Irish Wake
Mar 7, 2013 19:41:26 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Mar 7, 2013 19:41:26 GMT -5
A light snow falls over the parking lot of the Mississauga International Centre in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. A thin cover of thick, wet whiteness coats the pavement save for the stray tire tracks and footprints that cut through the blank canvas. The few cars that remain in the lot of adopted a similar coating. Emerging from between two of the cars is a man in oversized black ski jacket, with a hood pulled up over his head and brow. Black combat boots slosh through the slushy snow underfoot. The man moves into the half-lit space behind a lamp post and leans his back against.
“Well, well, well,” the man says, as a slim sneer cuts across his face, “It looks like you've FINALLY gotten what you've been BEGGING for all these months, Patrick. Hmmm. How does that old, old saying go? Be careful... what you wish for...”
The man raises a pair of gloved hands and pulls back the hood from over his face. Through the limp hanging strands of matted hair, the features of Malcolm Drake's face are revealed.
“... you just might get it.”
Drake smirks, then sneers, then spits into the snow.
“There's always someone like you, isn't there? There's always someone impeding progress; someone afraid of change; someone... in the way. And that's all you, Mr. Gordon. You're no one's hero. Even though you may very well DIE, you'll be no one's martyr. You're an obstacle. No one will mourn you. No one will save you. No one will care when I remove you. For the blustering you've done over these past months while I've slowly but surely eliminated your entire support system, your entire infrastructure of cronies and friends, you've accomplished exactly nothing. You've regressed, while The Murder has advanced.”
As if on cue a crow caws loudly as it flies by overhead.
“You swore to stop us. You haven't. You swore you'd avenge your fallen friends. You couldn't. You'll swear up and down how you're doing to defeat ME and make ME pay... but you won't. You'll fail, Patrick. And you'll fail for the simple, inevitable and unavoidable TRUTH that progress is inevitable. The Murder is the unstoppable force, and you're just a very, very movable object.”
“And while you pounded your fist and cursed my name, what did I do? I destroyed your the girl who friend-zoned you, Akrista O'Hare. I ended the career of a god in Alistair Mangold. I drove the great Leon Corella into retirement. Oops. Did I just break the fourth wall? Well, just add that to the list of meaningless OBSTACLES I've left in my wake. Soon Pat Gordon Jr. will be added to list of once illustrious names that shouldn't have crossed the Head Crow of the Murder.”
Drake wipes the snot of a runny nose on the back of his sleeve.
“So what exactly do you plan to do on Saturday night, Patrick? Fight me? Step into the ring and try to go out with a hero's death? Hmmm. I don't think I'll let you. I think I'll make you scream. Make you beg. Make you pray for it all to end. Then, and only then, after I have broken physically, mentally, spiritually and emotionally... only after I've destroyed Patrick Gordon Jr as a man and as a symbol, only then will I finish what I start all those months ago.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Gordon, you're about to finally get that Irish wake you've been chasing after. Memento... mori.”
“Well, well, well,” the man says, as a slim sneer cuts across his face, “It looks like you've FINALLY gotten what you've been BEGGING for all these months, Patrick. Hmmm. How does that old, old saying go? Be careful... what you wish for...”
The man raises a pair of gloved hands and pulls back the hood from over his face. Through the limp hanging strands of matted hair, the features of Malcolm Drake's face are revealed.
“... you just might get it.”
Drake smirks, then sneers, then spits into the snow.
“There's always someone like you, isn't there? There's always someone impeding progress; someone afraid of change; someone... in the way. And that's all you, Mr. Gordon. You're no one's hero. Even though you may very well DIE, you'll be no one's martyr. You're an obstacle. No one will mourn you. No one will save you. No one will care when I remove you. For the blustering you've done over these past months while I've slowly but surely eliminated your entire support system, your entire infrastructure of cronies and friends, you've accomplished exactly nothing. You've regressed, while The Murder has advanced.”
As if on cue a crow caws loudly as it flies by overhead.
“You swore to stop us. You haven't. You swore you'd avenge your fallen friends. You couldn't. You'll swear up and down how you're doing to defeat ME and make ME pay... but you won't. You'll fail, Patrick. And you'll fail for the simple, inevitable and unavoidable TRUTH that progress is inevitable. The Murder is the unstoppable force, and you're just a very, very movable object.”
“And while you pounded your fist and cursed my name, what did I do? I destroyed your the girl who friend-zoned you, Akrista O'Hare. I ended the career of a god in Alistair Mangold. I drove the great Leon Corella into retirement. Oops. Did I just break the fourth wall? Well, just add that to the list of meaningless OBSTACLES I've left in my wake. Soon Pat Gordon Jr. will be added to list of once illustrious names that shouldn't have crossed the Head Crow of the Murder.”
Drake wipes the snot of a runny nose on the back of his sleeve.
“So what exactly do you plan to do on Saturday night, Patrick? Fight me? Step into the ring and try to go out with a hero's death? Hmmm. I don't think I'll let you. I think I'll make you scream. Make you beg. Make you pray for it all to end. Then, and only then, after I have broken physically, mentally, spiritually and emotionally... only after I've destroyed Patrick Gordon Jr as a man and as a symbol, only then will I finish what I start all those months ago.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Gordon, you're about to finally get that Irish wake you've been chasing after. Memento... mori.”