Post by MURDERHOUSE on Jan 12, 2013 11:06:11 GMT -6
(We're really glad we saw Caleb's interview, and heard his words. after all, a good guy like him we don't want to see hurt, right? That's not why we tune in week after week, and it's why we were shocked when Caleb got broken in half by those lunatics. We were, weren't we?
His words and his 'time' ends, so we should be going to commercial. But we don't. Yet again, we see that it's changed to static, but we don't try to fix the TV this time. Because we have a good feeling we know who this is...
And it is. It switches from static to darkness this time, but there's no familiar green tint or lighting. Instead, there's only blackness and the rustling of wild, erratic movement. What's that being picked up? It sounds like wind, overloading and drowning the cheap microphone. But not so loud, that it drowns out that all familiar voice that we hear. While he talks, it becomes more apparant that he's moving, sounds slightly out of breath. Is he walking? Running? Hiking? He's doing something.)
Mick: High flyers. Chinese acrobats and f(bleep!)ing circus acts. You guys are all over the place these days, aren't you? I swear, one coked out primadonna starts throwing superkicks and doing moonsaults in the '80s and '90s, and all of a sudden everyone else wants to follow the leader. And you say guys like us try to top ourselves? This, coming from Mr. "Future of High Flying"? The guy who's done things with his ring that I've never seen before? The Master of f(bleep!)ing Gravity?
(Mick chuckles, a chuckle that sounds like it's utterly devoid of humor.)
Mick: Well, that didn't help you against a couple of autistics who think a poofy hammer-wielding superhero is real, did it? And it didn't help you on New Year's day. Strike a nerve, 'Caleb'? You got me cryin' over here, pal, and I'll get you a nice wreath to put on the gash's grave. But this ain't Degrassi: The Wrestling Years, and I ain't gonna let up on you when you get all weepy, remembering what she used to do with her pink little tongue. Are you ready to compete? It's an honest question. Are you ready to step into that ring and get your teeth pulled out of your mouth? You didn't look ready at Mindgames. Are you ready after playing nanny to the nutcase, there? You call -me- Goliath, but but you must be G(bleep)damn Samson for lifting all that dead weight around, for juggling all those Delilahs tugging at your hair. Well don't worry, a(bleep)hole.
(We very suddenly hear a heavy door screeching open, and immediately slamming shut. We are finally, -finally- treated to that sickening, eerie green glow bathing the rest of that room, and showing us the hockey masked, menacing visage of MURDERHOUSE Mick staring unblinkingly at us. There's an almost sick glint in those eyes as he holds up a dirty, rusty looking pair of scissors. It's probably just symbolic...probably.)
Mick: I can fix that. See you at Trauma.
(He snips the scissors once or twice, letting that subtle swish of metal fill our ears before he twists his grip on it and plunges it off-camera in a vicious, stabbing motion. The world is then a sickeningly blurry mess as Mick hunts for the 'off' button and we're treated to static again. It's finally over.)
His words and his 'time' ends, so we should be going to commercial. But we don't. Yet again, we see that it's changed to static, but we don't try to fix the TV this time. Because we have a good feeling we know who this is...
And it is. It switches from static to darkness this time, but there's no familiar green tint or lighting. Instead, there's only blackness and the rustling of wild, erratic movement. What's that being picked up? It sounds like wind, overloading and drowning the cheap microphone. But not so loud, that it drowns out that all familiar voice that we hear. While he talks, it becomes more apparant that he's moving, sounds slightly out of breath. Is he walking? Running? Hiking? He's doing something.)
Mick: High flyers. Chinese acrobats and f(bleep!)ing circus acts. You guys are all over the place these days, aren't you? I swear, one coked out primadonna starts throwing superkicks and doing moonsaults in the '80s and '90s, and all of a sudden everyone else wants to follow the leader. And you say guys like us try to top ourselves? This, coming from Mr. "Future of High Flying"? The guy who's done things with his ring that I've never seen before? The Master of f(bleep!)ing Gravity?
(Mick chuckles, a chuckle that sounds like it's utterly devoid of humor.)
Mick: Well, that didn't help you against a couple of autistics who think a poofy hammer-wielding superhero is real, did it? And it didn't help you on New Year's day. Strike a nerve, 'Caleb'? You got me cryin' over here, pal, and I'll get you a nice wreath to put on the gash's grave. But this ain't Degrassi: The Wrestling Years, and I ain't gonna let up on you when you get all weepy, remembering what she used to do with her pink little tongue. Are you ready to compete? It's an honest question. Are you ready to step into that ring and get your teeth pulled out of your mouth? You didn't look ready at Mindgames. Are you ready after playing nanny to the nutcase, there? You call -me- Goliath, but but you must be G(bleep)damn Samson for lifting all that dead weight around, for juggling all those Delilahs tugging at your hair. Well don't worry, a(bleep)hole.
(We very suddenly hear a heavy door screeching open, and immediately slamming shut. We are finally, -finally- treated to that sickening, eerie green glow bathing the rest of that room, and showing us the hockey masked, menacing visage of MURDERHOUSE Mick staring unblinkingly at us. There's an almost sick glint in those eyes as he holds up a dirty, rusty looking pair of scissors. It's probably just symbolic...probably.)
Mick: I can fix that. See you at Trauma.
(He snips the scissors once or twice, letting that subtle swish of metal fill our ears before he twists his grip on it and plunges it off-camera in a vicious, stabbing motion. The world is then a sickeningly blurry mess as Mick hunts for the 'off' button and we're treated to static again. It's finally over.)