to fall for it.
"..'we'...? I was the one doing all the talking. I asked you why the hell you called me back over here? I still have red marks on my neck...!". One of the hardest things to do, Marcus found, is to keep a straight face when something is extremely...EXTREMELY funny. Thank god his poker face is up to snuff, because if his mind were connected to a loudspeaker...wow. That man would be ANGRY.
Letting out a cough in an attempt to clear his throat, Marcus shoves the urge to laugh deep, deep within his core before he would allow himself to speak again. "Y-yeah...about that, listen...I just called you over here to apologize. Sincerely. It was WRONG of me to manhandle you like I did a-and frankly, I'm ashamed of myself.". Stunned, the man finds his jaw slackening a little.
"...what?". Nodding heavily, Marcus' hair shifts freely...no band holding it together. "That's right. I just want your forgiveness.". The man looked completely up-ended. His thoughts were thrown into a tailspin. Probably expecting to get into another brou-ha-ha, the man has probably spent the whole morning working up the nerve to cross the threshold of this house again.
"W-well, it's not that simple you see. I think that...". <Aaaaaaaaaaand here we go again...>. Marcus nodding his head at the man, his gaze began to fall yet again to the footwear of his lecturer. For some reason, he just could not manage to rid his mind...NOR his sight...of those damned titian hued tennis shoes! It was going to get him in a bit of trouble, he just knew it. And yet, he can't help it. Along the way, as his eyes trace the black shoelaces...he wonders if Phinehas had ever seen orange tennis shoes.
He wonders if he had seen a lot of things. He was fairly certain that Phinehas had lived a full life, had seen many a thing along his travels. But he was also certain that he himself had seen a great deal in his lifetime. There was the inherent possibility that Phinehas had seen a pair of orange tennis shoes. Or a pair of green ones. Yellow, perhaps. Purple maybe?
Somewhere along the way, Mr. Grimm and himself had crossed the same spot on the same trails. The only question was WHERE? If he could figure out where along the path their respective steps had taken them, perhaps THEN he can begin to understand the man. Was it too late to understand Phinehas Grimm, though? Mere days away, and he would be staring at him, instead of a pair of ratty old shoes. The blaringly loud sneakers would be replaced by blaring loud violence, and perhaps the maelstrom of fluorescent light streaming from the ceiling...eager to meet a prone body.
"You're totally not listening, are you?!". The outburst caused Marcus to look up, as if being caught with his hand in a forbidden cookie jar. Eyes wide, the man is positively fuming now. And it shows, as a torrent of raged and incensed words fall into the air. "You know what? FUCK YOU! I came over here because you say you wanted to discuss something, and what do I find but you IGNORING me! I'm not standing here and putting up with this shit...".
Stammering to explain his absent-mindedness to his guest, he finds himself floundering and failing miserably as belongings are gathered, at least one farewell spoken as the man storms off. At the last possible moment, Marcus found himself...AND the words to speak...
"Wait! I need your help!"
...only to be spoken to a closed door.
~FIN~