Post by americangrime on Mar 8, 2021 20:07:19 GMT -5
We enter on a cul-de-sac somewhere in America. We can’t be quite sure of where it is-there must be millions of these around the country-but the atmosphere is as similar as one can imagine it would be. Children play out in the circular outcropping of pavement and grass-tag, at the moment, although a pile of disregarded bikes and a loosely-hanging basketball net with a deflated, orange ball nearby tell us that this was not their only errand taken upon today. Joyous laughter and a clearly over-exaggerated screaming fill the air, despite the dusk quickly descending upon them. Streetlights flicker on, dinners rest in the oven, and they realize that their time is close to an end-so what else to do but make the most of it? They burnt out the last of their energy, this last game would be the closest, the fiercest, the most brazen game of tag ever played, blissfully unaware that so many like them have done the same many times over.
Blissfully unaware of the Monolith watching them from a distance, just beyond the trees.
We cut to the view of Euan Hill, who looms in a forest beyond the empty lot at the back of the cul-de-sac, a straight view down the street all-encompassing our vision. Hill is silent. His face is obscured by the plain mask he wears for his entrance, his hair hanging loose over his face to obscure the greater portions of his features. He’s clad in the same rags he wore into the sewer-once blue jeans having faded darkly, a tank-top, a black jacket with a hood pulled tightly over the top of his head. Hill’s eyes scan the perimeter, making sure he’s unseen. This wasn’t a unique occurrence, as Euan had stumbled upon hundreds of these in his travelling from place-to-place, the long walkings he took to discover himself.
Whatever that meant, anyway.
The curious thing, the question that loomed at the edge of whatever threads of sanity remained in the skull of Hill’s, was how such a common occurrence could have never occurred for him. Again, he dug into the depths of his gray matter, seeking memories from a childhood that loomed at the edge of reality, intertwined with hazes of intoxication and violence. Euan Hill had known he was never a good person, even as a child, those behavioral streaks of the outcast in the classroom that brought other parents pause, the one who was usually quiet, scored high marks, but was feared when they finally got loud. The ones who hauled chairs across the room with all of the ferocity of a speeding bullet, who could only take so many insults slung one way before they shouted back, who destroyed that which they got their hands on in order to get the rage out, and, if that didn’t work, found themselves atop their aggressor, pummeling, breaking skull with fist, drawing blood, until the blackout faded.
Many schools, Euan Hill had gone through, before those who cared for him decided perhaps a tutor was a better path.
That, of course, worked.
But still, why did these good memories lack? Truly, even the other Outcasts had friends, had engaged in a game of tag, thrown a ball around. Hill could not draw on these. He could not pull these comparisons, seeming-at least to himself-to have been a Phantom. A walking ghost. Something to be perceived briefly, but not to exist. He wondered, truthfully, if he’d simply destroyed his mind with years of abuse of his vices, blackened the tissue of his brain until it was simply unsalvageable, but the reality was that those feelings would still exist, those emotions, the elation of a knock at the door, a telephone ringing.
They, too, were gone.
Euan Hill gritted his teeth beneath his mask, but was drawn out of his thoughts as something tapped his foot. He looked down, to spot a basketball at his feet. His eyes shifted up, and he saw the children scattering, one notably closer to him than the others, still mid-dribble but, clearly, having fumbled the technique. The child followed the ball with their eyes, before looking up and meeting Euan’s.
They intertwined for a moment.
“Hello?” The child called.
But Euan had already faded into the wood.
-
We enter at a bonfire. Euan Hill stands, once again, alone. Two duffle-bags stand behind him. He looks down upon them, before returning his glance to the camera.
“Sometimes, you must step into wars like this alone. You, TJ, always accompanied by your friends, your…Drip Brethren.” Euan spits the words with venom. “But they will not help you now. They will not save you from the Monolith facing you down, that which casts a shadow over you so dark that it blots out your sun, steals the light from your world. Every challenge you’ve had so far, TJ, it has been a test. You survived Alex Slayer-but haven’t we all? You outlasted the fan favorite, Pat the Postman, and while it was impressive, it was…lacking. Surely, you can throw the same accusations my way, that I’m not good enough, that I don’t deserve this opportunity because I don’t have your recent, nearly immaculate record. Because I don’t have the pedigree. Because I don’t adorn myself in your choice of clothing.
These would all be solid points, presuming I hadn’t earned this opportunity through the evisceration of the many who’d stood in my way. I eliminated them with extreme precision, with all the volatility and venom I could muster. Why, TJ, you ask?
Because it gets me one step closer to you.”
Hill opens one of the duffle bags. He dumps the contents to the ground-some of the swag stolen from the Hip House. He grabs one of the sweatshirts, and holds it up in the air.
“I have never forgotten what you did to me, how you beat me to get to the point you’re at, contributed as much as any other to the downward spiral I found myself set upon, the wretched path I’ve had to walk. Project Honor sees me as a joke. Christian DeMarco has said as much, the commentary team has insulted me again, and again, and again.
I’ve been portrayed as a pawn.
An idiot.
A means to an end.
Used by The Father, used by Lazarus Arjen, I figured I would never find myself going anywhere, never break the monikers thrown my way, the venom spit. Even Legacy, who found themselves saddled with me, thought I was a fool. A mute. Yet, in a way, that insult they paid me helped me to uncover myself, figure some things out. They also offered me a shot at you, and that was worth any semblance of harm they could’ve paid me. They gave me a straight shot to the throat, TJ, and I took it. You had no clue, either-a deer in the headlights, a fresh fawn, unsure of what to do with the barrel of a rifle pointed between its eyes. So consumed by your materialism, the drip, that you didn’t assume I’d blindside you with a fist to the side of your fucking skull.
That sucker punch was all the sweeter knowing how correct it proved I was.”
Euan grabs the duffle, and hauls it into the fire. The bag itself catches fire first, before the clothing therein does the same. He takes the sweatshirt he previously held, and tosses it into the flame, as well.
“Everything we own in this world, TJ, is temporary. The championship around your waist is temporary, only yours so long as there is breath in your lungs, much like the clothing you wear, even the company that you keep. No matter how good or bad a person you are throughout your life, the one thing we all share is that we are all alone when we pass into the next world, and that we all die eventually. It doesn’t matter who surrounds your bed as you pass on, the hands that you hold, when sight and sound fail you, you are truly left alone with your thoughts.
That’s why I choose to keep few material possessions, few tethers to the world that you inhabit, few things to entertain myself with. I need no television with which to occupy my eyes, no games to draw my attention, no music to fill my ears...I draw my entertainment from the same place that I draw my employment. Every fist to every skull is a feeling I cherish, the rearrangement of faces around the knuckles in my hand, the knowledge of the pain I’ve inflicted...it fuels me. Keeps me going. Gets my teeth gritted and my blood pulsing. I could die tomorrow, buried in the rags I’m wearing now, and I would be sated.
This is the path I’ve chosen, and the path you will never understand.”
-
Grass crunches underfoot, still frozen by the early morning air. The path that Euan had chosen to walk upon was not one that was well-kempt, nor was it tread-upon. He cracked his knuckles as the cold bit into him, still wishing to keep the warmth and feeling flowing through them so as to not lose all physical sensation by the time he arrived. He kept his eyes low, avoiding the glances of joggers, dog-walkers, ne’er-do-well teenagers smoking on stumps, keeping away from unaverted eyes. With his feet treading the path, keeping him moving, he eventually found his way to cobble and concrete.
More steps. Desiccated leaves crushed under boots. Euan finds himself in the same clearing as before-but there are no children afoot, no playing. The hustle-and-bustle of some of the houses can be heard from the ground he stands upon. In his sentinel’s posture, he watches fathers leave shelters, briefcases and backpacks tucked under-arm, mothers sending children into the dark to ride busses to schools. Hill searches his memories once again, searches for anything even remotely the same as this.
Again, his dredge finds nothing. He grows frustrated. Restless. He searches for something, and, still, comes up empty. His movements appear to have, once again, alerted something-motion lights in back-yards, dogs barking and snarling in his direction, and once again, that voice, the one who’d shaken his previous observation.
“Hello?”
This time, Euan doesn’t move. He stares at the child, the same from before. The two lock eyes. Euan’s face is still obscured from view, his mask hiding all that he is, a Halloween prop made flesh. He says nothing. The child, from behind fencing, calls out.
“Are you a monster?”
Euan ponders the thought for just a moment, before once again returning to the brush.
We return to the bonfire, where Euan holds the remaining duffle in his hands. He looks down at it.
“But let’s look beyond the materialism, shall we? Let’s look beyond the drip, the clothing you adorn yourself in, the threads that you call home. Let’s look upon you, you of privileged background, you of overflowing glory, you of so much potential, you who has had everything gifted to you since you’ve arrived. Scott Oasis gave you even greater wealth, and even when your own companions have fallen to the wayside, have desired a form of revenge that you could not comprehend in that miniscule skull. You’ve kept your same drive, your same mission, to…spread your drip as much as you can. There are few words to describe you, TJ Thompson.
Fool is probably the best of them.
But you are not a fool without your benefits. I mean, you well enough put away all of your challengers up to this point, in somewhat of an impressive fashion. You can wrestle, somewhat. And most of all...you’re lucky. Exceptionally lucky to boost yourself to win this championship, exceptionally lucky to survive to this point. Surviving a six pack challenge, is, well, challenging in and of itself. It requires strength, perseverance, and luck.
You had it.
But, TJ? Consider me for what I am. An ending to things. A conclusive burst of force.
A bad luck charm.
You can stumble through this world empty headed as long as you want, wherever you want to go, so long as that target around your waist is removed. Unfortunately for you, I’ve finally decided to collect on what I earned, to take what I’ve wanted. Your empty-headedness may save you, here-it’s hard to be concussed without a brain to rattle, but listen deeply when I tell you this, TJ.
All that you are will be tested.
All that you can do will be tried.
And at the end of the day?”
Euan takes the duffle in his hands and hurls it into the fire. It catches. He sneers.
“The meager legacy you’ve built will burn like the clothing you’ve adorned yourself in. Not fireproof, not invulnerable...just foolish. Temporary, as we all are.
Just waiting to die.”
Euan takes a few steps back from the flames, and smiles. It’s a harrowing thing.
“Bring your war-face. Don’t bring your friends. I wouldn’t want them to see their close partner die.”
He fades into the dark.
-
Self discovery is harrowing, especially time after time, when nothing dredges no matter how deep the claw digs.
We enter on Euan Hill in the cul-de-sac one final time. He’s still adorned in his dark, drab dregs of dour leather that he’s adorned himself with in every scene thus far, the mask still affixed to his face. He keeps his eyes low. There are no children in the cul-de-sac now, no bodies to be observed. Night has fallen once again, and Euan keeps himself low to the ground, so as to not irritate the motion-lights and the dogs and the children.
There’s movement beside him. Euan looks to his side to see Aurora Ray, dressed similarly. The two stand quietly for a moment, and then;
“What am I?”
It’s a question that breaks the night-time aura and fills it with silence, overtaking almost everything, overbearing in its nature. Aurora waits a moment, and then answers.
“You are nothing. No permeable change to the folds of reality. No great importance.”
Euan grits his teeth. He says nothing.
“But you can be something.”
Euan hesitates for a moment, and then, he nods.
Cut to black.