Fortnightly Writing Competition - ODD COUPLE (Results)

Started by Baron, Fri 14/02/2014 03:06:47

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Baron

Greetings Fortnightly Writing Competition participants,
     Your challenge for this round is character-based:  you must create two characters of opposite, conflicting or even incompatible temperament, and put them into a situation where they are stuck with each other.  Maybe they'll come to an understanding and appreciation of their mutual differences, maybe they'll discover that they are much stronger as a team when they combine their divergent skill set, or maybe they'll just end up hating and murdering each other: outcome doesn't matter as much to me as exploring the inevitable antagonism between vastly different characters.  Ideally your work would be in screen-play or stage-play format, but I'm not going to make it a requirement so long as your work is dialog driven (i.e. character is mostly revealed through verbal exchanges).
     As always, here are some ideas for the uninspired:

Genghis Khan and Stephen Hawking are stuck carpooling in a traffic jam

Joni Mitchell and Adolf Hitler have an awkward blind date

John Lennon and Cookie Monster are room mates quarrelling over the electricity bill

Ocean Spirit Dennis and James Bond are the sole survivors of a shipwreck on a deserted island

Ponch and Fran Drescher are in a hideous accident, but the doctors save them by fusing their bodies together

Really the possibilities are endless: have fun!  Deadline is midnight EDT February 28. 



Ponch

Quote from: Baron on Fri 14/02/2014 03:06:47
Ponch and Fran Drescher are in a hideous accident, but the doctors save them by fusing their bodies together
Wonderful. How am I supposed to sleep tonight? Or ever again? :=

Baron


WHAM

Wow, this is going to take some thinking. I had an early idea
Spoiler
of Guybrush Threepwood and Sergeant Ramirez from Call of Duty struggling to escape a devious trap using their characteristic methods
[close]
but the idea fell flat quite quickly as I ran out of ideas.

Need to do some more planning and thinking and come up with two good characters for this.
Wrongthinker and anticitizen one. Utterly untrustworthy. Pending removal to memory hole.

CaptainD

Nice theme.  However you have lost some credibility suggesting that Ocean Spirit Dennis and James Bond are opposites - surely they are very alike? 8-)

miguel

Working on a RON game!!!!!

Fitz

I'm afraid I'm going to start and stop midway through the third paragraph again, like I did last time -- but just out of curiosity: does it have to be a completely new story, conceived of only upon reading the rules, or can I use an old idea of mine that I never got around to writing? Would be nice to finally get it down on paper/screen -- and the contest might give me a nice motivation to keep at it.

Baron

Quote from: Fitz on Fri 14/02/2014 17:50:05
can I use an old idea of mine that I never got around to writing?

As a member of the Thought Police, I hereby charge you with having a guilty conscience. ;) 

Joking aside, I resurrect ideas all the time for these competitions.  I'm of the opinion that it would be slightly dishonest to submit something you've already written (even if it was previously unpublished, it would have been written without the immense pressure and time constraints of the FWC (wrong) ), but I have no such qualms when it comes to just ideas.  So I give you my official endorsement as Contest Coordinator: make those long-disused ideas into a written reality!

Janos Biro

Can I enter? What do I do? Just submit the text as a post, just like the last competition?
I'm willing to translate from English to Brazilian Portuguese.

Atelier

Quote from: janosbiro on Sun 16/02/2014 05:03:13
Can I enter? What do I do? Just submit the text as a post, just like the last competition?

Yep :) I need to enter this too. Haven't written anything in way too long!

Ghost

Quote from: janosbiro on Sun 16/02/2014 05:03:13
Can I enter? What do I do? Just submit the text as a post, just like the last competition?
Yup- as a rule, this is free for all, and you just post your story. Godspeed (nod)

Fitz

Hm... We're past the half mark and I'm almost 6000 words into the story, so it's kinda late to ask -- but are there any boundaries to how twisted, deranged and all out crazy the story can be? ;) Because what I've got is probably the most insane piece of writing I've ever done (laugh) I'll finish it, regardless, I'm having waaaay too much fun with it -- but I won't post it if it means crossing any lines here.

Baron

I've read some pretty lengthy "short" stories in this competition over the past couple of years, so don't worry about word-count per se.  If it's gripping, the reader always wants more anyway.  As far as the competition goes, however, there may be some logistical disadvantages if the piece you submit is extremely long, as traditionally we only have a three day voting window: some voters might not be able to plough through your work in time and thus might not necessarily give you the recognition you deserve.  But it's a fine line to walk: fleshing out a world/plot thoroughly vs. keeping the reader on the edge of his/her seat.  Good luck!

Fitz

Yeah, it just got longer by some 2500 words yesterday -- but I'm nearing completion, so I guess I should get something around 9K, with edits and fleshing out a few sketchy parts. I am aware this might be too much for some people to get through -- but my main concern is the content. I went for a New Weird theme, and so it's all sort of dark, gross -- and xxx-rated. Is there a requirement to keep the stories more PG-13?

Sinitrena

Quote from: Fitz on Mon 24/02/2014 07:27:35
Yeah, it just got longer by some 2500 words yesterday -- but I'm nearing completion, so I guess I should get something around 9K, with edits and fleshing out a few sketchy parts. I am aware this might be too much for some people to get through -- but my main concern is the content. I went for a New Weird theme, and so it's all sort of dark, gross -- and xxx-rated. Is there a requirement to keep the stories more PG-13?

And I thought mine would be the longest entry at 6400 words.
I can't speak for Baron, of course, but xxx-rated is usually ok as long as you put a warning beforehand. That's just commen courtesy anyway, so people who don't agree with such contend won't read it.

And because I just said this, I guess I should warn the reaader that there is some violance and gore in my text.

--------------------------------------

Light is Darkness of a Different Kind
A Play in Fragments

1. Scene:

(A clearing somewhere in the mountains. A man, Telron, sits with his back to the audience, surrounded by a circle of candles. He is dark-haired or wearing a dark hood, but this is all the audience can tell about him at this point. A second man, Hamen, wearing light-colored clothes, enters the stage from the opposite site, a drawn sword in his hand. He hesitates a moment when the first man doesn't react to his appearance, then brandishes his sword threateningly. After a short while:)

Hamen: (proud)   I have come to kill you.

(Pause)

Hamen: (angry)   Don't you hear? I've come to kill you!

(Pause)

Hamen:   I am here...

Telron: (interrupting, calm)   I heard. You seem to have a real talent for stating the obvious. I've waited a long time now. Months, years, centuries, I'm not even sure. The candles burned down to the ground and built themselves anew a thousand times and still I am sitting here and waiting. Why haven't you come earlier? Why do you still keep me waiting? Boring me with words and threats? - Please, just please don't change your mind. Too many came, too many went away again. I won't fight, don't worry, I won't fight.

Hamen: (angry)   You can't soothe me with your false pretenses! You can't fool me! I know what you are: Trickster; Demon;

Telron/Hamen: (together)   Monster; Shadow; Death.

Telron: (alone, still calm)   I heard it all, heard it all a thousand times. What do I care what names you call me? Just strike and all will be done. You will be famous, you will hear your name in songs and I... I may even find peace.

Hamen:    Peace? Peace!? You don't deserve peace. You're a monster, a...

Telron: (interrupting)   Yes,yes, yes. Everything you say, everything you think, everything and more you could never imagine. Be glad you can't!

(Pause)

Hamen: (annoyed)   I think I've made myself clear: I have come to challenge you to death for the crimes you committed. Now stand up and fight me!

Telron:    I don't want to fight you.

Hamen: (dismissive)   What do you want, then, die? So be it then.

(Hamen rises his sword into a position ready to strike.)

Telron: (incredulous)   <So be it, then?> You don't have any idea what you got yourself into, do you?

(Hamen relaxes his sword, confused.)

Telron:    You will die like all the rest.

Hamen: (proud, angry)   I don't fear death!

Telron: (pensive)   No, no, you wouldn't. They never do. They walk up to me and they don't fear death. But they shouldn't, they shouldn't at that. They should fear me.

Hamen:   You <are> death, you are...

Telron: (interrupting, angry)   I am not! (calm, directly looking at Hamen for the first time) Death is just my mercy. What you should fear is the darkness inside of me. Strike true, friend, and strike fast, for still I am contained, but for how long? Still the lights hold the darkness at bay, though the light itself is darkness, for the candles are made from my victim's fat.

Hamen: (disgusted)   You made candles out of people?

Telron:    What else would I do with those who tried for my head? What use are they? What meaning is left? - But quit wasting your time talking, for once the emptiness inside of me is unleashed, there won't be any mercy for you, friend.

Hamen: (wary)   I know what you are trying to do. You are trying to goad me into a premature attack, so that you can kill me more easily. But this is not going to work, trickster! I know what you are, and I won't fall for your tricks.

Telron: (laughing)   You won't? Won't you? You have no idea what you are talking about. A hero, looking for fame! Ha! What could you possibly know? I've met your type a hundred times! - (cold) And I killed them all.

Hamen:    I am not some simple swordsman. I am not someone just looking for fame and glory. I am Hamen Rilosh and I am fighting for justice!

Telron:    Of course you are.

Hamen: (proud)   I don't fear you! The gods are on my side! And you will die for your crimes!

Telron: (amused)   Will I? For the part of me that really deserves to die, can't. I am but a vessel and I am tired. Once I am dead my murderer will be its vessel, just like it always was, just as it happened the day I was still righteous and became darkness. (wistful) There were songs about me then, songs of the hero, songs of the savior. I relished them. (sad) I saved people and they worshiped me, but the darkness was there and it grew. It's growing still, but I hold it back. (quiet) I am still good.

Hamen: (angry)   Good? Good!? You are not good! You killed thousands of people, bathed in their blood! You're a monster and a liar. Trickster...

Telron: (interrupting)   Demon; Shadow; Murderer. Doesn't it get boring to repeat the same thing over and over again? Listen to you, wasting your time! I don't want to die, you know, I don't want you to become me. - But darkness falls...

(Suddenly, all lights turn off, including the candles. The stage is completely dark for a moment. When the lights come back on, except for the candles, Telron stands behind Hamen and presses a knife/dagger at his throat.)


Telron: (whispering)   You are stupid. You are hot-headed and stupid. I was like you once: Telron the hero, fighter for fame, fighter for what is right. I hunted down a demon and I won... and I lost everything for it: My family, my life, my humanity.

(He pushes Hamen away, who stumbles but turns around instantly, facing Telron again, sword at the ready.)

Telron:    The demon I once chased is now inside of me!

Hamen:    I am stronger then you, I won't allow it to crush me down. The Great Master ordered me...

Telron: (interrupting)   Ordered you? Of course you were ordered. You are too weak to have an actual will of your own. You are weaker than me. You are weak as a babe, stumbling around like a toddler. I feel sorry for you, I really do.

Hamen: (incredulous)   You really think this, don't you? (proud) You are nothing but a coward and a murderer. Fight me, fight me in an open fight and we will see...

Telron: (forcefully)   No!

(The lights turn back to darkness. After a moment they come back on again, this time including the candles. Telron is sitting in the circle again, facing the audience, looking up at Hamen.)

Telron: (calm)   I cannot allow an open fight. I cannot allow a fair fight, because you would lose whether you win or not. You lose no matter what and the price you are going to pay is too high. Don't you understand? I'm trying to save us all!

Hamen: (snorts angry and dismissive)   Yes? How?

Telron:   I can contain the demon. I am still good, but you would crumble under his fist in a mere year or two like I once did. I came back. I crushed him down after years and years of murder. Now I am hunted, but I only kill to save the demon, for once I die it is free once again in my killer's body. It took lifetimes, more than one, more than ten, more than you can imagine, to control it after it broke free. Do you really want to risk the world for something as petty as fame and revenge? Do you really think you are stronger than me? Do you really think you can win when there is nothing but a lie to obtain?

Hamen: (proud)   I am Hamen Rilosh, champion of the gods, fighter for justice, fighter for what is right. I won't succumb to a demon like you. I am chosen! I won't fail!

Telron:    I don't doubt you believe this. But it doesn't matter.

Hamen:    I won't fail!

Telron:    Can you be sure? Don't you understand? I am trying to save you. ...Not your life, you. (aside) I don't care much for your life. (pensive) Actually, I would be protecting you if I took your life.

Hamen:    Are you threatening me, now?

Telron: (incredulous)   Who came here to challenge me? Who is threatening whom? - It doesn't matter. By now, you are clinging to an opinion you already changed.

Hamen: (confused)   What? No, I am not! You are a monster, a demon...

Telron: (interrupting)   Yes, yes, you already said this. - And you sound like a petulant child. - Just tell me one thing then: Why haven't you attacked me yet?

Hamen: (proud)   Unlike you, I am honorable! Not a vile murderer like you!

Telron:    Is that so? Maybe. And maybe it is because you were warned that I am a trickster, maybe you fear me because of the stories you heard. But I think you are right: it is because you are better than me and all the others who tried to kill me. When I was in your position I did not hesitate, I did not waver. I attacked and I fought and, although the enemy did not keep his darkness in check, I was the better fighter. I survived and he died and I... (quiet) I lost everything. (serious, earnest) But you are good and honorable and so you won't risk the world, will you? You will protect it by protecting me.

Hamen: (squatting down, calm)   I don't believe you.

Telron:    No, no, you wouldn't. - But I don't need you to believe, I need you to understand. (begging) Please, please understand: You can kill me but you cannot kill what I am. Please understand the price you will pay: Thousand lives will be avenged and you will become the strongest and best hero who ever lived for a couple of years but in the end you will fall. (sad) You know, all heroes fall eventually and you won't be an exception. The demon will take possession of you and you will become a monster. One day you might wrestle it down but by then it is too late, then the hunters and heroes will already be after you and there are only three paths left for you to go.

Hamen: (expecting pause, then)   And what will they be?

Telron: (angry)   Did you not listen to anything I said so far? Don't you understand anything? - (calm) You can choose death â€" and new life for the demon; you can choose life and murder, either as yourself or as the demon you have become; or you can choose loneliness.

Hamen: (arrogant)   And you chose murder!

Telron: (angry)   I chose loneliness! But you stupid hunters keep coming, keep trying to kill me! Would the first option be better? This way, I'm only killing those who don't leave me alone!

Hamen: (standing up)   You killed thousands of people!

Telron:   Yes, yes I did! What is your point? What do you want me to say, to do? I killed thousands! I enjoyed it. And every time I kill the demon surges inside of me! And every time I fight it back down! Don't you understand? - (deflated, quiet) Why won't you understand?

Hamen: (turning away, quiet)   I think I understand... I just... There are so many people who deserve justice.

Telron: (dismissive laugh)   There is no justice, only revenge. They deserve revenge, yes, but they won't get it, no matter what you do.

Hamen: (turning back)   And in your opinion, what am I supposed to do then?

Telron:    What can you do? Leave. Leave me to my loneliness and hope that I never succumb to what can't be killed.

Hamen:    I...

Telron: (whispering)   And maybe, just maybe, visit me when you are old enough to not feel disgusted anymore.

Hamen:    I... What?

Telron: (sad)   Nothing, nothing of any importance. (dismissive gesture) Just leave. Leave me alone. Look for fame and justice in a different corner of the world. Kill all the monsters you wish and pray to every god there ever was that no-one ever manages to kill me. - Go now, go.

(Hamen opens his mouth as if to say more but changes his mind. Instead, he leaves without another word. When he is gone:)

Telron: (smirking, cold)   Easy.

(Curtain)



2. Scene:

(Some years later. The stage hasn't changed. Telron sits in his circle of burning candles. He hasn't changed. Hamen arrives. He looks slightly older. Telron looks at him immediately. In the following scene, they both move freely across the stage.)

Telron: (incredulous)   You are back. - Why are you back?

Hamen:    You told me to come back.

Telron:    I told you to come back when you don't feel disgusted anymore. But you haven't changed your opinion, have you? You still think I am scum, a monster...

Hamen: (interrupting)   a demon, a shadow, death. I somehow got the impression you were tired of all these names.

Telron:    I am. - This doesn't answer my question at all. Why have you come back?

Hamen: (hesitating)   I need some answers.

Telron:    Answers? From me? What answers could I have? What do you think I am? What do you think we are? Friends?

Hamen: (angry)   We are no friends! I could never be friends with someone like you!

Telron:    No, of course not. Because I am a monster and you are a hero and nothing could ever make us agree on anything. - I don't owe you any answers. All the answers you could ever want from me, you already got. So leave me be and don't test my patience.

Hamen:    Listen...

Telron: (interrupting)   I don't want to listen to you! I thought it was easy to get rid of you, easier then with most, but no, you had to come back! Come back for <answers>! I don't have any answers, nothing but this little protection I offer, nothing but a sad story and evil thoughts. - Leave me alone!

Hamen:    I can't!

Telron:    Why? Are you looking for a way to kill me again? Do you think I know how to destroy the demon inside of me? I know none. There is none. I'll stay alive and the world will stay safe and there is no wisdom for anyone in this! There are no answers.

Hamen:    You don't even know the question yet!

Telron: (cold)   Of course not. Because I don't care!

Hamen:    You don't care for the rest of the world?

Telron:    What has the rest of the world to do with this? I don't care for you, I don't care for your question and no, I don't care for the world. I'm a monster, remember?

Hamen:    You told me you are still good.

Telron:    So? Maybe I am, maybe I am not. Maybe I lied. I do this a lot, lying, I mean. Lying and scheming and manipulating idiots who try to kill me. I am called a trickster for a reason, you know.

Hamen:    I know this, but...

Telron: (interrupting)   What? What do you want?

Hamen:    I told you: I need answers.

Telron:    Yes, you did. And for some unfathomable reason you haven't asked yet. My patience is running thin. So ask your question and be on your way. You can leave none the wiser and I can go back to my dreams.

Hamen:    Dreams?

Telron:    Dreams of blood and of decay. Dreams of flesh and broken bones. Dreams of songs in my name and people celebrating their hero. What does it matter? Ask your question or leave, but stop bothering me.

(Pause)

Telron:    Well?

Hamen: (hesitating)   Are there others like you?

Telron:    Others? Like me? People that think they can stop a demon? There were thousands who died by my hands. There were hundreds that hosted my demon before me. Why?

Hamen:    That was not my question. Are there others like you? Other demons? More demons alive in this world?

Telron:    Why would you ask me something like that? Do you want to hunt down someone else now that you understand it would be a bad idea to kill me? Are you really that desperate to prove yourself? Do you really want fame this much?

Hamen: (angry)   This is not about fame! This is not about me! But you can't understand this, can you? For you it was all about fame. When you accused me I wanted to hear my name in songs you were talking about yourself, weren't you? And you still want fame. You still want people to bow to your glory!

(Telron bows his head, nodding.)

Hamen:    But this isn't about you or me! Not about fame and glory! Telron, I need to know if there are others like you. - Please.

Telron:    Why? Why is this so important? What makes you even think about such a question? I am famous, not the way I wanted it once, but I am famous. Shouldn't this be answer enough?

Hamen:    It should, yes. But it isn't. I never heard about someone else as brutal, as ruthless, as cold as you, until...

Telron:    Until?

Hamen:    Until last month when news reached us of one man killing the people of three villages in a single night. At first we thought it was you...

Telron:    Of course you did. Who else could it have been?

Hamen:    That is the question. Who else is there? Did you kill them?

Telron:    I haven't left this clearing since we met.

Hamen:    So there must be a second demon out there?

Telron:    Why? People can be evil too, you know. I killed for a living before I became a demon and I enjoyed every second of it. Atrocities are not reserved for demons.

Hamen:    No, but...

Telron: (interrupting)   Neither are the skills to kill a few villagers. It's actually rather easy. They usually aren't very well protected. And what prove do you have that it was just one man, anyway?

Hamen:    The few survivors.

Telron:    There wouldn't be any survivors if I had attacked these villages. So you can safely assume that there was no demon involved.

Hamen:    Maybe, maybe not. Maybe he just isn't as experienced as you yet.

Telron: (dismissive)   Whatever. I answered your question. I don't know anything about other demons, I don't know if they exist and I don't know how a demon is created. - You can leave me now.

Hamen:    Telron...

Telron:    What?

Hamen:    Just assume for a moment there is a second demon. You told me they can't be killed, you told me they just take their killer as a new vessel and it's a fairly obvious assumption that no-one but you could restrain it for any length of time...

Telron:    So?

Hamen:    So you are the only one to stop this man.

Telron: (laughter)   Have you gone mad? Do you seriously ask me to fight for you? No, … just no.

Hamen:    There is no-one else.

Telron:    So this is why you came; not for answers but for an assassin? If you seriously think I would be willing to do this, you must be mad. - You are not the first madman who came to me. Most of them ended up as candles, you know.

Hamen: (flat)   I hear you. You are selfish and cold. You don't care for the world or its people, you don't care for anything. You are evil and...

Telron: (interrupting)   Are you seriously trying to accuse me of things I am more than willing to confess? Yes, I am selfish and a killer. I am more interested in fame than the good of the people and I enjoy killing. I don't feel responsible for this world and I don't care for anyone except for myself.

Hamen:    Then why did you fight the demon in the first place?

Telron:    I...

Hamen: (interrupting)   You fought the demon to safe them.

Telron:    I fought the demon for fame and for glory. I fought him inside of me to safe myself. I am not responsible for anybody but me.

Hamen:    I wish you were really as selfish as you say.

Telron:    What?

Hamen:    I wish you really were selfish. Then, at least, I could be angry with you and hate you. But you are not. I don't believe you.

Telron:    Why not?

Hamen:    Because you spared my life. You could have killed me easily if you wanted to, but you didn't. You didn't!

Telron: (pained)   Lord Rilosh...

Hamen:    No, Telron, no. You told me you are still good.

Telron:    Only compared to what I could be. And I wasn't that good to begin with.

Hamen:    I know you, Telron, and...

Telron: (interrupting, angry)   No, you don't. You don't know me at all. You have no idea what I am, you have no idea what it feels like...

Hamen: (interrupting, calm)   I know you, Telron.

Telron: (flat)   You know me. What do you know? What could you possibly know?

Hamen:    I know that you fought a demon twice, once in a battle with swords, once inside of you. I know that you decided not to kill anymore. I know that you still rather kill than allow another to become a demon, either because you want to protect the world or because you don't want anybody else to suffer like you. I know that part of you still dreams of becoming famous, of being a hero and hearing your name in songs. I know that you fear the part of you that is demon and that you are strong enough to keep both the fear and the demon down. I know that you are strong, stronger than anybody else who was a vessel of your demon before you and certainly stronger than I. I know that you made a choice a long time ago and that you cling to it even though you are tired and sometimes wish to die. I know that you are lonely. I know that you won't give up as long as there is still a part of you there that can fight. And I know that you have a responsibility...

Telron: (interrupting)   I am not responsible for anything but myself! I don't owe the world anything! I already gave everything I have!

Hamen:    You are right. I am sorry. - But all you did, all you achieved will be for nothing if there is a second demon roaming free.

Telron:    If there is. We can't be...

Hamen: (interrupting)   No, we can't be sure. We will be, though. In ten years or in twenty. Once someone kills this man or when he lives longer than he should. But by then it is too late. By then thousands will be dead and, because I asked you today, then you will have them on your conscience and you will be responsible!

Telron:    Do you have any idea what you ask of me? Do you have any idea?

Hamen:    Tell me.

Telron: (pained)   Every time I kill the demon surges anew. Every time I kill I feel him get stronger for a moment again. Every time I kill I am the demon and monster everybody fears.

Hamen:    I don't fear you. I fear your demon, but I think I stopped fearing you some time ago.

Telron:    You are an idiot.

Hamen: (laughing)   Maybe. But Telron...

Telron: (interrupting)   And do you know what will happen if it really is a second demon and I win or I lose and there are two demons in one body then?

Hamen:    No. Do you?

Telron:    Considering I have no idea if other demons even exist, no, but I assume it would be twice as strong. I restrained one. Can I restrain two? Will I lose my self?

Hamen:    I don't know. But I trust you, Telron, I trust you. I trust in your strength and your determination. I trust in your skills and I trust that you can win. That you can win again and again and again, every day until the end of time.

Telron:    As I said; an idiot. - When you came to me the first time, I asked you if you were willing to accept the price for killing me and you decided to not do it. Now I ask you: Are you willing to pay the price for what you ask me to do now? For if there is a second demon and I win but lose the fight inside my body, then <I> am the end of time. Do you understand this?

Hamen:    Yes.

Telron: (shaking his head)   You are crazy. Crazy and a fool. An honorable, trusting fool. - So be it then. Let's go.

(They leave together.)

(Curtain)



--------
Edit: Formatting errors.

Sinitrena

3. Scene:

(A different place. Telron stands in the middle of a massacre. Bodies lie around him and he has blood everywhere on his clothes and on his face. He walks between the bodies and mutilates them further: ripping out eyes or organs, severing limbs or other such things. Hamen stands to the side and watches. He has a satchel with him, containing Telron's candles. After a while, Hamen steps forward.)

Hamen: (hesitating)   Telron?

(Telron turns around and glares at Hamen.)

Telron: (as demon)   Telron is dead.

Hamen:    No.

Telron: (as demon)   Telron is dead and I am alive. I am alive, alive, alive! (evil, maniac laughter)

Hamen:    No, he isn't. I know he isn't.

(Hamen steps forward but lunges at him. Hamen stops.)

Telron: (as demon; menacing)   Don't come near me, human, or I will kill you and eat your heart.

Hamen:    No, you won't.

Telron: (as demon)   What makes you say that?

Hamen:    You are Telron, my friend Telron.

Telron: (as demon)   Telron was never your friend. And I am not Telron. I am the darkness of this world, the monster in your dreams, the fear and the pain. I am shadow and death. I am your worst nightmare. I am the black blood crawling under your skin, I am...

Hamen: (interrupting)   You are nothing.

(Telron laughs.)

Hamen:    You are nothing, nothing but a nightmare, nothing but hatred. But you are not of any importance. You are not Telron, and I am here to talk to Telron, not you.

Telron: (as demon)   Telron is dead!

Hamen:    No, he isn't. I see him standing there, liking blood from his fingers. I see him in you, I see...

Telron: (as demon; interrupting)   This is just a vessel.

Hamen:    No, it isn't. It is Telron, who is real and strong, while you are nothing.

Telron: (as demon)   Telron is dead! You have lost, fighter for what is right. I am alive and Telron is dead. Accept it. You have lost!

Hamen:    No, I haven't. I haven't lost as long as you are talking.

Telron: (as demon)   You've lost and you stand in my way! Get out of my way or I will kill you!

Hamen:    No, you won't. You can't kill me.

Telron: (as demon, laughter)   What makes you think this, fighter? Don't you see all the others?

Hamen:    I see them. But I am not them. Telron didn't know them and they meant nothing to him. But Telron knows me. And <he> hesitated. The demon would not hesitate but Telron would and Telron did and Telron stopped. He did when I first came to him and now you don't attack me. So I know that Telron is still there and that he is still strong!

Telron: (as demon; advancing)   I will kill you!

Hamen: (defending)   No, you won't! You won't, Telron, because I know you and I know what you are capable of. I know what you are, better then anybody.

(Telron stops his advance suddenly.)

Telron: (as demon)   And what do you think he is? What do you think your precious assassin is that he could be stronger then me?

Hamen: (breathing heavily)   Telron is a man who fought a demon down inside of him after years and years of murder and he kept him down even when he had to kill again.

Telron: (as demon)   Oh, yes, he did. And then <you> send him to his death! (laughter)

Hamen:    I didn't. Telron is not dead.

Telron: (as demon)   You think he's alive? You think he survived me? Me? The bringer of darkness, the oldest fiend? I am shadow and death, darkness and pain. I am the world now. The world belongs to me and Telron is nothing. You, you are nothing!

Hamen:    Oh, spare me! You are right, I am nothing, I am nothing compared to you, but I am not the one fighting you, Telron is, and he is going to win!

Telron: (as demon)   You think so? You think Telron is strong, Telron fought a demon twice? Telron decided not to kill again and Telron still did. Telron dreamed of becoming famous. Telron feared me and was still string enough to keep me and the demon down. Telron was strong. Telron was weak! I fought him and I won! I know your little speech. I heard it. I remember you convincing Telron to fight for you, to take on a second demon. (laughter) I thank you for this, human, I thank you.

Hamen:    Don't. Because you will lose. I know it.

Telron: (as demon)   You know, do you? What do you know? What could you possibly know?

Hamen:    And this right there is Telron talking. This is Telron.

Telron: (as demon)   Telron talking? Because he used the same words once? What makes you think it was Telron then and not me?

Hamen:    I know Telron.

Telron: (as demon)   You know Telron? You talked to him twice! I lived inside of him for a thousand years! What could you possibly know?

(Hamen opens his satchel and takes out a few candles.)

Telron: (as demon)   You think they can stop me? You think some candles can stop me?

Hamen: (absent-minded)   They are not to stop you, they are to make you remember.

Telron: (as demon)   I remember just fine. I remember everything...

Hamen: (interrupting)   No, you don't, but you will.

(During the following, Hamen starts putting the candles around Telron in a circle, similar to the one from the other scenes. Telron moves around but doesn't step out of the circle. He looks amused first but grows restless.)

Hamen:    I want you to remember. I want you to remember who you are. I want you to remember your anger, your lies and your sadness. I want you to remember your fears and your dreams. I want you to remember everyone you killed. I want you to remember every detail, every line in their faces, every wound, every cry of pain and scream for help.  I want you to remember your clearing and your candles. I want you to remember everyone you didn't fight, everyone you send away like me. I want you to remember your loneliness and your pain.

Telron: (as demon)   This is not going to work.

Telron:    Yes. Yes, it is!

(During the following, Telron shakes violently, runs around, throws his hands in the air and so on. He never leaves the circle.)

Hamen:    Remember who you are. I know you, Telron. You are strong, stronger than any demon could ever be. You fought one down. What could a second one mean to you? You were right, I am weak, but you are strong. Maybe he believes that he is stronger now, but he isn't. He didn't kill me. He wasted his time talking. You asked me why I wasted my time talking the first time we met and the answer was that I am weak and you are strong. Now listen: The demon is not strong. The truth is, he is nothing, nothing at all. I talked to you, Telron, and I listened to you, even when I did not want to. And then the demon listened to me even though he did not want to and this means one thing: You, Telron, still controlled him even then. Telron, you never were defeated. You are strong. You are still good!

(The candles suddenly flare up all at once and Telron falls to the ground.)

Telron: (panting)   Won. I have won. He backed down. Why would he back down?

Hamen:    Telron?

Telron:    Have I won? Have I really won? Is he defeated?

Hamen:    Telron?

Telron:    No, no. I couldn't have. It's not possible. He was so strong...


Hamen: (interrupting; authoritative)   Telron, stop this thought, stop it now!

(Telron startles and looks at Hamen.)

Telron: (slightly confused)   Lord Rilosh? Hamen?

Hamen:    Telron, you won. It is done.

Telron:    No, no, it isn't. It can't be. He was stronger, stronger then before.

Hamen:    Stop this thought, Telron, stop it, let it go. This thought is dangerous. You won because you are stronger. It is done. It is finished.

Telron:    No, no, it isn't. It's a fact. I felt it, I still feel it. He is stronger. He could have won. He could have defeated me, could have... killed... me...

Hamen:    Telron?

Telron:    He could have killed me. I see it now. I understand it now. It's so easy. Don't you see, Hamen, don't you see?

Hamen:    What are you talking about?

Telron: (suddenly laughing, slightly mad)   The end! I'm talking about the end! It's so easy, such an easy solution. It was right there, right in front of me the whole time and I didn't see it, didn't understand it!

Hamen:    Telron, what...

Telron: (interrupting)   No killer, no new vessel for the demon! Do you know how they are born? I didn't, I didn't understand it, didn't want to, but now I do, now I understand!

Hamen:    You know I don't know how they are born. What is this solution you are talking about?

Telron:    Death. Death is the solution. They are born through murder, always were. They are born when someone kills, when someone kills and kills and kills. I understand now, now that I have the memories of two demons. Now I see. He, who kills like that, becomes a demon, but only if you kill him! If you leave him alone, nothing happens. He dies a lonely death, the demon dies a lonely death. But if someone kills him, then this power, this darkness stays alive and you can do nothing but wait for it to break through again. But this circle, this circle can be broken. (He kicks one of the candles away.) I reduced the demon once when I fought him down but the demon doesn't allow natural death and so it waits, waits for its vessel to break (He kicks a candle away.) or for a new vessel to come. But it is so easy, so easy! I should have seen it a long time ago. It needs me, the demon needs <me>! (Kicks candle.) The demon needs its vessel! Without it, there is nothing left! (Kicks candle.)

Hamen: (slightly panic)   What are you doing?

Telron:    Demons are shallow and angry and murderous! Come on, demon, fight!

Hamen:    Telron?

Telron:    The first time you backed down when you couldn't break me. Now, I won't allow it. We fight, we fight, not for dominance but for death!

(Telron kicks the rest of the candles away.)

Hamen:    Telron...

Telron:    Death, demon, death!

Telron: (as demon)   You can't kill me!

Telron:    But I can die!

Telron: (as demon)   You can't kill yourself!

Telron:    I can't but I don't have to, demon. You can and you will. You won't back down again! There is nothing you can do as long as I keep fighting and I will, I will! I will fight to my death and I will find peace, after all these years I will find peace!

Telron: (as demon)   No!

Telron:    Yes! Yes. Yes, yes! Come on, demon, do your best, see if I am afraid of you like all the others you fought, see if I will allow you to rule me, see if I will allow me to rule you again. No one wins, not you, not me! This ends today. This ends with both of us dead!

Telron: (as demon)   I will win and then I will make your friend kill you and take him as a vessel...

Telron: (calm)   No, you won't. I am stronger than you and so is he. He listened. Don't you understand...

(Telron begins to shake again as he did before.)

Hamen:    I listened and I understand. Don't worry, Telron, I understand. Even if you fall I'll stand between the demon and the world. He is nothing compared to you, nothing compared to me. I will stand still and watch you fight. I will watch you die and the demon will die with you. There will be songs in the future, Telron, songs of the one who killed two demons to safe the world. They will praise you, Telron, for your honor and your courage. They will praise you for your sacrifice and they will cry for you even when I tell them that you were happy to go in the end. There will be a gravestone in a clearing for you and an epitaph. <Telron, who fought.> will be etched into its stone and a circle of candles made from black marble will stand there. People will come from far away just to see your grave. They will ask what you did and they will hear the story of an evil man, of the darkness you were and the darkness you fought. They will know that you were still better than all of us. They will put flowers on your grave and sprinkle it with wine and their children will play <Telron's fight with the demon> in their backyard. They will remember you as a hero, as the hero you truly are. Once a year a festival in your name is celebrated and...

(Telron has fallen to the ground and lies nearly unmoving. Hamen kneels down next to him.)

Hamen:    And I will make sure that they know that their light was darkness, their darkness light, that their greatest light, their savior, was darker, colder and...

Telron: (interrupting; weak)   All this is a lie. No one will remember me. There is no fame and no glory for me.

Hamen: (sad)   No, there isn't. It was all a lie.

Telron:    Make sure I am forgotten.

Hamen:    I will, I promise.

Telron:    Thank you.

Hamen:    Is it done?

Telron:    Yes, now it is done. I have peace. (dies)

Hamen:    Thank you, Telron.

(Curtain)


----------------------------

It was, once again, too long for a single post. So please excuse the double post. ;-D

Baron

WOOT for entries!  WOOT!  WOOT!  WOOT!
      In other news, you've got approximately 3 days left to get your submission in.  Maybe I'm a bit old-fashioned, but I, for one, have a very hard time judging the merit of your story when you neglect to write it down and share it.  So feel the hype and start to type!  (nod)

CaptainD

I wanted to do something featuring Indiana Rodent and The Cat Lady, but I don't think I'll have time - sorry! :(

Baron

None of us have time: you gotta make time!  Usually by combining an unlikely assortment of inventory items.... ;)

Ghost

Quote from: Baron on Thu 27/02/2014 02:37:47
None of us have time: you gotta make time!

...use Rubber Band on Time Machine, that sort of thing? ;-D

Janos Biro

If it was a FPS, you would just shoot the time wasters.
I'm willing to translate from English to Brazilian Portuguese.

kconan

I've got 75 percent of a story finished.  I'll submit around noon Hong Kong time (GMT + 8) on Friday, the 28th if that works Baron.

kconan

Fred Sackamano, known in many circles as the greatest pest control specialist in Southern California, tossed the bug bombs and bait traps into the back of his company's humongous station wagon and walked around front to be greeted by Vincent Shysterelli who had a giant grin plastered on his face.  Fred shook his head as he sat down in the driver's seat.  Vince plopped down in the passenger side and said "Let's go partner."  Fred was a miracle worker when it came to killing varmints, but he was horrible at upselling clients into pest insurance packages and basically add-on sales in general.  Vince was bad at exterminating, but as the saying goes he could sell ant-be-gone to an ant.  Fred had resigned himself to the fact that this pairing was inevitable.

Fred, being an old squeaky clean honest sort, hated young Vince with a passion.  He knew several instances where the sleazy salesman had introduced invasive species of scorpions and locusts at the houses of big-name celebrities. Fred himself cleaned up after one of Vince's schemes where diseased bats had been flying around inside of a top movie director's beach house.  The director had done some research and asked Fred how a species only indigenous to Africa made the voyage across an ocean.  Fred had feigned surprise and had replied that he didn't know as he cleaned horribly pungent bat guano off of his boots.  Fred was the kind of exterminator that precisely deployed the right amount of non-toxic pesticides (when chemicals were absolutely necessary) so as to limit harm to both the customer's wallet and, more importantly, the environment.  He also would use humane traps to catch and later release animals into the mountains when that solution made sense.  Vince, however, would maximize damage to everything and holds the record as being the only individual on both the Environmental Protection Agency and Better Business Bureau watch lists at the same time.  He once bug bombed a twelve story orphanage and the surrounding area over the course of several weeks to (supposedly) eliminate a small colony of black ants; the older children were forced to sleep on the streets during the fumigation and the large vegetable garden was rendered useless after some of the kids fell ill from poisoned tomatoes and strawberries.  The blow of the resulting fallout, both literally and figuratively, was softened in the eyes of the company due to hefty profits reaped from that venture.  True old school pest control professionals, like Fred Sackamano, were disgusted with this kind of reckless behavior.

The other path crossing between Fred and Vince was when the latter played the old “stinkbug to the face” joke on him as an April fools prank at a company picnic.  Needless to say, Fred was not amused and advised top management to "keep that immature, exterminator wannabe away from me and my customers.".

Throughout the day Fred and Vince were tasked with the standard assortment of pest control jobs, and they had just finished clearing a basement of rats when Fred turned to Vince and said, ”Good job today.  You surprised me.” Vince nodded and replied, “Wait here a sec.” and left Fred to gather up the equipment by himself.  Fred dumped everything in the company car, headed up the driveway, and managed to catch the tail end of a conversation between the client, a Mr. Jeffrey Steward, and Vince.  Vince had said, ”…just wouldn't want anything unexpected to happen.” Mr. Steward appeared to think, as Fred walked up and folded his arms, and replied, ”This sounds like blackmail moreso than extermination coverage.”   Vince smiled from ear-to-ear and said, ”Sir, those pesky rats were sizeable.  But they aren't as large as the Gambian pouch rat. It would be most unfortunate if you were to have a giant rat infestation. Or perhaps mosquitos buzzing around that carry dengue fever. Or maybe skin burrowing botflies.  Or God forbid your sleep is disturbed by bloodthirsty bedbugs. Sir, you should STRONGLY CONSIDER buying some traps from us along with a package…” Fred gritted his teeth and clenched his fists.  He sighed and remembered what his boss had told him.  BlightBustersâ,,¢ Corporate (Slogan: I ain't ‘fraid of no host!) wasn't going to waste Vince's skills on cold selling, and would need capable exterminators to bring him to client sites for upselling and insurance.  Fred felt responsible and interrupted with, ”Vince!  Let's discuss these concerns in private and then…” and was himself interrupted when a loud boom sounded from their company station wagon.

Fred and the client were ushered into the house by Vince through the open door, which was abruptly closed.  The client looked out the window at the car, but didn't see anything, and asked, ”What the hell was that?” Vince ran his hand through his hair and sheepishly looked at Fred, who queried, ”What kind of bugs were you storing in the car?”  Vince glanced out the window, looked back at Fred, and was backed up against the front door as Fred exploded, ”I am a classically trained entomologist who actually cares about properly doing my job without ripping people off!  You were hired to work a street corner as the company bombardier beetle mascot, and only thrived in this line of work by fleecing and taking advantage of customers!  Guys like you give professional pest control a bad name!” Fred grabbed Vince's neck with both hands and throttled him back and forth just as the client pulled them apart.  Mr. Steward then brushed himself off and said, ”I should call the cops on you idiots.  This has to be the most pathetic attempt at running a protection racket they have ever seen.” and then a Japanese giant hornet rammed into the front windows causing them to rattle.

The three of them now heard a loud buzzing, and Fred asked, ”Is that what I think it is?” Vince said ”Yes, that boom was them escaping.  All of them it seems...” and began fishing around in his backpack.  Fred studied the swarm of giant hornets which moved around as one big humming mass in the front yard, and took particular notice of the abdomen colorations.  He turned to the client and said, ”If you have any family members or pets around, they need to stay in the house.” and then he turned to Vince, who was still fumbling with his pack, and declared, ”I know you are a connected guy, but I don't care.  If we get out of this in one piece, then I will have your head on a platter.  Even if they don't sting us to death, do you know what those little monsters will do to the ecosystem here?”  Vince said, ”Alright Sackamano…I botched this one, but if you make any kind of move on me then I promise you will regret it.” Fred glared in response.

Mr. Steward's cell phone snapped shut and he said, ”I tried animal control and the cops.  Both contacted the fire department. Also, and I guess this goes without saying, your rip-off company will be hearing from my lawyers. You can both thank your lucky stars that my wife and kids are out of town or else I would feed you to those things myself.” Fred looked around and sighed as his phone rang, and he answered knowing it would be the fire department on the other end.  He was their go-to guy for situations like this.  Meanwhile Vince was busy loading what appeared to be some kind of tear gas launcher with shells that read DDT in large font.

Fred looked out the window at the swarm and explained, ”The trees in the front yard are corralling the hornets somewhat; they appear to be looking for a hive or nest. We should sneak out the back. Short of using a flamethrower there is nothing that will really stop them, and besides the last thing we should do is threaten…” and was interrupted by Vince who dramatically threw open the front door and proceeded to do exactly what Fred was about to advise against.

The large chamber on the DDT gun revolved and made a loud “thunk” sound each time Vince pulled the trigger firing DDT into the swarm. Fred donned a beekeeper's mask that he pulled from his large backpack and yelled, ”You knucklehead!” as their former client wisely retreated into his house.

Fred swatted and flailed his arms as the hornets attacked and started for a closet, but collapsed from anaphylaxis brought on by the sheer number of stings.  He could hear loud buzzing noises which were intermittently interrupted by the thunking noise of Vince's DDT gun before passing out.


A dull ringing resonated in Fred's ears as he slowly awoke in a hospital bed.  He looked down and saw that his arms and legs were swollen.  Bandages and plaster dressings peppered his upper and lower body.  As his consciousness began to fully return, he could hear a voice coming from his right.  Fred slowly turned his head and saw Vince, who was also laid out on a bed with swollen limbs, talking to a nurse.  Vince's voice came into focus, his body involuntarily tensed, and he heard, "...termite damage in the wall there.  We'll do an egg sweep and then set traps..."  Fred calmly detached his IV and, despite the extreme pain in his arms, staggered over like Frankenstein's monster to Vince's bedside. 

Vince looked up and managed to say, "Nurse call security!  This man is dangerously unstable.  He is obviously envious of my skill at exterminating pests and..." before being cut off by Fred who began awkwardly strangling Vince with his own IV tube. Fred hissed through gritted teeth, "I'm going to exterminate the biggest pest of my career!" and then was tackled to the floor by an orderly.

Baron

Quote from: kconan on Thu 27/02/2014 09:29:03
I'll submit around noon Hong Kong time (GMT + 8) on Friday, the 28th if that works Baron.

Nice!  In all honesty, I don't think I've ever officially started voting until the next day after the deadline, just to be sure that all time zones had their fair shake.  So we've still got time folks!  Approximately a day and a half from this post.  So get out that pad of paper and a pencil and start scribbling! 

Fitz

Ok, so at long last -- here's my entry! Just short of 10.000 words. I dare ya! (laugh)

FAIR WARNING: the story features naturalistic and grotesque descriptions of sex, violence, human physiology and strong language. Proceed at your own discretion.

THE OLD SWITCHEROO

by Maciek "Fitz" Fitzner

The lights were still on -- plural being a mere courtesy here: there was just one measly, grease-covered lightbulb, dangling from the ceiling like a suicide. But here, in this room, that fretful, glimmering light made all the difference. It was symbolic. A clear, if slightly faded signal:
It wasn't time yet.
The screen -- still blank. A mere cloth, nailed at the corners of the wall; more gray than it was white, and more yellow than it was gray. Wrinkled, torn and stained, with blotches of colors you don't even see these days any more. The room -- an eerie cube: small, yet strangely, almost absurdly tall. Its floor slanted uncomfortably, sloping towards the screen -- a part of default design, known for millenia before the movies' invention, but either zealously overdone or, more likely, botched by inept hands and poor materials. Hard to point a finger. Resources were in short supply: there wasn't nearly enough of anything, much less anything of any substantial quality. Similarly, good craftsmanship was scarcer than gold -- and gold was by now just a myth. If you've ever seen it -- it must've been in the movies. Hell! Statistically, you're lucky if you meet more than two people in a day.
Though it's safer if you don't.
The movies were one of those places where you could be alone -- funny (or sad) as that may sound... A dozen rows of seats. A dozen seats in each row. One hunded and forty-four. A solid company, you might say. True veterans, the hardships they'd gone through forever imprinted on the their bodies. Their skeletons crippled by impossible burdens. Their uniforms filthy and reeking, dust and bacteria feeding off of sweat and whatever else the body might've involuntarily released. Blood, even. Most of them -- wounded; their skin punctured and sliced, their yellow, spongy flesh of polyurethane peeping out.
Why does senseless violence against the helpless surprise me any more?
I guess it's this place. To hell with everything else -- but this... this small room with one agonizing lightbulb and a soiled sheet, very liked robbed from someone's deathbed, for a screen... is to me a sanctuary... A temple, in which violence is forbidden. A church where people gather to commune -- or contemplate in the privacy of their own seat. A place that teaches you about life -- including death, war, destruction and disease. But within these walls they're just ideas. Inverted images from the outside world seeping through a hole in the wall. Plato's cave. This is my hermitage, where I feel safe... Where I'm---
-- alone?
I didn't notice the other person at first. I mean, I did -- but it took me a minute to realize that it's a human being. Asleep in my chair, I merely twitched -- and opened just one eye -- when something crashed right next to me, to my left. Things -- all kinds of things -- fall through the roof everywhere every day, and as we've already established, this place is, despite my best wishes, no more special than any other. So I was saying... I assumed that the unexpected guest was a piece of concrete, a meteor or some such bulk of mineral mass that pierced the ceiling. It didn't kill or hurt me -- so I did the only reasonable thing: ignored it completely.
   Until, that is, the mountain turned around and looked at me.
   We exchanged a brief, silent stare, our faces almost identical in expression: that of apathy and indifference, underlined with scorn; truest disgust, on one hand -- but also an optimistic presumption that neither is a threat to the other. Lodged in their seat -- their THREE seats, to be precise ("My name is Legion, for our buttocks are many") -- like a meteor fallen, the person was not very likely to get up again and hurt me. I, in turn, was neither much of a snack -- nor did I pose any real threat to anyone but myself (though even that is a stretch). After all, there was a reason why I pretty much lived here -- in this very room, in this very chair. It wasn't because I LIKED it here -- though I truly did! -- it was because I wasn't able to leave. I couldn't so much as get up. I was stuck. In this chair. In this spiteful, unyielding body. Too weak to get up -- and weaker by the minute -- and yet too strong to die.
   The darkness -- so sudden and so complete -- both scared and soothed me. Poof! Everything disappeared. I ceased to physically exist -- for the awareness of my own body rested almost exclusively on what I could see. And when the screen lit up in the dark, it looked like the light at the end of the tunnel -- which I was mere yards away from.
   Almost there.
It felt like the sun on my face -- a sensation as sweet as only a memory can be. An old memory of better times long gone. A deja vu of sorts -- but not quite. It wasn't merely an obscure and unclear sensation of recollection. This was no cranial glitch. No loose association. This... this was a solid souvenir from a different time -- another life, even -- somehow salvaged by wanton fate and returned to me. An artifact that barely aged -- and lost not one bit of its beauty. Seeing it now -- older and bitterer as I was, burdened by knowledge, experience and expectaction -- struck me just as intensely as it did when I first lay my eyes upon it. I just sat there and watched, with child-like awe.
The very first Holly Wood movie...
Oh, I've seen movies before. Watching movies was all I ever really did. I've seen them all: new and old alike, full features and shorts. Comedy, musical, drama... Thrillers, horrors, war flicks... Science fiction, fantasy, history... Black & white or color... 2D, 3D, HD... Movies from all over the world -- with captions or overdubs. Good movies, bad movies... Movies so bad they're good! Movies so weird they're brilliant!
But none ever felt quite the same as "Young Sweet Charou"...
It was by no means a masterpiece -- neither scipt-wise, nor in terms of the visuals. The story was rather uninspired, the camera-work -- stiff and static. It was the acting, the characters that really set it out. Exaggerated, yes, flamboyant even -- and at the same time so one-dimensional. There were no shades, no facets to them. No depth whatsoever. Everyone was nice and kind and sweet -- and Charou herself so naive. A flaw to a connoisseur, perhaps, to me it was the movie's greatest virtue. The sheer, unpretentious simplicity, with no filthy undertones. Smiles were smiles and words meant only what they said.
But what made it the true classic -- and my beloved film of all -- was Holly Wood herself.
It was her cinematic debut -- and you could tell that from miles away. She was awkward and over-zealous in her movement and line delivery. Barely a woman at the time, she spoke and acted like a child: big-eyed, pouty, with rosy cheeks and a voice of a cheap toy doll. But it worked. She was mesmerizing in her clumsy ways. Her face, switching between expressions of joy and endless suprise, was all I focused on -- and all I could think of. That child-like face on top of a body still in bloom -- bright and radiant, with only subtle curves; delicate like porcelain. Enticing in the most innnocent way. The dream girl for a young boy that I was back then.
Oh, how simple things used to be...
"You stupid whore! You ruined my life!"
I blinked, startled by the inhuman cry: a growl red with anger and green with hate. It was the person... the thing... sitting next to me. A woman, actually -- or so I would suppose, based on two greasy pigtails I noticed sticking from the top of her skull like wilted tufts of grass. She took a deep breath and continued berating Holly Wood in the foulest of words I'd heard. She went on for a minute or two, her voice getting louder -- and less intelligible. In the end, it was just a steaming stream of bile with no sign of meaning or syntax. Eventually, she ran out of breath and saliva. She let out the last few hoarse grunts -- and at long last she shut up.
And then she looked at me.
A ghastly woman she was. Her age was harder to determine than her sex -- my initial presumption about it based solely on her wearing a pink tank-top (an apt name in this case, as it might well serve as a tarpaulin for a tank). A ghastly creature -- regardless of gender. Almost no facial features; all lost under a thick coat of fat, cascading down her whole body. Small, hateful eyes peeping through a gap so narrow one might wonder what kind of widescreen strandard would accomodate her. Lips so vulgar; the upper one so stiff and swollen that it completely sealed off the nostrils. She breathed with effort -- with gasps so shallow and so short there's no wonder I couldn't hear her.
"Like her, dontcha?", she grunted.
At first sight, one might even mistake her for one of the Overlards. She had all the requisite features. The morbid obesity. Almost no trace of facial features -- the only feature of that shapeless mass being ugliness. Trust me, I've seen a lot, but they still rank highest. Oh yes, they were something else. A different breed entirely. A new race -- or even a sepratate species, far removed from the regular folk. A higher chain of evolution. A higher class, living the high life -- both metaphorically and literally! They led a life of wealth and fortune in a city of gold, called Overly Hills -- a fortress of opulence, separated from the mediocrity around it with an impenetrable diamond dome. A pearl in the ocean of mud that was the world around it -- a world of misery and jealousy. A greedy little world that kept drawing closer and closer -- pushing their plebeian faces against the transparent glassy surface -- just to take a peak at the splendor. The city of gold had to guard itself from their dirty looks and their filthy, sticky fingers staining the diamond globe. And so it moved -- somewhere where the common man couldn't reach it: into the sky, that is! It took off, lifted by jet engines -- and soared four miles into the air, so that they'd never see a dirty face or a rainy day again.
Expensive as living on such airborne island was, they could aford it -- and more. They were so wealthy -- with accounts overflowing with money left behind by their greatgreatgreatgreatgreatgrandfathers -- that they didn't have to work any more. And they didn't! For the past twelve generations none of them moved a finger. They just sat around, doing nothing.  Sleeping. Socializing. Indulging in substance abuse and promiscuity. Staring at the sky all day -- taking ultraviolet in with no moderation at all -- or the clouds below. The latter -- white during the day, pinkish as the the evening wore on -- made them hungry by association with cotton candy. Or popcorn. So they had some -- and coke and a movie with that.
They loved Holly Wood -- and the film industry loved them right back. It was for Overlards that they churned out one flick after another. Results varied, of course. The quality of writing quickly deteriorated -- from the poor story that the original Holly Wood movie was to no story at all. Then there were remakes -- of every movie ever made -- starring Holly Wood. Whether she fit the role was completely irrelevant. She even did movies that had no female roles whatsoever! Then came remakes of all Holly Wood movies themselves -- again, starring Holly Wood. Remakes of remakes. Sequels. Prequels. Requels. Dequels. Inquels, even (full features explaining what happened between the scenes in some previous Holly Wood movie). What those movies lacked in substance, they made up in quantity. More films would be shot in a day than anyone could watch in a week. Unless, of course, one gave up on social life, had one's meals in front of the tv, and never left one's seat to shower or urinate.
But Overlards gave up on all that centuries ago.
Whatever you might've heard about them -- it's all true. Whatever cruel joke -- it doesn't measure up to the joke they were themselves. Their bodies evolved through the decades of sedentary lives. Their muscles withered, allowing for a more even distribution of fat. They lost all hair, too -- that on their scalps, their eyebrows, their hamster cheeks and triple chins, their armpits, trappped under the slabs of arms, and last but not least, the pubic area, squished between two mountain-like thighs. Eventually, they lost those, too. Unused, unneeded, their limbs first shrunk -- and then fell off altogether.
And then, instead of dying, they evolved into separate entities.
Hands and feet -- running around on their own, independently from the body. Not very smart. Just enough to get by. Like pets, if you will. Or little servants. Because while they were detached from the Overlards' bodies -- physically and neurally -- there was a mental link. They controlled their severed limbs through telepathy and telekinesis. The hands fed them, if requested, then wiped their greasy mouths -- and then, after the food slid through their devolved bowels, they washed their flabby asses clean and patted them dry -- without transmitting the disgusting feeling of stickiness and moisture under their fingertips back to the master's brain. They'd be there twenty-four hours a day to fan away the occasional -- or should I say frequent --- flatulence. It is an irony... Overlards could control everything but their sphincted activity. Everything in and out sight -- the hands, the feet running errands... They could switch TV channels with their minds... Hell! Overly Hills itself was held in mid-air largely thanks to their telekinesis -- the rest being powered by engines running on methane: a resource that OH seemed to never run out of...
A small cloud of flatulence shook me out of my reverie. But no, she wasn't an Overlard. She was hydious in every way, just like them -- but not in the least so suavely sleazy. Not very tan, either. She had hair -- few, and not well taken care of, either, but still... And arms! Vast blobs of stale rice pudding with loaf-like hands and sausage fingers. And legs: two sturdy logs, capable of carrying all this weight around.
"You like that tight little ass of hers, dontcha?", she jeered. "That hot, skinny ass..."
Oh, I've seen skinnier. I've seen bodies thin and slender beyond belief. They weren't, however, chiseled by good nutrition and aerobic. They were shaped by dirth and toil. Half-starved, unsure of the next day. A vast valley spread below that airborne metropolis of decadent opulence. A land of filth and decay. An endless, barren earth that hasn't borne a fruit in ages. An inescapable depression of misery that promised nothing but death. This heart of darkness lay directly below Overly Hills, dripping with hatred, lust -- and fecal matter. While the former two were the valley's own -- a distillate of humiliation and no moral boundaries -- the latter came from above. A precipitation of excrement fell to earth at noon every day, when the chutes of OH's sewer system opened four miles above: a monsoon shower of diarrhea, a post-constipation hailstorm of eyeball-sized projectiles -- or a regular bombardment of soft, half-digested chunks bound with bile and encrusted with nuggests of indigestible snacks (peanuts and such); hardly deadly, but not something one would want to get in the way of. The valley itself -- a flat, empty crater -- offered no shelter: no caves, no burrows, no rocks to crawl under -- but the inhabitants of this dire realm got by incredibly well. The houses they built -- a massive ghetto of small, conjoined huts -- not only withstood the daily showers, but grew sturdier because of them. How did they build those? With what? Trees? What trees? While the manure coating the land far and wide seemed like the perfect ground for any vegetation, the sheer amount  of it that came in those daily supplies stifled any attempt at growth. Hence, there hasn't been a tree down there -- nor a flower, nor a single blade of grass, even -- in the past two-hundred years. Similarly, any larger body of solid mineral -- chunks of which you could put together or grind into an easy to shape, quick-dry paste -- was buried deep beneath the ever-thickening layer of guano. As a result, they had to resort to the only building material available: that is, feces. It was free and abundant -- and quite firm once dried and baked. The many colors -- from yellow through green all the way to coal-black with intestinal blood -- and various consistencies -- ranging from liquid to rock-hard -- offered a wide array of architectural and stylistic possibilities. They made orange bricks and green mortar. Some had blue plasterwork, even -- and whimsical ornamentation.
It's amazing what you can do with what most would consider a material so... well, shitty...
The valley dwellers were the laughing stock of the world: the Overlards living way above their heads -- and the miserable millions living just outside the crater, peering down over its edge with fearful bemusement. They would exorcise their anguish with laughter. There is no easier way to tame fear than by belittling the source of it. So they would call the valley Fecalifornia -- or Merdor. Oh, the little gems of potty humor! They dubbed the settlements pooeblos. A single house, they snickered, was a TP. Local food specialities? Dump-lings, pot-luck and sushit! Hahaha! Yes, it was so easy laughing behind their backs -- or should I say, over their heads -- and out of their arms' reach. Oh, so brave... No one would laugh an Octane in the face. Because, you see, it wasn't the land -- the poop-smeared, God-forsaken earth -- that was deadly. It was the Octanes themselves.
A petrol-powered patriarchy.
Contrary to what the crappy comedians from around the world would have you believe, Octanes did not feed on feces. No, they lived off of oil -- in every sense. The monarchy drove the industry -- and vice versa. It wasn't merely a source of wealth -- it was the source of the kingdom's livelihood itself. Without it there would be no king. No kingdom. No industry. No nothing. Just death and chaos. In fact, for a few centuries the valley was but a barren wasteland, inhabited by stray wildlings, reduced to quadrupedalism and ruled by anarchy.
But then a miracle of sorts happened.
A tanker of epic proportions -- a true leviathan, the biggest ship there ever was, with the heaviest load onboard in recorded history -- sank while on its maiden voyage along the West Coast. Whatever the cause of this tragedy was -- faulty design, sloppy handiwork, cheap steelwork, a software glitch, a rock, a fish, a bomb even -- will forever remain a secret, burried under the megatons of crooked, rusty steel and a thick, black ocean of oil.
Tasty, nutritious oil.
A large populace of the valley lived off the fruit of ocean: fish, crabs, clams, cephalopods and such. Most of those died an instant death when the oil got out of the tanks. Some crawled out on the shore and died slowly and painfully -- as did those that tried to feed on this easy meal. The oil was poison. The oil was a trap.
To most of them, at least.
Faced with the lack of food -- and a very real prospect of starvation and total extinction -- some of the animals took to the one thing that was there: oil. They tried it -- and some died, indeed, but some lived. Some thrived. They grew bigger and bigger. But they would overeat -- as any creature who's suffered hunger would. They'd digest for months -- and eat again; more and more. Once full, they couldn't move, their bellies big and round like hills. They would just lie there -- and secrete oil by-products. They'd sweat kerosene, urinate petrol and defecate pellets of polyamide. The sweet stench of octane would then attract a multitude of smaller creatures -- who would feed off the sweet nectar. They'd lick it off and drink from him -- until he was empty again. But once they drained him dry... no, they didn't just leave him, like any wildling would do -- and go search for another host. No, they would bring him more.
And so the empire was born. A monarchy.
At first there were a bunch of oil moguls. Princes, or dukes, if you will -- each with a flock of servile maidens catering to them. But not all were equal in power. Some took less and gave back more. The quality of life differed -- or the taste of it. Thus, those who flourished under their reign made their rulers flourish -- and new subjects flocked in, adding to the prosperity. Abandoned princes withered and died -- and soon there was only one.
The Great Dispensator.
He was indeed the greatest individual to ever rule this earth -- and not just metaphorically. It took two hours to get from the northernmost to the southernmost point of his body -- traversing the highland of his belly. The workers -- all of them female -- walked the route dutifully every day: from their homes to the shore, where they filled their stomachs with oil and immersed themselves in it all the way to the tops of their heads; then to the Great Dispensator's mouth, into which they would vomit the oil from their stomachs and have him lick the thick film of petrol from their bodies with his large, warm, slimy, thorough tongue; up and down his belly down to his PP (short for Petrol Pump), which they would insert in their frontal nether regions and pump forcefully to stimulate the flow of gasoline. Once full, they could go about their day as they pleased -- with enough fuel to work at full capacity until tomorrow. A perfect system. A well-oiled mechanism. A V6 engine...
A wicked trap. A drug. A bringer of death -- slow and painful.
Gasoline was poison -- both to those that consumed it and their environment. Food most nutritious -- but deadly, in the long run. It brought about cancer. The sickess would start in the stomach or lungs -- an abnormal division of cells; multiplying while refusing to die. It'd then spread throughout the whole body, destroying it inch by inch. Gasoline was liquid death. A drug. An alchohol. Once you tried it, you couldn't stop. You could only keep drinking -- until your life was reduced to binging and hang-overs. So for those wretched creatures there existed nothing but work. Feeding the Dispensator -- more and more each day -- and getting less and less in return. There was no sunshine in the valley of death. The light couldn't penetrate the mile-high layer of smog -- so eventually, it stopped trying. Darkness and misery reigned.
"Awww, are you crying?", the bulbous woman cooed, her voice nasal with feigned concern.
I tried to ignore her -- much like I did so far -- but the only other thing to look at was Holly Wood. Her face -- her beautiful, innocent face -- filled the screen. When I looked at her, I couldn't hold back tears. They ran down my sunken cheeks in streams, salt crystalizing in the crevices of my skeletal face. It's as if all the water in my body -- what little of it was left -- accumulated in the tear ducts solely for this occasion. I let them flow -- so that they obscure the view; so that my blood-shot eyes go blind and I no longer see my beloved Holly Wood -- nor the woman laughing her heart out.
"Want a tissue?", she asked, poking me in the ribs. "I'll give you the whole box if you promise to stop weeping like a baby and jerk one off to her like a real man should!"
She laughed and laughed -- either at her own joke (she seemed to amuse herself perfectly well without me doing or saying anything) or me bursting into yet more tears (which was all I could do at this point). She hit the nail on the head -- and it pierced my dying soul. It's amazing how a careless stranger can hit you where it hurts the most without much forethought -- for not much reason other than a moment of slapstick glee. Not to make you feel worse, just to make themselves feel better.
"Don't tell me you wouldn't fuck her!", she laughed, her voice more male than female: deep, resounding and heavy with sarcasm. "You impotent or something?", she frowned and pouted, her face squirming with scornful disgust. "Limp down there? Or are you a dickless castrate, with nothing to soothe the itchy fingers?"
Punch after punch, she beat my self-esteem -- already a lifeless lump -- into a bitter pulp. How...? How can one person know so much about another? How can one be so right -- on all counts? She'd have to be a telepath. For that, she'd have to be an Overlard -- which she wasn't, as already established, by virtue of possessing all four limbs (regardless of their current functionality). Oh, how I wished to peer beneath those beady eyes and figure her out...
Sadly, my own telepathic skills must've been dependent on my once exorbitant BMI -- which steadily sank below the norm over the recent years.
"I killed her!", I cried.
I let out astonishingly raspy roar. I kept quiet through all her jeerings -- until enough was enough. I released all the air I had in my lungs with all the force I had left, hoping to shock her into silence with the truth; the very bottom line.
"BWAHAHAHAHAAAAA!"
She burst out laughing in that resounding tenor. Not the kind of reaction I was hoping for. There was a moment of shock in her facial expression: her beady eyes widened and her whorish lips arched in disbelief, the right corner pulled up a little, exposing her yellow teeth. But then her monstrous yap tensed -- and exploded with a laughter so sincere it was almost touching. It made the whole room tremble. Then, all of a sudden, it subsided just as abruptly as it went off. No forced cackling, no snickers -- quite unlike before. Not even those throaty gasps that you sometimes use to bring yourself to a halt before a hiccup sets in.
"Dude, is your name Smirnoff?", she snorted.
I was confused... Either she wasn't a telepath, after all -- or there was some irony that I was oblivious to. In any case, I left it unreplied -- for a while, at least; much longer than required to keep a conversation going.
"Uhh...", I managed to mutter. After such a long time of silence I was disaccustomed to talking, let alone snippy exchanges. Also, that one desperate cry -- my admission of guilt --cost me a lot, in many ways. So I resorted to monosyllables. "No..."
"Then the only thing your guilty of is mindboggling stupidity", she grimaced. Her voice was labored and nasal, air wheezing in her throat and nose as she spoke -- but in her elephant-like delivery she was oddly fluent. And lively! Sarcasm gave it melody.
"Huh?", I muttered. Confusion only added to my weariness.
Her head sank and rose again as she took a deep breath through those porcine nostrils.
"Well, my ignorant friend, our sweet little Holly Wood drank herself to death."
"No...", I gasped in disbelief.
"Yes!", she squeeked with glee.
"When...?"
"Hmm... I'll be damned if I remember correctly, but... a month or so after the movie premiere?"
"Which... which one?" I managed to cough out two words. With a bit of contempt, too. Didn't she know Holly Wood made thousands of movies?
"The one we're watching right now...", she half-stated, half-asked.
"That's... her first..!"
"And, as luck would have it, her last, as well!"
"What about... 'Poly-Anna'?"
"What about it?", she pouted.
"It's from... 34...15...", I gasped. Pronouncing each word still hurt like vomiting razors. "Almost... a year later..."
"Did she really?"
"I saw it... a thousand times!"
"Hm... And you never noticed how her face looked... a little rounder... Her chin -- a little smaller... Her eyes a bit larger -- and wider...", she enumerated, rolling her from side to side. "And her lips more... what's the word...? Slutty?"
"All right...", I agreed hesitantly. Not quite what I'd describe it as, but she did look different. Rounder. Sweeter. Pinkier? "But... people change... from day to day", I rebutted. I was a living proof of that.
"And then, in The May Tricks, her boobs looked bigger -- and then, in Thurman Ate Her, smaller again."
"Plastic surgery...?"
"Oh yeah? Then explain to me how exactly she managed to go from 5" as Allison Wanderlind to 5'3" in the role of Trudy Lucan-Glass and back all the way to 4'11" in Excess?"
"Camera work?", I suggested. Strings of words formed easier in my mind once warmed up -- and came out with less and less effort; dry and raspy as they were from general dehydration. I was relearning an old, under-used talent, which always lost to telepathy. Now that the latter I lost completely, those labored, raspy chunks of sound were all I got left. "A wooden crate she stood on?"
"Oh, you oblivious, obstinate fool... Still blindly believing in movie magic...", she shook her head. Her triple chin swayed to and fro. "Magic it is, maybe -- but nothing more than third-rate voodoo, my friend! It does wonders -- but not miracles! And it would take a miracle to bring someone so poisoned back to life... No amount of money could do that! Not the kind that the studio execs would shell out, anyway. There are easier -- and cheaper --workarounds."
I didn't want to hear it. Any of it. Why did I indulge her at all? Why didn't I cease this conversation in the easiest of ways: by not talking. But it was too late. The die's been cast. She ruined the movie for me already -- and worse still, left me craving for answers. Curiosity got the best of me. So after the longest pause, I asked:
"Like what?"

Fitz

She shrugged. Her massive shoulders went up and down in what looked like orogeny.
"Take any pretty girl, slap some make-up on her, top it off with a wig -- and there you go! Holly Wood, in the flesh!", she smiled triumphantly, raising her eyebrows, arched like hairy rainbows. "And when that girl drinks herself to death, as well, you just throw her away discreetly and repeat the whole process again. And again! It's sad how all those Holly Wouldbe's were her perfect doubles in film and in life alike. All of them eaten by the machine, one by one. Beauty leads to fame, fame leads to pressure, pressure leads to depression, depression leads to substance abuse, substance abuse leads to death. Death, in turn, leads only to re-casting -- and very rushed surgeries. Half of these girls died of sepsis as soon as the shooting wrapped. Some of them midway through -- and there were three different Hollies in one movie. They didn't even give them proper burial -- because officially they weren't even there. Why would they if Holly Wood was alive and well? Right?"
All of this sounded bogus. It seemed too wild to be true. But then again: what do I know? I only saw what the camera wanted to see me -- and there's a whole world around it I never got to see; on and off the set. The world everywhere around was a filthy and evil place -- so why would an industry right in the middle of it, immersed in it and catering to its basest needs, be any different from it. Dark and dangerous. Greedy and unrestrained. Devouring gluttonously whatever gets in its way and carelessly defecating -- not taking the time to burry its steaming feces.
"And nobody... got suspicious?"
"Look who's pointing fingers now!", she snorted. "Yeah, eventually things got out. An anonymous tip here, a half-burnt body with a surprisingly well-preserved Holly Wood face thrown out in the desert there -- and they started putting two and two together... But business is business... A 1 with six 0's is still more than four -- and so things were hushed down for a very long time. Until, of course, they started getting out of hand. The demand was too high. Nobody cared about the truth anymore! Nobody cared for law or justice! They just wanted more Holly Wood. And so they got it! More movies than they could watch in a lifetime. A movies, B movies, C movies! It didn't take long till they started making pornos -- and for the really fucked up folks: Holly Wood snuff flicks!
"Good Lard", I gasped; an old religious invocation that I'd often used as curseword. Now, however, I felt a true divine fear.
"You think that's bad?", she laughed. "Not even close! The whole thing kept going south -- till it wasn't about movies anymore. Who needs movies when you can have Holly Wood, in the flesh, strip for you or fuck you for a few bucks?"
"Good Lard...", I winced yet again -- the difference this time was that this particular tidbit wasn't news to me at all...
She noticed that right away.
"Jackpot!", she grinned obscenely, baring all her crooked, yellow and green teeth. "You naughty, naughty boy!"
I'd had no idea about the extent of the fraud I had been such a fan of. At the time it felt... special -- in some deranged, twisted way, but still. Holly Wood, here in my house. A gift to me for my Sweet Sixteen. My dreamgirl -- to whom I would gift my virginity. A sweet dream I was comfortable with never coming true. And when it did -- against all odds -- I was terrified. Because I wanted it to be perfect -- and they say it never is the first time. It's awkward and clumsy... That's not what I wanted for my Holly Wood.
The reality of it was even worse than I feared -- for the both of us.
I got nervous. There she was -- my dreamgirl, in all her glory. And so the one thing in my overlard body that still had the ability to lift itself and stand straight... went flaccid -- and then receded into my abdomen in fearful shame. But erectile dysfunction is no stranger to Overlards -- and so there are always remedies at hand: strong, quick and effective. And so, within seconds by combined powers of chemistry -- in the form of a blue tablet -- and biology, there it was again! purple and throbbing, varicose veins pulsating like neons! Until now painfully unimpressed, Holly Wood got visibly terrified. She wanted to run away -- but the Feet tripped her. The Hands were quick to seize her -- and the joint telepathic power of my parents, grandparents, uncles and cousins, all of which gathered for the occasion of my first defloration, forced her in my armless and helpless embrace and impaled her onto my shaft.
It hurt -- in every way possible
We didn't fit. That's something I knew -- long before this happened. Being right hurt. We were worlds apart -- and feeling inferior hurt. But nothing felt worse than the actual physical pain of coitus. Our anatomies differed too much for it to ever work. She writhed and thrashed in pain. I screamed at the top of my lungs. She started hitting me, scratching my face. She tugged at my ears and bit me -- all in the clueless effort to set herself free. I don't blame her. She couldn't have known it was them -- the cheering crowd -- that held her with the power of their minds, forcing my gruesome erection deeper into her warmth. Eventually, I lost all feeling. It only felt numb and cold. I experienced no more pain as she slid up and down, up and down, up and down. I didn't mind the slaps and punches, the scratches, the bruises, the bite marks -- nor losing whole chunks of flesh. The one thing aching the most was my heart. It sunk deeper and deeper with each blow -- and each new burst of laughter.
In the midst of all that I think I felt rather than heard the soft, gooey snap -- right where our two bodies became one against both our wills.
A fountain of blood gushed out of my lower abdomen. Blood and urine. Holly Wood fell to the floor. I heard a thud -- and then a choir of panicked cries. I felt Hands all over my body: feeling, pusshing, pressing, pumping. I shut my eyes tight -- as if that could stop the life leaking out of me -- and wailed as if that had any soothing effect. When I couldn't screem -- I opened my eyes one last time. The last thing I remember seeing was Holly Wood flying out the window; her scream as she plunged to her death four miles below.
Then there was nothing.
"I killed her", I whispered, shaking my head. "Whoever she was, I killed her... I killed a human being..."
"Oh, cheer up!", she grimaced. "It was suicide on her part long before you came into play. In that line of work these things happen and she knew it! There are accidents, there are misunderstandings... But those stupid whores never really think about it. They dive in and hope for the best! They just don't give a shit."
The first thing I remember upon waking up was the odor of feces. A familiar aura of methane that no air-freshener could overpower. I couldn't open my eyes, so I didn't know where I was. I was too weak to talk or move.
But I lived...
I was disappointed. Angry! I survived -- against my hopes. Against my will. I wanted to die. I deserved to die -- even if what happened wasn't all my fault. The organized coitus was not my idea. Not my plan. But it was my dream. My sweet fantasy -- that my loving telepathic parents dug out from the depths of my mind and, powerful as they were, they decided to make it come true. Had I not dreamt it, none of that would've happened. So in the end, the fault was mine -- and I welcomed death when it came to me.
It took the form of four glorious, spear-wielding Octanes.
When I opened my eyes, the view was unfamiliar -- and hard to make sense of. I'd been no stranger to blackout and waking up in places unknown -- but nothing of this kind. There was always some azimuth. Some pieces of architecture. Gold, silver and diamonds -- like suns and stars guilding the sailors. And a bunch of helpful Hands, who'd lift me and carry me home.
I wasn't home.
From the darkness that I confused for inexistence four figures emerged. Four tall, lean women -- with fiery red eyes. Sickly thin -- and yet strangely beautiful, muscles wrapped around their bones like braids, black oil shining on their skins. Quite a view. But I saw the looks on their faces. I saw the spikes in their hands. And numb as I was, I could feel them pierce my body when they finally decided to attack.
But the few pokes felt almost... subtle...
They punctured my skin, dug a little into the flesh -- but never hit the organs. They didn't intend to kill me -- as any practical being would do, seeing a stranger inside their realm -- or even to really harm me. As soon as they'd established that I am completely harmless -- or worse still, utterly helpless -- they left me and went away. They walked away -- and then, returning later that day, traversing the very same path, they passed me by with indifference. They marched proudly, eyes fixed straight ahead. Four of them -- tall and lean, completely naked, their bodies covered with nothing but oil. A regular day of labor. They walked right past me. Why? I'm not sure. Maybe they didn't deem me a threat?
Death shrugged at me and went away.
"Why all the hate...?", I asked. I musted up enough strenght to express anger and condemnation. "What did they ever do to you? What did Holly do? She died before any of us got to know about her!"
"You still don't get it, you clueless puppy...", she chuckled.
"What? Your boyfriend liked her more than you?", I risked. It felt good. It felt... easy. As if words dipped in sarcasm just slid off the tongue, with no painful friction. I sounded less raspy and more hissy. Like the legless, armless snake that I indeed was. "He kept comparing her to you and telling you to shape up?", I snorted. She rubbed off on me, I guess, and I wanted to take a few jabs at her while she's in a good mood. "Or did he order one for the night and you happened to walk in on them? Was she better at it than you?"
Her expression changed abruptly -- as if skipping all the intermediate frames -- from calm amusement to fury. Her eyebrows lowered and drew closer together. Her nostrils furled and and her lips pressed firmly against one another, moving from the left side of her face to the right.
"NO ONE... WAS BETTER... THAN ME!", she growled. "I WAS A SEX-MACHINE!"
I froze.
And then I let out the most sincere laughter in a while.
I've actually lost count of the days, but it must've been a couple of years since that day when I landed, face down, in a valley of shit. That must've been the last time I laughed. I laughed, because I couldn't cry. I ran out of tears. So what was I to do -- after I was cast out from the paradise four miles above and thrown into hell itself. After four armed scouts just left me be!
So when death laughed me in the face -- I laughed back.
Lard knows how long I just lay there, staring at the sky shrouded with a coat of clouds so thick that I couldn't tell night from day. So I might've lain there for months, waiting for death -- but it seemed it had better things to do in nicer places than this. Sadly, there was nothing I could do. My life wasn't in my hands -- because I never had hands to begin with. No hands to end my life with. And so I lay there: dirty, bruised, broken -- but alive and breathing, my aching heart still beating and my stomach still digesting. Mostly itself, though -- and the thick coat of fat accumulated through the years of binge eating. Pizza. Hamburgers. Hotdogs. Spaghetti. Chips. Fries. Macaroni and cheese. All deep fried. Cake. Chutneys. Puddings. Ice-cream. Donuts. Waffles. Pies. Apple pies. Cherry pies. Blueberry pies. From actual fruit, too -- which got pretty expensive when the whole world beneath turned into an ocean of smog. But when you're rich you can make things happen.
In a way, in those dire days I fed off of memories.
"Oh, I get it", I laughed. "All those Holly Woods put you out of business... With their young, firm bodies and their pretty faces they made up for the lack of sexperience", I had to laugh at that silly pun.
"You dumb fuck... ", she rolled her eyes. "I was ONE OF THEM! The BEST of them all!"
"I'm sorry, but-- ", I hesitated. This was shaping up to be the best comedy night in my life -- and I was in the front row! " --you barely look like a woman at all."
"It's the drugs... ", she sighed.
"I've seen what drug abuse does to people. Top-shelf heroin, enhanced LSD, illegal novelties... It gets really ugly, it does, but not THIS ugly..."
"I'm not talking recreational drugs, you idiot", she quipped.
"Steroids?", I suggested. That'd make sense. Whatever happened to her had hormone imbalance written all over it in bold letters.
"Nope.", she shook her head. "Beautox."
"What?"
"They discovered this toxin... in the butt glands of some super-poisonous fish or some such... that literally makes you beautiful. I'm no physician, I don't know the how and why, but it works. It messes with the muscles, the bones, everything... The short of it is that it can make anyone -- literally anyone -- into a beauty. You just had to visualize what you want to look like -- and bam! before you know it, you're it!" Her eyes bulged and her eye-brows travelled halfway up her forehead. "So now everyone could look like Holly Wood! No expensive surgeries, no make-up! Just shoot up some beautox in one of your buttocks", she laughed at the clever rhyme, and I cackled along. " --and voila!", she clapped her gigantic, sausage-fingered hands. "It actually worked with guys, too!"
"Ugh...", I cringed.
"Trust me, you wouldn't be able to tell."
"So...", I hesitated after a brief pause. I did not want to go further into that particular topic. "What happened to you? Overdose?"
"I wish!", she laughed. "It's not the prettiest sight, you start looking more and more like a cheap plastic doll. Your skin gets smoother and shinier, your smile tenses, your eyebrows go up till your eyes can't close anymore... But anything's better than withdrawal!", she looked down at herself.
It's true. Beautox, TV, sugar -- they're all drugs. Sweet pleasures you need a dosage of every day. Without it, you deteriorate and succumb to disease and madness. I remember the endless days in the valley. At one point I turned my head around -- which was the full extent of movement that I was capable off -- and tried to chew on the feces. They had to have some nutrients in them, given how quickly food passes through our devolved digestive tracts. There were bits of nuts in them, too. But I couldn't. I deserved all the humiliation life threw at me -- and I should have swallowed that bitter, shit-flavored pill -- but I didn't have enough will-power for active repentance. So I merely resigned myself to whatever fate befalls me. I chose to do nothing. I lay there as my body chowed away on itself.
Eventually, I was reduced to a skeleton in a huge puddle of skin.
"So you reverted to what you looked like before?"
"Oh, fuck you, skinny bitch!", she barked at me. "No, that's not what I looked like. I was a decent looking girl. Nothing special, but not ugly. A little flabby here, a little saggy there. Not curvaceous enough, maybe... But I fucked like a prima donna. I had talent! So I decided to take it up a notch. I took the shot -- and the rest is history. I got quite popular, actually -- because while a talentless hottie always beats a gifted Peggy Sue, she will ultimately lose when faced against an identical hottie with actual skills. I was the best and everyone wanted me. They couldn't get their hands off me!"
At some point -- somewhere between madness and death -- I found peace. I lost all feeling in my body. I felt no more pain. No pangs of hunger. No burning where my penis once was. With no anguish and no needs, I stopped craving death.
And then, one day, I decided to live.
It was a day like any other -- and they do look identical down there, one just as miserable and sad as the other -- when the same four workers went past me, just as they did so many times before. But then the last one flinched. She looked at me -- and her face changed: from superior indifference to surprise, from surprise to anger. I don't know why. Maybe she smelled fear in me -- or maybe the will to live? Maybe they left me before because they knew death would come to me anyway, so there was no point to waste their time on me. Now, determined to live, I was a threat -- a vague one at the time, with no real idea what to do with myself, but still... So they all pointed their spears at me -- and poked and poked and poked. I no longer felt pain at that point -- but I felt them piercing my skin, and I felt blood. Thick, black blood that'd take days to leak out of my body and kill me -- but if I didn't do anything, that's what would happen, sooner than later.
So I grabbed their spears.
Yes, I had no limbs. Not even a tiny stump sticking out of my shoulder, much less an actual arm -- with fingers. But I had the power telekinesis. Long unused, some of it must've accumulated somewhere in my brain. It's hard to say how it works -- whether it's like invisible hands -- but it does. You just think of doing something -- such as wrestling the spears out of the workers' hands -- and it... happens. You think of pushing them away (rather than killing them with the spears; I caused one too many death as it were and I was not going to make it a custom) -- and they're down on their backs, scrambling to get up. Meanwhile, I took all four spears and... got creative! By means of telekinesis rather than physical strenght, I wrapped my loose skin -- spread on the ground like a ruined tent on the scaffolding of my ribs -- around the spears' blunt tips till it formed four firm knots. Thus I formed four stiff apendages -- stilts of a kind -- which I had an amazing control over. I could move them around and swings them. I could shoo away the workers -- who weren't surprised or impressed by my provisional invention. They were just furious -- and hell-bent on getting me.
Then I spread my "arms" and "legs" on the ground, thus forming an X -- and thrust with all my might, pushing myself off the ground, twisting in mid-air -- and landing on all fours.
"It was a good job. The pay was mediocre -- but I liked doing it. Plus, I got to meet important people. I fucked rock stars, directors, CEO's, politicians... And I travelled a lot!"
I ran and ran -- awkward at first, not used to quadrupedal movement (or any movement at all), trying to learn it while trying not to get caught -- but I got a hang of it, I think. My sprint wasn't classy -- but it was efficient. I pushed on, flexing muscles I didn't know I had; some never once used, some almost completely devolved. I ran and ran -- straight ahead -- and in the corners of my eyes I could see more and more workers joining the chase. None of them asked the question: why? -- they just saw a strange creature en gallop and so they did the intuitive thing: try to get it. They threw their spears at me. Some barely scratched me, some grazed me a little. Some still managed to hit me. But I just pulled them out, using telekinesis -- and kept running, disregarding the pain, which I somehow could feel again. It burned like when they breathed fire at me (a usual skill for someone feeding on gas), even if the dirt and feces I was covered in protected me partially. They just melted them into my body. After a while I was just a brick of coal with an unbreakable will to live.
But I got out. I don't remember how. I just did. I guess good things happen?
"I fucked some real higher-ups in my day!", she grimaced. "I'm sure the Peggy Sue that I used to be would've never gotten that high! AND those people were paying extra -- for the easiest job there is!", she squeaked with joy. "OK, so it sounded a little easier than it looked -- and there were some complications -- but boy was it fun! So then I got a little carried away... and I... well... I broke something... It got really messy! They got bloody pissed!, she laughed at the recollection. "I was out the door before they asked for a refund... A girl's gotta watch her back, right? These bastards would've killed me.", she exclaimed. "So I had to run. I couldn't count on my pimp, because he would've killed me as well. Apparently they were his best clients. So I bolted -- and then I lay low. I figured that once the dust settles and the bruises and skin cuts heal I could go back -- as a completely new Holly. The dumb fucks wouldn't be able to tell, because we all looked the same. Buuuut I waited too long and beautox wore off -- and I had no way to get some more -- and... I turned into this", she sighed heavily, poiting both her index fingers at her Behemoth-like body. "It was brutal... When you lay beautox off, you don't go ugly bit by bit, day by day, week by week until you turn into your former self. No. It's like your underpants snapping on your ass. Bam! You're Quasimodo! And THEN your get even worse. Your bones twist, your tissue swells... You get fatter even though you don't eat..."
My jaw kept dropping lower and lower.
"Wait...", I interrupted her. "What was that botched job exactly?"
"Ooh, look who got all horny all of a sudden!", she grinned. Suddenly, at her lowest point, her mood shifted dramatically. That was a talent I could be jealous of.  "You want me to talk dirty? You want me to tell you stories?", she purred, pressing her index finger against her lower lip. I wasn't sure whether it was just gross or hilarious.
Or sexy -- in a very, very, VERY weird way.
"Go on", I said, if only to stop my non-existent erection. But I felt a strange tingling somewhere else...
"Well, if you really need to know... I had to take a boy's virginity", she smiled, with a sense of professional pride. "What could be easier, right? You just sit on his little weener, move up and down, moan a little -- and he's there, all happy and blushing!"
My eyes widened -- which she took as sign to go on.
"But this guy... first he gets shy -- and I think to myself: oh great, now how do I put it up? I hurt my wrist the other day, and while I'm the goddess of sex, I literally suck at blowjobs... Heh heh, get it?", she winked. "So anyway... then it got even worse... but then they gave him some pill -- and damn did things turn around! THE! BIGGEST! DICK! EVER! I was fucking terrified! But they sort of screwed me onto him -- and things really went crazy from there. I wasn't going to give him any special treatment -- you know, just doing the job, take the cash and go home -- but this was fucking great! Sooo I gave him the full package. No kissy-kissy, that's my rule -- but other than that, I went all out. Screaming, scratching, biting, hair-pulling... All that kinky stuff! I mean, not REALLY kinky, I've done weirder things! Shit you wouldn't believe! None of that this time. Just regular all-out crazy sex." She paused and smiled to herself. She zoned out there for a minute.
The sudden silence was terrifying. I took ages -- but finally I mustered up the courage to speak.
"I...I thought it hurt you..."
"Are you kidding me? Best... sex... EVER!"
"I-it was?"
"Oh yeah!", she asserted with that confident tenor. "I even kept a 'little' memoir!", she pointed to a pendant around her monstrous neck; an obscure, dark shape, diving into her cleavage. I couldn't make it out. "Wanna see?"
"No, thanks...", I refused, shyly.
I really didn't. The memory of the last time I saw it haunted me to this day.
"Oh well, it doesn't look that good anymore, anyway... All dried up and small... Like a fig.."
I smiled. She was funny. I smiled and it almost hurt. But for the first time I was... calm... Happy, maybe? Pieces of a gigantic puzzle kept falling into place. Someone else's memories over-rode my own. Rewrote them from scratch. Re-painted them -- in brighter colors.  After almost dying in an ocean of feces, then again at the hands of the fiercest creatures alive; evading death by burning, crushing, shooting, stabbing, beating -- and boredom -- I was reunited with not one, but three souvenirs from a life long gone, all connected to one another. It's almost as if I travelled back in time -- back to the moment when we first met.
Perfect strangers -- stuck in a perfect moment...
"Hey!", she asked after a long, looong pause. Darkness fell again and credits were rolling up the screen. "Wanna fuck?"

THE END

Baron

It's voting time!  ;-D

While I am somewhat disappointed by the number of entries, the sheer effort that has gone into the lengthy works that were submitted more than makes up for it!  Our contestants this time, in order of entry, are:

Sinitrena: Light is Darkness of a Different Kind
kconan: Bugs & Pests Co.
Fitz: The Old Switcheroo

Voting will be by category.  Due to the limited number of contestants you must vote only once per category, for a total of six votes.  The categories are:

Best Character: You find one or several characters extra believable/captivating/magnetic/unique, etc.
Best Plot: The story arc was well-organized, coherent, and well-executed with appropriate pacing; basically the best story.
Best Atmosphere: This is all about feeling: did the story evoke strong feelings due to excitement/humour/intrigue/wonder/emotional intensity?
Best Setting: The best background world or milieu for a story; a place brought to life.
Best Word Choice/Style: The technical art of combining words in clever or gripping ways.
Most Opposite Pairing: Which odd-couple was the oddest pairing?

I'm kind of late getting this rolling, so you can vote until I start tallying sometime on March 5th.  Best of luck to all participants!  There will be TROPHIES!!!

Sinitrena

This were some very different stories, which always makes it difficult to judge in my opinion. But someone has to vote, right?

Best Character: kconan
Best Plot: kconan It's a simple plot and I more or less guessed the end after the first paragraph, but it was well executed.
Best Atmosphere: Fitz Not a nice atmosphere, rather a dark and disgusting one, but still...
Best Setting: Fitz A very rich world, although I did not particularly like this world, it is certainly there.
Best Word Choice/Style: none - I seriously couldn't decide, sorry.
Most Opposite Pairing: kconan They are polar opposites in everything.

kconan

Best Character: Fitz - The Great Dispensator: Ok there wasn't much exposition, but that's coolest character idea and name I've come across in a while.  I see this guy on a throne saying things like "you are deemed worthy of dispensation!" and "dispense resources to that province!".
Best Plot: Sinitrena - The age old inner struggle/conflict.
Best Atmosphere: Fitz - Confusing in parts, but damned interesting.
Best Setting: Fitz - Strange man, but I dug it.
Best Word Choice/Style: Fitz - The descriptions of the characters were well done
Most Opposite Pairing: Sinitrena

Fitz

Best Character: Almost a tie, but I'd have to say... Sinitrena's Telron. He's such a multi-faceted character, bit by bit we learn something new about him, something that contradicts what we thought of him, and the tension of uncertainty persists till the very end.
Best Plot: I seriously can't tell. The stories were so different but I absolutely loved the endings in both just as much and I honestly can't decide which I loved more: the melancholic, dramatic one or the darkly hysterical one.
Best Atmosphere: Sinitrena. The tension is incredible -- both in the reader's uncertainty of how this will play out and in the interactions. Through most of the story all they do is talk -- but it's a verbal clash of titans.
Best Setting: After some serious consideration... KConan. I have a soft spot for stories of the average blue-collar guy doing something that isn't everyone's dreamjob but has some fascinating lore to it.
Best Word Choice/Style: Sinitrena. I loved the lofty, theatrical language. I'm generally in favor of a more natural language -- but given the fact that this was written in the form of a play, and a historical drama rather than a modern story, I think the language was perfectly stylized (except one instance of using "whatever", maybe).
Most Opposite Pairing: KConan. Frank and Vince's contrasting personalities is what made the story. I just love characters that drive each other crazy -- or odd couples in which one is the reasonable type and the other one is all-out crazy. Your story has both -- and so earns both thumbs up from me.

Oh, and about the Great Dispensator in my story -- the character and the name was inspired by "The Great Masturbator", a painting by Salvador Dali. While the name Dispensator itself doesn't carry very obvious sexual connotations -- because the character is nothing more than a living fuel dispenser -- in terms of biology he's a male counterpart of a queen bee, whose sole purpose is mating, and the way he gathers oil and dispenses fuel is nothing short of pornographic. Also, I didn't imagine him intelligent enough to utter complex phrases -- but I could really see him yelling "FEED!" when he starts dispensing the fuel. A virtual beer to anyone who gets the movie reference.

Baron

....and it's results time!

In first place with six votes is Fitz!  You win the golden odd-couple statue: display it proudly!    As for feedback, I have mixed feelings about your piece.  I'm not really the fan of the graphical sex-scenes, although from a plot perspective I see why they were necessary.  Outside of that, however, I was simply mesmerized by your inventive descriptions and imaginative dystopian future.  The random train of thought/reflection of the main protagonist was insanely brilliant, especially the word-play (Merdor, sushit, pooeblos, good Lard, and on and on....!) and how it drew together all the aspects of the plot.  So a victory well deserved!

Tied for second with five votes each are our regular contributors Sinitrena and kconan, who each get to share a silver odd-couple trophy: .  I liked Sinitrena's theatrical presentation and once again her fantastical imagination in creating a fleshed out fantasy world in so short a story (in this case I'm thinking of the rules governing the nature of demons in particular).  I thought the true Telron and Hamen were rather similar in terms of character, though, but maybe the demon himself was intended to be the antagonist?  Kconan's story for me perfectly evoked the theme of opposites and how the inherent tension between them would play out, and it was a fun read as well.  I was a little disappointed at the lack of conclusive ending, but that's his prerogative.

So overall, I was really impressed.  It's unfortunate that the length of some of the entries seems to have scared off the voter pool, because I think there was some seriously intense and eye-opening writing that deserves a wider audience.

Anyway, great work everybody!  The burden of administering the next competition now falls to Fitz: I look forward to the next topic!  See you all again in the next exciting instalment of....


...The Fortnightly Writing Competition! 



Fitz

Thank you! It's been a pleasure taking part in the competitions next to such fine writers. I enjoyed both pieces so much I almost feel sorry for winning -- but only almost. VICTORY IS MINE! MINE!!! MIIIIINE!!!! (laugh)

;)

Again, thank you! This story felt pretty special to me: my first finished piece in a WHILE, the basic idea for which was stuck in my head for a while, but never took off the ground until now -- taking the story in places I wouldn't have imagined. Probably the creepiest thing I wrote to date. Though I had a period of writing horror fiction only -- I stayed away from naturalism in favor of vivid symbolic imagery. I'm not a fan of gratuitous sex in writing, either, and I usually walk around it. But this time it just felt right, the biological decay and sickness seemed like a natural reflection of the overall condition of the world. I hope the puns -- and the somewhat happy ending -- made up for the dark mood throughout the story. I'm not the gloomiest person alive -- and I take just as much pleasure in writing my own little twisted rom-coms and children's tales. That said, I have more stories in the vein of this one. I had a hard time stopping myself from cramming all the lore about the dystopian world I came up with into this one story -- and I did have my reservations about how it affects the flow of the story. So I'm happy you appreciate the stream-of-consciousness quality of it, Baron.

As for the next contests -- how long do I have to come up with a topic? Also, where do I find a list of topics previously used so that we avoid repetition?

kconan

Quote from: Fitz on Thu 06/03/2014 05:30:33
As for the next contests -- how long do I have to come up with a topic? Also, where do I find a list of topics previously used so that we avoid repetition?

After a couple days of mulling it over post about it in this thread, and then we can tell you if its a new idea.  It is doubtful that you would choose a topic/theme that has already been done.

Fun game and I liked the theme, though wow there really wasn't much participation.  I was in rush myself and barely had time to put something together, as things are super-busy for me until June-ish.

Sinitrena

Quote from: Fitz on Thu 06/03/2014 05:30:33
As for the next contests -- how long do I have to come up with a topic? Also, where do I find a list of topics previously used so that we avoid repetition?

The easiest way to look through former topics is probably to click through all the links in this Hall of Fame post.
Congratulations, Fitz. I can't say I liked the topic of your story, but it was certainly well written and therefore deserved to win.

Fitz

Hey, here's an idea: how about I submit you folks to a torture even greater than reading my unsettling, revolting, nauseating prose? How about YOU write something you're uncomfortable with?  I don't necessarily mean a New Weird/Bizarro prose. How about just any topic you find difficult -- or just not your cup of tea, in any way? Completely uninteresting to you. The polar opposite of your favorite topics. How about a genre that you hate and despise?

Do you guys think that could work? Would allowing parody make it easier -- or should it be a serious effort in order to make it a good challenge. It's definitely not my goal to alienate yet more people, I'm fully satisfied with scarring just the three of you for life ;)

kconan

As far as I know that theme hasn't been done.  Sounds good to me!

Baron

Quote from: Fitz on Thu 06/03/2014 16:59:20
How about YOU write something you're uncomfortable with? How about just any topic you find difficult -- or just not your cup of tea, in any way? Completely uninteresting to you. The polar opposite of your favorite topics. How about a genre that you hate and despise?

I hope you look forward to reading a romance novel....:-* :P ;)

Fitz

Totally! I might actually write one, myself -- outside the contest, of course, just for shits and giggles. That or a court drama.

Fitz

OK, I went ahead and created a new topic for the next Fortnightly. Feel free to lock this one.

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