A Dream Within A Dream
Apr 17, 2013 22:32:40 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Apr 17, 2013 22:32:40 GMT -5
Thompson Park. Monroe Township, New Jersey.
The cold doldrums of winter have finally receded and seem more and more a distant memory as the sun shines brightly over Thompson Park in Monroe, New Jersey. The clouds in the sky are sparse and non-threatening. For the first time in a long time, birds are chirping and the weather is calm and warm. A light wind ruffles the budding bushes and flowers at the edge of the trees in a dark grove of the park.
Tucked away in this grove is a small brick building. The building is nondescript save for the vegetation growing up the sides and the faded wooden sign above the front that reads “Funhouse.” Inside the Funhouse, leaves and dirt from the outside have blown in through the open front door. The fluorescent overhead lights shine and hum, illuminating a long corridor of mirrors that bend and twist, convex and concave. The mirrors appear normal at first until the distorted shape of a man emerges from the side and takes the center of all of them at once. The corridor is filled with the twisting and misshapen reflection of his man in a black hooded sweatshirt and ripped, baggy jeans. The man's long blond hair sags over his lowered head, obscuring his face.
“Nothing,” the man says in a croak, “...is ever quite what it seems to be. All that we SEE or SEEM is but a dream... within a dream. Perception is a distortion of reality. Everything is a reflection of a reflection of a reflection of the truth. A copy of a copy. Turtles all the way down. Hmmm.”
The man flicks his hair back off his face, revealing the scowling visage of Malcolm Drake. Drake chews on the inside of his cheek before continuing.
“FORGET what you THINK you KNOW,” Drake says emphatically gesticulating at his own multiplicative reflections in the mirrors, “because what you think you know is bullshit. You sit there and you think you know ME? You think you UNDERSTAND me? Your miniscule brains don't contain enough cells or synapses to even BEGIN to comprehend... all... that is Malcolm Drake. You sit there and you think you see me. You see but a mere reflection. A distortion of the truth. And in your ignorance and naivety you take it as reality. You lose the forest for the trees. You lose the Murder... for the Crow.”
Drake's reflection reaches out and rests it's hands on the mirror, creating a London Bridge-like effect along the corridor with the mirrors repeating the same image in copy.
“You see a man whose total wins match his total loses and you see someone who you don't perceive as a threat. You see mediocrity,” Drake chuckles low and soft, “I am ALWAYS a threat. I am always THE threat. I am the dark-winged devil that haunts the nightmares of Frontier Grappling Arts. I am the man that strikes fear in the hearts of men that claim to have neither fear nor hearts. I am FGA's destruction and its resurrection, personified as one.”
“You see a man on a downward spiral, but let me ask you this... if everything is slipping away from Malcolm Drake and the Murder how is it that everything... is falling right into place? You don't see it yet, do you? Hmmm. Who is in the spotlight in this week's Main Event? The Murder. Who has systematically destroyed anyone who has come in our path and erected the perfect altar on which to sacrifice and feast on Patrick. Gordon. Junior? The Murder. Who is double-booked at Only The Strong Survive? Who has a chance to completely annihilate their foes AND secure a number one contendership for the FGA Championship?”
Drake smirks.
“The Murder.”
Without warning, Drake hauls back and slams his left fist square into the center of the Funhouse mirror, shattering the pane of glass. Reflections of glass shards cascade the ground. In the distance the sound of them hitting the floor echoes. Nothing but an empty reflection of a shattered pane of glass remains. Then the lights flicker and go out. The only remaining light is from a distant EXIT sign around the corner, that bathes the corridor in dim, red light. Gingerly and slowly, the cameraman enters the Funhouse. As he rounds the first corner to his left, Malcolm Drake now sits with his face buried between his knees. His right hand hugs them close to his face, while his left sits in a slowly gathering pool of blood draining from his knuckles onto the hard floor.
“I don't want to go in, Daddy. Daddy, I'm SCARED!”
Drake pulls his head out of his knees with a violent toss of his hair. He sniffs hard, drawing mucous back into his nostrils and a slim stream of tears cuts across his face.
“But daddy never listened... YOU never listen to me. And that's why you don't understand. Do you think I WANTED Kevin Hardaway's Pride championship? You do? Then pray tell, genius, why did I spend my entire time in that pathetic tournament belittling the trinket? Why did I go out of my way focusing on hurting and maiming my opponents instead of trying to stick to the pedantic rules? Simple. Because I don't care about baubles or trinkets titles. I care... about POWER. I have sacrificed my meaningless record in FGA to align the chess board in my favor. You think the Murder has lost ground? You've fallen into the trap, and it is too late now to extricate yourself from our talons.”
Drake reaches out with an open hand and slowly closes it before letting it fall back to his side.
“And the first piece of our puzzle... hmmm... is precious little Cami Magna. Precious little Cami with the pretty face and pretty hair and the pretty eyes and the pretty teeth. Precious little Cami who doesn't notice the horrible crows circling overhead. Precious Cami... whose pretty little FACE I plan to mutilate. Precious Cami whose pretty hair I plan to RIP from her SCALP, handful by handful. Precious Cami whose pretty eyes I will GOUGE from their sockets. Precious Cami whose pretty teeth I will SHATTER and shove down her pretty little throat before I wrap my hands around it and STRANGLE the life out of PRECIOUS... LITTLE... CAMI!”
Drake starts pantomiming the strangulation, his arms violently trembling as his fingers close around the imaginary throat in front of him. He finally stops, heaving in breaths from the intense full-body tremor. Drake's voice drops from shouting to barely above a whisper.
“I want to feel my fist on your soft white flesh, Cami. Dearest... I want to smell the blood oozing from your open wounds. I want to lick it off my fingers and taste the life leaking out of you. I want to see the pain in your eyes as I blow the auburn clumps that were once attached to your head out of my balled fist. I want to see... the look of sheer, unfiltered TERROR in your eyes as I'm on top of you. Controlling you. Torturing... you. I want to feel you squirm beneath me and I want to feel you struggle with every ounce of your strength and every fiber of your being. And I want to look you in those pretty little eyes when the realization washes over you...”
“...there's nothing you can do. You can't escape. You're trapped. You. Are. Mine.”
Drake pauses for a long moment.
“I want to see the horror in your eyes and I want to hear you beg and plead and scream for mercy that deep down in your barely-still-beating heart you know will never come. You see, Precious Cami, I don't want to defeat you. I want to destroy every last bit of you from the inside out. You... are everything I am not. Beautiful. Wealthy. Cultured. Beloved. And I fucking HATE YOU... for that. For every good fortune you've had in your life, I will torture your soul. For every silver spoon you've licked, I will break your bones. For every time you've turned up your pretty little nose and looked down on SCUM LIKE ME... I will DEFILE you to your very core.”
Drake lets his words trail off before delicately raising his bloodied hand and indicating the shattered mirror in front of him.
“Mirrors show us our reflections, but they never show us the truth. You can comfort yourself that knowing in time your bruises may fade. In time your bones might heal. And in time you might look in the mirror and see the same old pretty face that you saw before you stepped into the ring with Malcolm Drake. But that won't be the truth. Every time your brush your hair and feel the tug of a snarl you'll panic, thinking it's my fingers pulling. Behind every smile will be the remembrance of the agony I put you through. Behind the eyes will be... me. Smirking. And you'll never... ever... be able to look at yourself the same again. Because make no mistake about it, Precious; this isn't a match...”
“...it's a sacrifice... Memento mori.”
Drake runs the bloodied hand through his hair, leaving a crimson streak through the blond mess. The cameraman backs slowly away, shattered glass crunching under foot. Drake's head sinks back between his knees, and he begins rocking back and forth. As the cameraman turns to exit the faintest sounds of “Rockaby Baby” can be heard in Drake's ragged voice as the scene fades to black.
The cold doldrums of winter have finally receded and seem more and more a distant memory as the sun shines brightly over Thompson Park in Monroe, New Jersey. The clouds in the sky are sparse and non-threatening. For the first time in a long time, birds are chirping and the weather is calm and warm. A light wind ruffles the budding bushes and flowers at the edge of the trees in a dark grove of the park.
Tucked away in this grove is a small brick building. The building is nondescript save for the vegetation growing up the sides and the faded wooden sign above the front that reads “Funhouse.” Inside the Funhouse, leaves and dirt from the outside have blown in through the open front door. The fluorescent overhead lights shine and hum, illuminating a long corridor of mirrors that bend and twist, convex and concave. The mirrors appear normal at first until the distorted shape of a man emerges from the side and takes the center of all of them at once. The corridor is filled with the twisting and misshapen reflection of his man in a black hooded sweatshirt and ripped, baggy jeans. The man's long blond hair sags over his lowered head, obscuring his face.
“Nothing,” the man says in a croak, “...is ever quite what it seems to be. All that we SEE or SEEM is but a dream... within a dream. Perception is a distortion of reality. Everything is a reflection of a reflection of a reflection of the truth. A copy of a copy. Turtles all the way down. Hmmm.”
The man flicks his hair back off his face, revealing the scowling visage of Malcolm Drake. Drake chews on the inside of his cheek before continuing.
“FORGET what you THINK you KNOW,” Drake says emphatically gesticulating at his own multiplicative reflections in the mirrors, “because what you think you know is bullshit. You sit there and you think you know ME? You think you UNDERSTAND me? Your miniscule brains don't contain enough cells or synapses to even BEGIN to comprehend... all... that is Malcolm Drake. You sit there and you think you see me. You see but a mere reflection. A distortion of the truth. And in your ignorance and naivety you take it as reality. You lose the forest for the trees. You lose the Murder... for the Crow.”
Drake's reflection reaches out and rests it's hands on the mirror, creating a London Bridge-like effect along the corridor with the mirrors repeating the same image in copy.
“You see a man whose total wins match his total loses and you see someone who you don't perceive as a threat. You see mediocrity,” Drake chuckles low and soft, “I am ALWAYS a threat. I am always THE threat. I am the dark-winged devil that haunts the nightmares of Frontier Grappling Arts. I am the man that strikes fear in the hearts of men that claim to have neither fear nor hearts. I am FGA's destruction and its resurrection, personified as one.”
“You see a man on a downward spiral, but let me ask you this... if everything is slipping away from Malcolm Drake and the Murder how is it that everything... is falling right into place? You don't see it yet, do you? Hmmm. Who is in the spotlight in this week's Main Event? The Murder. Who has systematically destroyed anyone who has come in our path and erected the perfect altar on which to sacrifice and feast on Patrick. Gordon. Junior? The Murder. Who is double-booked at Only The Strong Survive? Who has a chance to completely annihilate their foes AND secure a number one contendership for the FGA Championship?”
Drake smirks.
“The Murder.”
Without warning, Drake hauls back and slams his left fist square into the center of the Funhouse mirror, shattering the pane of glass. Reflections of glass shards cascade the ground. In the distance the sound of them hitting the floor echoes. Nothing but an empty reflection of a shattered pane of glass remains. Then the lights flicker and go out. The only remaining light is from a distant EXIT sign around the corner, that bathes the corridor in dim, red light. Gingerly and slowly, the cameraman enters the Funhouse. As he rounds the first corner to his left, Malcolm Drake now sits with his face buried between his knees. His right hand hugs them close to his face, while his left sits in a slowly gathering pool of blood draining from his knuckles onto the hard floor.
“I don't want to go in, Daddy. Daddy, I'm SCARED!”
Drake pulls his head out of his knees with a violent toss of his hair. He sniffs hard, drawing mucous back into his nostrils and a slim stream of tears cuts across his face.
“But daddy never listened... YOU never listen to me. And that's why you don't understand. Do you think I WANTED Kevin Hardaway's Pride championship? You do? Then pray tell, genius, why did I spend my entire time in that pathetic tournament belittling the trinket? Why did I go out of my way focusing on hurting and maiming my opponents instead of trying to stick to the pedantic rules? Simple. Because I don't care about baubles or trinkets titles. I care... about POWER. I have sacrificed my meaningless record in FGA to align the chess board in my favor. You think the Murder has lost ground? You've fallen into the trap, and it is too late now to extricate yourself from our talons.”
Drake reaches out with an open hand and slowly closes it before letting it fall back to his side.
“And the first piece of our puzzle... hmmm... is precious little Cami Magna. Precious little Cami with the pretty face and pretty hair and the pretty eyes and the pretty teeth. Precious little Cami who doesn't notice the horrible crows circling overhead. Precious Cami... whose pretty little FACE I plan to mutilate. Precious Cami whose pretty hair I plan to RIP from her SCALP, handful by handful. Precious Cami whose pretty eyes I will GOUGE from their sockets. Precious Cami whose pretty teeth I will SHATTER and shove down her pretty little throat before I wrap my hands around it and STRANGLE the life out of PRECIOUS... LITTLE... CAMI!”
Drake starts pantomiming the strangulation, his arms violently trembling as his fingers close around the imaginary throat in front of him. He finally stops, heaving in breaths from the intense full-body tremor. Drake's voice drops from shouting to barely above a whisper.
“I want to feel my fist on your soft white flesh, Cami. Dearest... I want to smell the blood oozing from your open wounds. I want to lick it off my fingers and taste the life leaking out of you. I want to see the pain in your eyes as I blow the auburn clumps that were once attached to your head out of my balled fist. I want to see... the look of sheer, unfiltered TERROR in your eyes as I'm on top of you. Controlling you. Torturing... you. I want to feel you squirm beneath me and I want to feel you struggle with every ounce of your strength and every fiber of your being. And I want to look you in those pretty little eyes when the realization washes over you...”
“...there's nothing you can do. You can't escape. You're trapped. You. Are. Mine.”
Drake pauses for a long moment.
“I want to see the horror in your eyes and I want to hear you beg and plead and scream for mercy that deep down in your barely-still-beating heart you know will never come. You see, Precious Cami, I don't want to defeat you. I want to destroy every last bit of you from the inside out. You... are everything I am not. Beautiful. Wealthy. Cultured. Beloved. And I fucking HATE YOU... for that. For every good fortune you've had in your life, I will torture your soul. For every silver spoon you've licked, I will break your bones. For every time you've turned up your pretty little nose and looked down on SCUM LIKE ME... I will DEFILE you to your very core.”
Drake lets his words trail off before delicately raising his bloodied hand and indicating the shattered mirror in front of him.
“Mirrors show us our reflections, but they never show us the truth. You can comfort yourself that knowing in time your bruises may fade. In time your bones might heal. And in time you might look in the mirror and see the same old pretty face that you saw before you stepped into the ring with Malcolm Drake. But that won't be the truth. Every time your brush your hair and feel the tug of a snarl you'll panic, thinking it's my fingers pulling. Behind every smile will be the remembrance of the agony I put you through. Behind the eyes will be... me. Smirking. And you'll never... ever... be able to look at yourself the same again. Because make no mistake about it, Precious; this isn't a match...”
“...it's a sacrifice... Memento mori.”
Drake runs the bloodied hand through his hair, leaving a crimson streak through the blond mess. The cameraman backs slowly away, shattered glass crunching under foot. Drake's head sinks back between his knees, and he begins rocking back and forth. As the cameraman turns to exit the faintest sounds of “Rockaby Baby” can be heard in Drake's ragged voice as the scene fades to black.