Waxing and Waning
Sept 13, 2013 8:38:38 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Sept 13, 2013 8:38:38 GMT -5
The Milwaukee Art Museum sits on the coast of Milwaukee Bay in Lake Michigan. Though it is the late summer, a cool breeze flows in off the water, adding a crisp chill to the air. The museum is a monument to modern architecture, twisting skyward and outward in brilliant white as it might take flight if it weren't tethered to the earth by a suspension bridge that connects it to the coastline. Inside, there is only a smattering of foot traffic on a Thursday morning. A few tourists saunter around, snapping photographs with over-sized cameras, whispering to preserve an unrequested hush.
On the main-level, near the bank of elevators that leads to the Mezzanine, two men lean against the wall. One man is visibly older with a horseshoe of hair surrounding his bald spot and smatterings of gray peppered throughout his dark brown hair and ragged stubble. His shirt and shows and worn, dirty and a few sizes too large, much like his thick rimmed glasses. He stands with a hand on his hip, eyes cast downward toward a spot on the tile floor. His janitor's set of keys, dangles lazily from his hip, same as a rag in his back pocket. Across from the old janitor is a younger man with a shock of dirty blond hair that cascades from the center of his head in all directions like an uncoiling of snakes. His bangs hang long over his face and, in the back, his hair falls down to the shoulders of his well-worn black denim jacket. His dress, while not much tidier than the janitor's, is newer and fits better. A white T-shirt hugs his muscular chest, and long navy denim hangs loosely over black combat boots. But the younger man's most striking feature is the large gold-plated belt that hangs lazily around his hips.
Both men remain immobile for a moment, until the younger blond man turns, resting both his shoulders against the wall. As the strands of hair part from his face, Malcolm Drake looks to his left at the unmoving janitor and allows himself a smirk. He slowly reaches out his left arm and hand, and flicks the man in the forehead. There is a thwack of contact, but the man doesn't move.
“They say imitation,” Drake begins, “is the most SINCERE form of flattery. How quaint. What do you think of that?”
Drake turns his head to the fiberglass statue – Duane Hanson's “The Janitor” - as if expecting a response. After a beat he continues.
“A man of few words? I can think of two men who could learn a thing or two from you. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, what does that make a cheap knock-off? A copy of a copy of a copy? A sad pathetic excuse for a replacement? A poor man's replication?”
Drake sneers.
“What does that make Bloodbath and Beyond? YOU two... are the equivalent of a pro wrestling "Folex." You've co-opted what I have worked hard to build and used it for your meaningless little crusade for... what? Against whom? Against... Justice Young? Try not to aim so high. You repackage and toss around MY words and MY actions and you have the AUDACITY to utter MY name in anything but the most hushed and reverent tones? How DARE you?”
Drake pushes himself off the wall, lurching forward.
“YOU,” he says with an emphatic gesticulation, “are the “Fischer-Price” Murder. YOU are “Baby's First” Murder. You're nothing more than cheap plastic and shiny lead paint. Even your name is a joke. Bloodbath and Beyond? Your gimmick infringement knows no bounds, it seems.”
Drake begins pacing in slow, methodical circles. His anxious movement is foiled by the stationary statue behind him.
“Johnny Blayze,” Drake spits out, “You are a fraud. You're a bad impressionist. Right down to the boots.”
Drake's pacing stops dead in his tracks as he stares down at his own black combat boots and scowls. He begins pacing again; the Janitor looks on.
“The Psychotic One? That's adorable. I call myself "Godkiller," but at least I earned it. I didn't pluck it from a nickname generator. I didn't pick up a three-for-one special at the gimmick shop. You prattle on about darkness and fear of the dark... but you forget that I am no stranger to darkness. I didn't STEAL it to make myself more menacing. I was born in it. I was raised by it. And unlike you... I am familiar with what lurks inside it. You TALK about the things that go bump in the night. Those bumps... are my footsteps. THAT is an important lesson for you to learn if you plan on following in them.”
“Take notes, Mr. Blayze. If I allow you to live through Sunday Night at the Turner Ballroom, you can consider this your education. A full seven-year graduate program in what it means to not FUCK with the wrong people. I will condense all that knowledge and pain into a single serving for you... and then BEAT YOUR SKULL IN WITH IT.”
Drake's breaths come hard and heavy through his teeth, like the panting of wild dog.
“People like YOU and Jason Marx and Chris Q like to whine and complain that The Murder hasn't done this or The Murder hasn't done that. The Murder has been Heavyweight champion; The Murder is the Mid-Atlantic tag team champion. Look in the mirror, Mr. Blayze, without The Murder YOU don't exist. Without The Murder... the Usual Suspects, the Shoot Kings, Koolstorm, Bad Attitude, the UK Dragons, the Super Mario Wrestling Bros, Weather... none of them EXIST. None of them have a purpose. I haven't reformed FGA in MY image? OPEN YOUR EYES. Look at the bargain-basement philosophers and false prophets that have sprung to life in my wake. Crows have always circled the Frontier, but now WE own it.”
“I demand no applause or affinity from the mouth-breathing horde, but I do demand RESPECT. Respect is what I have earned. Mr. Blayze and Mr. Chaths make their little jokes about how PRECIOUS these belts are to us. Yes, these belts are precious.”
Drake repeatedly slaps the hard gold-plating around his waist, as he stops pacing.
“These belts are a symbol of what The Murder has accomplished. An indication of our ascension. I value this belt more than I value YOUR lives. So when you say you're coming to take them, whether it be because - deep down in the part of you that you don't want to admit because you're playing “evil” make-believe – you want them or because you actually think you have some statement to make, don't think for one SECOND that I won't do everything in my power to stop you. Don't think there is ANYTHING I want do TO... you. These belts are worth more than your pathetic existence, so if you call them baubles and trinkets, well... then what does that make you?”
“You are fools. You throw your words around as if they weigh nothing, because they don't. Your words are empty. Your insults are juvenile. Your grasp on reality is tentative at best. When you prattle on about how you don't care about titles, it is not because you mean it. It is because while you're hiding in the shadows behind the Hot Topic, your effigies of nothingness lack the substance to keep you warm. The victories you claim are Pyrrhic at best. And your proclamations of my demise and irrelevance... are GREATLY exaggerated.”
Drake's face contorts into a sneer and then a smirk as the emotions dance over his features.
“You call me the false prophet, but my words have weight. What I say... comes true. You don't deserve to look me in the eye, so simply look at this belt and see the Truth in its reflection. See your vast and vapid emptiness in the shine of my accomplishments. See the uselessness of your words. Your quote-unquote “message” has been marked “Return to Sender.” Your quote-unquote “crusade” is lost. Your quote-unquote “cause” was never anything more than the pathetic, attention-starved mewling of insignificant insect and his lap-kitten.”
“Yes... I “created” this self-appointed “Psychotic Savior,” and on Sunday at the Turner Ballroom in Milwaukee... I will KILL him like all the other false gods and prophets that have fallen at my feet.”
"Memen... no.”
Drake abruptly stops his usual sign-off. He pauses a moment before speaking again,
“Shoot Kings. I understand you've made a little name for yourselves by shooting off at the mouth. Be careful where you aim, lest your words backfire. Keep my name off your tongue and your eyes off my throne. There is only one king here, and as I will show Mr. Blayze on Sunday... pretenders are NOT welcome.”
“Memento mori.”
On the main-level, near the bank of elevators that leads to the Mezzanine, two men lean against the wall. One man is visibly older with a horseshoe of hair surrounding his bald spot and smatterings of gray peppered throughout his dark brown hair and ragged stubble. His shirt and shows and worn, dirty and a few sizes too large, much like his thick rimmed glasses. He stands with a hand on his hip, eyes cast downward toward a spot on the tile floor. His janitor's set of keys, dangles lazily from his hip, same as a rag in his back pocket. Across from the old janitor is a younger man with a shock of dirty blond hair that cascades from the center of his head in all directions like an uncoiling of snakes. His bangs hang long over his face and, in the back, his hair falls down to the shoulders of his well-worn black denim jacket. His dress, while not much tidier than the janitor's, is newer and fits better. A white T-shirt hugs his muscular chest, and long navy denim hangs loosely over black combat boots. But the younger man's most striking feature is the large gold-plated belt that hangs lazily around his hips.
Both men remain immobile for a moment, until the younger blond man turns, resting both his shoulders against the wall. As the strands of hair part from his face, Malcolm Drake looks to his left at the unmoving janitor and allows himself a smirk. He slowly reaches out his left arm and hand, and flicks the man in the forehead. There is a thwack of contact, but the man doesn't move.
“They say imitation,” Drake begins, “is the most SINCERE form of flattery. How quaint. What do you think of that?”
Drake turns his head to the fiberglass statue – Duane Hanson's “The Janitor” - as if expecting a response. After a beat he continues.
“A man of few words? I can think of two men who could learn a thing or two from you. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, what does that make a cheap knock-off? A copy of a copy of a copy? A sad pathetic excuse for a replacement? A poor man's replication?”
Drake sneers.
“What does that make Bloodbath and Beyond? YOU two... are the equivalent of a pro wrestling "Folex." You've co-opted what I have worked hard to build and used it for your meaningless little crusade for... what? Against whom? Against... Justice Young? Try not to aim so high. You repackage and toss around MY words and MY actions and you have the AUDACITY to utter MY name in anything but the most hushed and reverent tones? How DARE you?”
Drake pushes himself off the wall, lurching forward.
“YOU,” he says with an emphatic gesticulation, “are the “Fischer-Price” Murder. YOU are “Baby's First” Murder. You're nothing more than cheap plastic and shiny lead paint. Even your name is a joke. Bloodbath and Beyond? Your gimmick infringement knows no bounds, it seems.”
Drake begins pacing in slow, methodical circles. His anxious movement is foiled by the stationary statue behind him.
“Johnny Blayze,” Drake spits out, “You are a fraud. You're a bad impressionist. Right down to the boots.”
Drake's pacing stops dead in his tracks as he stares down at his own black combat boots and scowls. He begins pacing again; the Janitor looks on.
“The Psychotic One? That's adorable. I call myself "Godkiller," but at least I earned it. I didn't pluck it from a nickname generator. I didn't pick up a three-for-one special at the gimmick shop. You prattle on about darkness and fear of the dark... but you forget that I am no stranger to darkness. I didn't STEAL it to make myself more menacing. I was born in it. I was raised by it. And unlike you... I am familiar with what lurks inside it. You TALK about the things that go bump in the night. Those bumps... are my footsteps. THAT is an important lesson for you to learn if you plan on following in them.”
“Take notes, Mr. Blayze. If I allow you to live through Sunday Night at the Turner Ballroom, you can consider this your education. A full seven-year graduate program in what it means to not FUCK with the wrong people. I will condense all that knowledge and pain into a single serving for you... and then BEAT YOUR SKULL IN WITH IT.”
Drake's breaths come hard and heavy through his teeth, like the panting of wild dog.
“People like YOU and Jason Marx and Chris Q like to whine and complain that The Murder hasn't done this or The Murder hasn't done that. The Murder has been Heavyweight champion; The Murder is the Mid-Atlantic tag team champion. Look in the mirror, Mr. Blayze, without The Murder YOU don't exist. Without The Murder... the Usual Suspects, the Shoot Kings, Koolstorm, Bad Attitude, the UK Dragons, the Super Mario Wrestling Bros, Weather... none of them EXIST. None of them have a purpose. I haven't reformed FGA in MY image? OPEN YOUR EYES. Look at the bargain-basement philosophers and false prophets that have sprung to life in my wake. Crows have always circled the Frontier, but now WE own it.”
“I demand no applause or affinity from the mouth-breathing horde, but I do demand RESPECT. Respect is what I have earned. Mr. Blayze and Mr. Chaths make their little jokes about how PRECIOUS these belts are to us. Yes, these belts are precious.”
Drake repeatedly slaps the hard gold-plating around his waist, as he stops pacing.
“These belts are a symbol of what The Murder has accomplished. An indication of our ascension. I value this belt more than I value YOUR lives. So when you say you're coming to take them, whether it be because - deep down in the part of you that you don't want to admit because you're playing “evil” make-believe – you want them or because you actually think you have some statement to make, don't think for one SECOND that I won't do everything in my power to stop you. Don't think there is ANYTHING I want do TO... you. These belts are worth more than your pathetic existence, so if you call them baubles and trinkets, well... then what does that make you?”
“You are fools. You throw your words around as if they weigh nothing, because they don't. Your words are empty. Your insults are juvenile. Your grasp on reality is tentative at best. When you prattle on about how you don't care about titles, it is not because you mean it. It is because while you're hiding in the shadows behind the Hot Topic, your effigies of nothingness lack the substance to keep you warm. The victories you claim are Pyrrhic at best. And your proclamations of my demise and irrelevance... are GREATLY exaggerated.”
Drake's face contorts into a sneer and then a smirk as the emotions dance over his features.
“You call me the false prophet, but my words have weight. What I say... comes true. You don't deserve to look me in the eye, so simply look at this belt and see the Truth in its reflection. See your vast and vapid emptiness in the shine of my accomplishments. See the uselessness of your words. Your quote-unquote “message” has been marked “Return to Sender.” Your quote-unquote “crusade” is lost. Your quote-unquote “cause” was never anything more than the pathetic, attention-starved mewling of insignificant insect and his lap-kitten.”
“Yes... I “created” this self-appointed “Psychotic Savior,” and on Sunday at the Turner Ballroom in Milwaukee... I will KILL him like all the other false gods and prophets that have fallen at my feet.”
"Memen... no.”
Drake abruptly stops his usual sign-off. He pauses a moment before speaking again,
“Shoot Kings. I understand you've made a little name for yourselves by shooting off at the mouth. Be careful where you aim, lest your words backfire. Keep my name off your tongue and your eyes off my throne. There is only one king here, and as I will show Mr. Blayze on Sunday... pretenders are NOT welcome.”
“Memento mori.”