Post by MURDERHOUSE on Dec 26, 2012 23:12:53 GMT -6
(What were you watching? It doesn't matter, because it cuts out and is replaced by static. Maybe you thought that impossible in this day and age, but there it is. And just when you think this is some sort of mistake, it cuts out again, and we're greeted with blackness and the sound of wind and movement almost deafening the crummy microphones one would expect from a cheap, hand-held cam.
In fact, now that we recognize what we're seeing, it becomes obvious. The shaky movements, the way the entire world jerks violently with every idle hand twitch, the way everything looks almost impossibly grainy. Maybe that's why we're still not sure what we're looking at, especially not in the dark, black room. We see sharp corners, defined edges, but we don't know anything about this place other than the fact that it's a room. What are we listening to? Have we been hearing it the entire time? Why do we notice it just now, and not earlier?
Wait a minute, we've heard that before, it's the sound of breathing...heavy breathing. And soon, the person breathing and presumably the one working the camera has some words for us. His voice is soft, almost a natural sort of whisper that of course we can't help but hear, thanks in no small part to the poor quality of those microphones.)
Voice: New...Championship...Wrestling. What a f(bleep)ing honor to be amongst you guys. Well, I suppose I should introduce myself. I'm Mick, and I wrestle for a living. And I'll admit, it's not an easy job. While Lance Ryan was slapfighting with Davey Ortega in O Seven, I was brawling on a navy ship for a hundred and twenty two minutes for two hundred bucks which barely bought me a box of f(bleep)ing band-aids. While poor little Zelda Knite was getting her important Gash Title vacated, I was being hung by a noose, made of sodding barbwire. Believe me that was fun, but don't worry I got him back. Those poor ladders...but I'm rambling. I'm sorry about that, first impressions and all. I'll keep it brief, I promise. Just know this, boys and girls:
(Finally, he hits a button on the camera, and the light shines on a nail hammered into a gray brick wall. Hanging from that nail is a hockey mask, looking dusty and worn out, the paintjob having dulled so that it's looking less white and more like slowly rotting bones. This isn't helped by the cockroach the size of a Buick skittering at the light, antenna going this way and that as it blitzes for the shadows. Our view shakes and wobbles as this 'Mick' character reaches out with his left arm, grabbing the side of it and bringing it a little closer to our viewpoint...)
Mick: I'm comin' to the NCW, and all of you kiddies playin' tea party better pay f(bleep)ing attention. 'Cause I don't really play nice with others. Now go ahead, keep watchin' your Ameri-K-K-Kan Idol or whatever, merry Kwanza.
(He fumbles on the side for a few moments, and the transmission suddenly cuts out, and we're brought back to whatever it is we were enjoying before being so rudely interrupted...)
In fact, now that we recognize what we're seeing, it becomes obvious. The shaky movements, the way the entire world jerks violently with every idle hand twitch, the way everything looks almost impossibly grainy. Maybe that's why we're still not sure what we're looking at, especially not in the dark, black room. We see sharp corners, defined edges, but we don't know anything about this place other than the fact that it's a room. What are we listening to? Have we been hearing it the entire time? Why do we notice it just now, and not earlier?
Wait a minute, we've heard that before, it's the sound of breathing...heavy breathing. And soon, the person breathing and presumably the one working the camera has some words for us. His voice is soft, almost a natural sort of whisper that of course we can't help but hear, thanks in no small part to the poor quality of those microphones.)
Voice: New...Championship...Wrestling. What a f(bleep)ing honor to be amongst you guys. Well, I suppose I should introduce myself. I'm Mick, and I wrestle for a living. And I'll admit, it's not an easy job. While Lance Ryan was slapfighting with Davey Ortega in O Seven, I was brawling on a navy ship for a hundred and twenty two minutes for two hundred bucks which barely bought me a box of f(bleep)ing band-aids. While poor little Zelda Knite was getting her important Gash Title vacated, I was being hung by a noose, made of sodding barbwire. Believe me that was fun, but don't worry I got him back. Those poor ladders...but I'm rambling. I'm sorry about that, first impressions and all. I'll keep it brief, I promise. Just know this, boys and girls:
(Finally, he hits a button on the camera, and the light shines on a nail hammered into a gray brick wall. Hanging from that nail is a hockey mask, looking dusty and worn out, the paintjob having dulled so that it's looking less white and more like slowly rotting bones. This isn't helped by the cockroach the size of a Buick skittering at the light, antenna going this way and that as it blitzes for the shadows. Our view shakes and wobbles as this 'Mick' character reaches out with his left arm, grabbing the side of it and bringing it a little closer to our viewpoint...)
Mick: I'm comin' to the NCW, and all of you kiddies playin' tea party better pay f(bleep)ing attention. 'Cause I don't really play nice with others. Now go ahead, keep watchin' your Ameri-K-K-Kan Idol or whatever, merry Kwanza.
(He fumbles on the side for a few moments, and the transmission suddenly cuts out, and we're brought back to whatever it is we were enjoying before being so rudely interrupted...)