Progress
Apr 26, 2013 18:18:50 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Apr 26, 2013 18:18:50 GMT -5
Boston, Massachusetts.
The Avenue is a narrow bar in Allston, a college-heavy neighborhood in Boston, Massachusetts. Located at 1249 Commonwealth Ave, The Avenue is an unassuming spot, frequented predominantly by early-to-mid twenty-somethings that either still attend one of the neighboring universities, or are recent graduates. That crowd, however, tends to only come out at night. Around two in the afternoon on a clear but chilly Spring day, even college students have better places to be.
As such, The Avenue is mostly unoccupied except for a few middle aged patrons at the bar, a scrawny dark-haired busboy, an Amazonian pink-haired bartender with sleeve tattoos, and a lone man off by himself in the back room. Dirty blond hair drapes over the solitary man's face as he sits hunched over a table staring into a half-empty glass of dark beer. As he raises his head, the hair falls back off his face and Malcolm Drake takes a long, deliberate sip from the beer before setting it back down. He glances furtively at the Big Buck Hunter console to his immediate left and sneers.
“Not what you expected, hmmm?”
Drake shifts in his seat a bit, uncomfortable more with his surroundings than with the seat itself.
“How many TIMES do I have to say it: things... and people... aren't always what they appear to be. This... bar... holds a lot of precious memories for me. I used to come here when I was a younger, simpler man and before that my f-f-father used to take me here so that he could enjoy a few brews while junior watched the Red Sox with his little plastic baseball mitt and dreamed of playing left field at Fenway like Mike Greenwell.”
Drake's speaking pace quickens through the final sentence then abruptly halts as he slams a fist off the table and then immediately begins biting down on his knuckles. The other patrons turn at the commotion, staring at the disheveled Drake, gnawing on his hand. Drake stands, knocking his chair down in the process with a loud crash. He drops a ten dollar bill on the table and scurries out the front door, tugging at his hair. Once on Commonwealth Ave, Drake makes a hard turn down a side-street into the small alcove behind the bar where the dumpster sits open and spent cigarette butts litter the ground.
As the cameraman approach, Drake palms the lenses and roughly snatches the camera away, holding it close to his face.
“I was TRYING to celebrate before YOU came along,” he snarls into the lens, “I was celebrating the FACT that after this weekend I will be rid of the nagging,” Drake starts tugging hard at his hair, “annoyance that is Patrick Gordon, Jr. See he doesn't know it yet, but old Paddy won't be walking out of Only the Strong Survive. For too long Patrick. Gordon. Junior. has stood in the way of progress like the blind, stubborn FOOL that he is. But what YOU fail to realize, Junior, is that progress is an unstoppable force... and you are NOT an immovable object. Even with all your little friends at your side to help you, you can't stop the inevitable. You can't stop fate and you can't stop US.”
Drake lifts the camera into the air so the shot looks down his arm and into his face through the tangle of matted hair.
“And that goes... just as well... for all the rest of YOU. This Gold Rush match... it isn't a “rumble.” It's a slaughter. All the pretty lambs are going to march into the ring with their big dream and their big hopes and they're all going to DIE. Every dream with be SHATTERED, every hope will be DASHED and every putrid little soul will be TORTURED. Until all that is left is The Murder. You see... we are already shattered. We are already broken men and tortured souls. We've already survived. Our strength isn't in bluster and false bravado. You won't find us thumping our chests and praising our past accomplishments because all that is, IS A LIE. LAIRS! COWARDS!”
Drake turns and kicks the dumpster, causing a metallic echo throughout the small alley. He brushes some hair off his face.
“That's you, Patrick. I know you. I know you're going to saunter out and talk about how PROUD you are. How STRONG you are. You're going to talk about how this is your homecoming. About how happy you are to be back in Boston. You'll talk about how you're “Boston Strong,” and how Boston is a city of survivors. You'll blather ON AND ON AND ON about perseverance and determination and every other buzz word you can pull from your motivational poster thesaurus. You'll talk about how the city – THIS CITY – made you the man you are today. It made you tough. It made you strong. It made you a survivor. It made you GODDAMN HERO...”
Drake slams his back against the dumpster and slowly slides down until he is sitting on the pavement with his back against the trash.
“But you'll forget one... crucial... detail. This city, it made ME, too... I am every dark corner and every lurking shadow of this place. I am every place where the streetlights flicker and the college kids don't venture. I am as much of this city as any other man or woman alive. Every ounce of strength you THINK you derive from your “homefield advantage” is a MYTH. It is a fabrication in your pathetic little brain. Just like all your hopes and dreams of defeating The Murder are the pathetic little fabrications of a mental midget.”
“You might have FAITH in Bob Pooler, but what good will faith do you? Tag teams always fail because they are an abomination. A temporary construct to get two egomaniacs to work together towards some perceived mutual gain. And you, too, will fail. You will fail because The Murder is not a team united by mutual benefit or gain. We are united by a singularity of HORRIBLE purpose. There are no winners or losers, and no care over who scores a pinfall or who snaps Gordon's neck and who breaks Pooler's legs. There is only the purpose. There is only... The Murder.”
Drake begins to chuckle as he switches the camera from one hand to the other.
“I've said it before, but this Saturday at Boston University it will never be more clear. You either fly... or you die. You're either one of the horrible crows, or your part of our feast. At Only the Strong Survive our dark wings will block out the bright lights and descend with blood and horror upon anyone foolish enough to stand in our way. We will defeat Bob Pooler. We will CRIPPLE Patrick Gordon, Jr. We will fly into the Gold Rush match with the blood fresh on our hands and seize the number one contendership to all power in FGA. We will hurt, we will maim, we will destroy. If you are in our way, you are no longer a person, you are just another victim... You are either The Murder... or you are the victim.”
Drake slowly draws the camera in closer to his face, letting his hair create a thin barrier between him and the lens.
“The darkness descends. Soon our enemies will fall, our brothers will take up wings, and all the power in Frontier Grappling Arts will rest firmly in the grasp of our bloodied talons. Like I said... PROGRESS... is inevitable.
Memento mori.”
The camera drops, bouncing off the pavement with a crack before going to static.
The Avenue is a narrow bar in Allston, a college-heavy neighborhood in Boston, Massachusetts. Located at 1249 Commonwealth Ave, The Avenue is an unassuming spot, frequented predominantly by early-to-mid twenty-somethings that either still attend one of the neighboring universities, or are recent graduates. That crowd, however, tends to only come out at night. Around two in the afternoon on a clear but chilly Spring day, even college students have better places to be.
As such, The Avenue is mostly unoccupied except for a few middle aged patrons at the bar, a scrawny dark-haired busboy, an Amazonian pink-haired bartender with sleeve tattoos, and a lone man off by himself in the back room. Dirty blond hair drapes over the solitary man's face as he sits hunched over a table staring into a half-empty glass of dark beer. As he raises his head, the hair falls back off his face and Malcolm Drake takes a long, deliberate sip from the beer before setting it back down. He glances furtively at the Big Buck Hunter console to his immediate left and sneers.
“Not what you expected, hmmm?”
Drake shifts in his seat a bit, uncomfortable more with his surroundings than with the seat itself.
“How many TIMES do I have to say it: things... and people... aren't always what they appear to be. This... bar... holds a lot of precious memories for me. I used to come here when I was a younger, simpler man and before that my f-f-father used to take me here so that he could enjoy a few brews while junior watched the Red Sox with his little plastic baseball mitt and dreamed of playing left field at Fenway like Mike Greenwell.”
Drake's speaking pace quickens through the final sentence then abruptly halts as he slams a fist off the table and then immediately begins biting down on his knuckles. The other patrons turn at the commotion, staring at the disheveled Drake, gnawing on his hand. Drake stands, knocking his chair down in the process with a loud crash. He drops a ten dollar bill on the table and scurries out the front door, tugging at his hair. Once on Commonwealth Ave, Drake makes a hard turn down a side-street into the small alcove behind the bar where the dumpster sits open and spent cigarette butts litter the ground.
As the cameraman approach, Drake palms the lenses and roughly snatches the camera away, holding it close to his face.
“I was TRYING to celebrate before YOU came along,” he snarls into the lens, “I was celebrating the FACT that after this weekend I will be rid of the nagging,” Drake starts tugging hard at his hair, “annoyance that is Patrick Gordon, Jr. See he doesn't know it yet, but old Paddy won't be walking out of Only the Strong Survive. For too long Patrick. Gordon. Junior. has stood in the way of progress like the blind, stubborn FOOL that he is. But what YOU fail to realize, Junior, is that progress is an unstoppable force... and you are NOT an immovable object. Even with all your little friends at your side to help you, you can't stop the inevitable. You can't stop fate and you can't stop US.”
Drake lifts the camera into the air so the shot looks down his arm and into his face through the tangle of matted hair.
“And that goes... just as well... for all the rest of YOU. This Gold Rush match... it isn't a “rumble.” It's a slaughter. All the pretty lambs are going to march into the ring with their big dream and their big hopes and they're all going to DIE. Every dream with be SHATTERED, every hope will be DASHED and every putrid little soul will be TORTURED. Until all that is left is The Murder. You see... we are already shattered. We are already broken men and tortured souls. We've already survived. Our strength isn't in bluster and false bravado. You won't find us thumping our chests and praising our past accomplishments because all that is, IS A LIE. LAIRS! COWARDS!”
Drake turns and kicks the dumpster, causing a metallic echo throughout the small alley. He brushes some hair off his face.
“That's you, Patrick. I know you. I know you're going to saunter out and talk about how PROUD you are. How STRONG you are. You're going to talk about how this is your homecoming. About how happy you are to be back in Boston. You'll talk about how you're “Boston Strong,” and how Boston is a city of survivors. You'll blather ON AND ON AND ON about perseverance and determination and every other buzz word you can pull from your motivational poster thesaurus. You'll talk about how the city – THIS CITY – made you the man you are today. It made you tough. It made you strong. It made you a survivor. It made you GODDAMN HERO...”
Drake slams his back against the dumpster and slowly slides down until he is sitting on the pavement with his back against the trash.
“But you'll forget one... crucial... detail. This city, it made ME, too... I am every dark corner and every lurking shadow of this place. I am every place where the streetlights flicker and the college kids don't venture. I am as much of this city as any other man or woman alive. Every ounce of strength you THINK you derive from your “homefield advantage” is a MYTH. It is a fabrication in your pathetic little brain. Just like all your hopes and dreams of defeating The Murder are the pathetic little fabrications of a mental midget.”
“You might have FAITH in Bob Pooler, but what good will faith do you? Tag teams always fail because they are an abomination. A temporary construct to get two egomaniacs to work together towards some perceived mutual gain. And you, too, will fail. You will fail because The Murder is not a team united by mutual benefit or gain. We are united by a singularity of HORRIBLE purpose. There are no winners or losers, and no care over who scores a pinfall or who snaps Gordon's neck and who breaks Pooler's legs. There is only the purpose. There is only... The Murder.”
Drake begins to chuckle as he switches the camera from one hand to the other.
“I've said it before, but this Saturday at Boston University it will never be more clear. You either fly... or you die. You're either one of the horrible crows, or your part of our feast. At Only the Strong Survive our dark wings will block out the bright lights and descend with blood and horror upon anyone foolish enough to stand in our way. We will defeat Bob Pooler. We will CRIPPLE Patrick Gordon, Jr. We will fly into the Gold Rush match with the blood fresh on our hands and seize the number one contendership to all power in FGA. We will hurt, we will maim, we will destroy. If you are in our way, you are no longer a person, you are just another victim... You are either The Murder... or you are the victim.”
Drake slowly draws the camera in closer to his face, letting his hair create a thin barrier between him and the lens.
“The darkness descends. Soon our enemies will fall, our brothers will take up wings, and all the power in Frontier Grappling Arts will rest firmly in the grasp of our bloodied talons. Like I said... PROGRESS... is inevitable.
Memento mori.”
The camera drops, bouncing off the pavement with a crack before going to static.