Post by adm on Apr 1, 2008 21:45:55 GMT -6
(OOC: I apologize if anyone gets confused their first time reading through this. But basically I try to accomplish in two segments that are illusion/nightmare/hallucination enough to give insights into what Prophet sees in his dreams every night for the last month or so. And may the best man win.)
“Ripe with the decay of the day, there is nothing I can do or say to make you stay.”
Dark Prophet wakes up alone in his hotel room. It is not yet morning as the sun has yet to rise. He sits up in bed slowly, looking for Fate. Fate, however, is nowhere to be found. Has he abandoned Prophet? Has he given up all hope of helping him? Or did he just step out for a little while?
“What the hell?” Prophet says to himself. He looks around in the near darkness of the room, and picks up the television remote. He turns on the TV, and begins flipping through channels. “Nothing, nada, Infomercial, zilch, crap…Huh, breaking news?”
Dark Prophet sits up in bed as he watches a report on CNN Headline News. There’s a reporter standing outside a flaming house, in a city that still is trying to melt away six inches of new snow. Prophet doesn’t really recognize the place yet, but he does know the reporter from somewhere.
“This is Maya Nishikawa for WCCO in Minneapolis. I stand outside what was only hours ago, the beautiful house of professional wrestler, Dark Prophet. The house caught ablaze in the middle of the night.”
“Holy ****!” Prophet can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“The cause of the fire is still under investigation. Firefighters were said to have attempted to pull a woman and two children from the house, but the roof began to collapse and they evacuated.”
Tears begin to well up in the eyes of Prophet, “Oh God, please, no!”
“They are currently sifting through the rubble for survivors, but it doesn’t look like they are going to find any.”
Prophet breaks down in his hotel bed. He curls up into the fetal position, but as soon as he does the phone rings. He reaches out and picks it up.
“Hello?” Prophet’s cracked voice asks.
“Baby, I hate to tell you this. But your wife and kids…they were killed in a fire in the night.”
“Mom?”
“Yeah, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I can say. At least you are safe.”
Prophet goes quiet; he can’t believe what he is seeing or hearing. His family, dead. He’s devastated. His friend and valet, Fate, is nowhere to be found. And he is left alone, in the hotel room. Prophet drops the phone.
“Honey? Are you there? Hello?” His mother’s voice begins to ask, slowly gaining fear and desperation in her voice. “Hello? My baby, are you there?”
Prophet isn’t listening, however. He’s up, and moved over to the dresser. He pulls out a revolver, puts in a bullet, and prepares to fire.
“Hello? Are you okay? Angel?” His mom’s voice is getting really desperate now.
“This is the end of the line for me…I can’t…I…I’m not strong enough…”
The camera pulls away, and we hear a gunshot. His mother’s voice screams through the phone. It is a blood-curdling scream. Almost as if on a delayed cue, Prophet wakes up screaming the same blood-curdling scream in his hotel room bed. He is covered in sweat. His eyes, wide with fear of the thing he just saw, but slowly he begins to calm down. He calms; realizing it was only a nightmare. Yet, it was a nightmare that seemed so real. His eyes well with tears as he hesitantly picks up the phone. Slowly he dials his home phone number.
“I have to call them. I have to make sure they are okay.”
The phone rings once. Prophet’s hands are shaking as much as his body. He listens as the phone rings again. Still no answer.
“Come on!” Prophet begins to get anxious and afraid as it rings a third time.
The answering machine picks up and we hear Julietta’s voice, “You’ve reached the residence of Julietta Lee and Dark Prophet. If you are calling for my husband, you can reach him at…”
Prophet hangs up the phone before she continues her message. He redials quickly, and waits even more impatiently as the phone rings again. It rings once, twice, three times, and then the answering machine picks up again.
“Please, God…this can’t be happening…” Prophet is freaking out as he begins to dial his wife’s cell-phone number. “Maybe she’s out of the house for some reason. She has to pick up.
Prophet waits as the phone rings once. He is extremely impatient. The phone rings again, and still no answer. The terror in his face, in his eyes, is draining his face of all its color. White as a sheet, he listens to the phone ring a third time.
“This…this isn’t real. She’s…this can’t be real.” Prophet says as he hears the phone ring one more time, before going to her voicemail.
Prophet slams the phone down, and looks around the room. Fate is not here, just like last time. Prophet turns on the television and immediately turns to the channel he saw the news report on before. However, as he is flipping through the channels, the television screen begins to bleed. Crimson veils the normal color of the channel as Prophet stops. He moves out of the bed, and kneels in front of the television. Blood has dripped down onto the dresser now. Prophet touches the blood, and recoils. The blood is warm, as if it was from a fresh kill. The blood begins to pour out faster now, as drops roll down the dresser and drip onto the carpet.
“What the hell is going on here?” Prophet says, freaking out still from what was going on before.
Prophet stands up, and runs to the door. He pulls open the door only to reveal that he is staring at a brick wall. He slams the door, and turns around. The television is hemorrhaging blood like a slashed jugular. Prophet walks over toward the bathroom, but as he does, a hand comes out of nowhere and turns him around. His face white with fear, he stares into the eyes of Fate. Fate’s face is twisted, and his eyes are fogged over like that of a corpse.
“Hey, Darky. Your family is gone. I made sure of that…” His voice is twisted, high pitched, and not the same voice Fate usually would use.
“Fate?” Prophet asks.
“Think…darker.” The voice says, cackling like a psychopath.
“Jaques?” Prophet says, naming one of Fate’s other personalities.
“Think, despair. Think, terror. Think, Blacker.” The voice says, laughing maniacally.
Prophet’s eyes widen with fear as he realizes what he is staring at. “Angelo Della Muerte…”
“Ding, Ding, Ding! You won! And what is your prize? Well pick one of these three doors and find out!”
The room twists into a nightmarish version of itself. The walls rusted and broken, breathe like a kid with asthma. The floor disintegrates beneath Prophet’s feet to reveal a rusted chain fence holding him over a black pit. The walls close in, and three doors appear before Prophet and this thing controlling Fate’s body.
“Pick your door, Darky. Pick the door wisely. Why? Well only one of these doors will let you out of this constant string of nightmares; endlessly driving you mad until you are nothing more than a broken shell. One of the other two doors will be a real killer. You think you can’t die in dreams? Well I think you may not like which prize hides behind that door.”
Prophet is hesitant to speak, still in disbelief he is still in a nightmare. “And the third door?”
“Well, lets keep that one a secret. So, pick your door, Darky. Pick your door and get your PRIZE!”
Angelo Della Muerte, using Fate’s body, fades into nothing. Prophet looks at the three doors. One door is rusted, and looks like it might be almost impossible to open. The second door is chained shut, as if to deter him from opening. The final door is a mirror, reflecting only what it sees. None of the doors looks pleasing to Prophet. None of these doors appears to be any different than the others. The mirror Door reflects the nightmare room Prophet is in, not showing anything favorable in its reflection.
“God…please let this be the right door.”
Prophet begins to pull at the chains binding the middle door. He struggles with all his might, and one by one he rips them from the rusted wall. Prophet stares now, at a wooden door stained in blood. Hesitantly he puts his hand on the handle and turns it. The door glows as it opens and we are engulfed in an ethereal white light.
“Great…I’ve ****in died and gone to somewhere.”
Prophet’s words fade away as everything turns to black. We remain in the darkness for what seems like eternity, but is only twenty seconds. The camera pulls itself upward from the side of the bed. Prophet awakes with a start, screaming, yet again. This time, Fate is sleeping on the floor like he normally would. This time, the sun is rising outside. And this time, Prophet thinks he’s actually gotten out of the nightmare.
“I…did it?” Prophet asks himself, unsure if what he is seeing is reality or the beginning of yet another nightmare.
“What the hell are you screaming for?” Fate says, slowly sitting up from his sleeping bag on the floor.
“Fate, are you…you?” Prophet asks.
“What the **** are you talking about, am I me? Of course I’m me!”
“Ok…now…if only I could have something to tell me this isn’t another ****ing nightmare. I’m beginning to think I’m losing my ****ing mind.”
Fate stands up, and shakes his head of the spider webs of his dreams. Prophet begins to reach for the TV remote, but falters. He can’t bring himself to turn it on, fearing the worst. He touches the phone with a light hand, but thinks twice.
“What is wrong with you, man? You are even more twisted and confused than normal. Maybe I gave you too much medicine…or too little…with a guy your size it can be hard to tell.”
“I don’t know, man. I just…all night, it just seemed like I was bouncing from realistic nightmare to realistic nightmare. First there was this really odd one, the world kinda was something out of a Picasso painting. But slowly, the world turned from Picasso to a sort of Dali-mix-Silent Hill kinda thing. Then the next one, you were acting weird. You gave me some [bleep] and it turned out to be a [bleep]ball. And you were there, laughing as you played Russian Roulette watching me slowly die. Then…”
“Okay, Okay!” Fate speaks up; “I’ll prove to you that this is real. You are Dark Prophet, God of all things Xtreme. You are a ****ing psycho. You are the father of two ****ed up kids, and your wife is a nymphomaniac SnM freak. You have a match at A Night to Remember against Sexy Jason for the Xtreme Title. You’re gonna win, and you’re gonna ****in calm down before I have to sedate you again.”
Prophet looks at Fate with disbelief. Did he really wake up? Is he really back in “reality”? Even from what we saw, his entire night must have been some trip.
“Listen, Fate…I’m sorry if I freaked. I…”
“No problem,” Fate interrupts, “I’ve been there before. Maybe I should stop giving you the generic stuff. I think I really need to pull some strings and get you some of what they used on me. This [bleep] regimen isn’t working to do anything but make you more paranoid and have terrible nightmares. I guess I should have listened a bit closer to all those Alice In Chains songs.”
“Especially ‘Angry Chair’” Prophet chimes in.
“Good god, yeah…I used that for my theme for a short time. I don’t think I could do that period of my life over again and not die. I did so much [bleep] I’m surprised I have any money or veins left. I mean, I was on my way to being as bad as Layne himself.”
“Yeah…” Prophet trails off. His mind is thinking of all the nightmares that he witnessed last night. More nightmares than he could count. More nightmares than a single story could tell. More nightmares than one man’s life, let alone night, should have.
Prophet sighs, and pulls out his box of cigarettes. He lights one up, and takes a very long drag from it. He passes the pack to Fate, who declines.
“What’s wrong?” Prophet asks.
“Nah, I just woke up, I aint got a nic fit yet. Maybe after breakfast.”
The two men smirk, showing that though they are student and teacher, their similarities are frightening. We fade to black.
“Ripe with the decay of the day, there is nothing I can do or say to make you stay.”
Dark Prophet wakes up alone in his hotel room. It is not yet morning as the sun has yet to rise. He sits up in bed slowly, looking for Fate. Fate, however, is nowhere to be found. Has he abandoned Prophet? Has he given up all hope of helping him? Or did he just step out for a little while?
“What the hell?” Prophet says to himself. He looks around in the near darkness of the room, and picks up the television remote. He turns on the TV, and begins flipping through channels. “Nothing, nada, Infomercial, zilch, crap…Huh, breaking news?”
Dark Prophet sits up in bed as he watches a report on CNN Headline News. There’s a reporter standing outside a flaming house, in a city that still is trying to melt away six inches of new snow. Prophet doesn’t really recognize the place yet, but he does know the reporter from somewhere.
“This is Maya Nishikawa for WCCO in Minneapolis. I stand outside what was only hours ago, the beautiful house of professional wrestler, Dark Prophet. The house caught ablaze in the middle of the night.”
“Holy ****!” Prophet can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“The cause of the fire is still under investigation. Firefighters were said to have attempted to pull a woman and two children from the house, but the roof began to collapse and they evacuated.”
Tears begin to well up in the eyes of Prophet, “Oh God, please, no!”
“They are currently sifting through the rubble for survivors, but it doesn’t look like they are going to find any.”
Prophet breaks down in his hotel bed. He curls up into the fetal position, but as soon as he does the phone rings. He reaches out and picks it up.
“Hello?” Prophet’s cracked voice asks.
“Baby, I hate to tell you this. But your wife and kids…they were killed in a fire in the night.”
“Mom?”
“Yeah, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I can say. At least you are safe.”
Prophet goes quiet; he can’t believe what he is seeing or hearing. His family, dead. He’s devastated. His friend and valet, Fate, is nowhere to be found. And he is left alone, in the hotel room. Prophet drops the phone.
“Honey? Are you there? Hello?” His mother’s voice begins to ask, slowly gaining fear and desperation in her voice. “Hello? My baby, are you there?”
Prophet isn’t listening, however. He’s up, and moved over to the dresser. He pulls out a revolver, puts in a bullet, and prepares to fire.
“Hello? Are you okay? Angel?” His mom’s voice is getting really desperate now.
“This is the end of the line for me…I can’t…I…I’m not strong enough…”
The camera pulls away, and we hear a gunshot. His mother’s voice screams through the phone. It is a blood-curdling scream. Almost as if on a delayed cue, Prophet wakes up screaming the same blood-curdling scream in his hotel room bed. He is covered in sweat. His eyes, wide with fear of the thing he just saw, but slowly he begins to calm down. He calms; realizing it was only a nightmare. Yet, it was a nightmare that seemed so real. His eyes well with tears as he hesitantly picks up the phone. Slowly he dials his home phone number.
“I have to call them. I have to make sure they are okay.”
The phone rings once. Prophet’s hands are shaking as much as his body. He listens as the phone rings again. Still no answer.
“Come on!” Prophet begins to get anxious and afraid as it rings a third time.
The answering machine picks up and we hear Julietta’s voice, “You’ve reached the residence of Julietta Lee and Dark Prophet. If you are calling for my husband, you can reach him at…”
Prophet hangs up the phone before she continues her message. He redials quickly, and waits even more impatiently as the phone rings again. It rings once, twice, three times, and then the answering machine picks up again.
“Please, God…this can’t be happening…” Prophet is freaking out as he begins to dial his wife’s cell-phone number. “Maybe she’s out of the house for some reason. She has to pick up.
Prophet waits as the phone rings once. He is extremely impatient. The phone rings again, and still no answer. The terror in his face, in his eyes, is draining his face of all its color. White as a sheet, he listens to the phone ring a third time.
“This…this isn’t real. She’s…this can’t be real.” Prophet says as he hears the phone ring one more time, before going to her voicemail.
Prophet slams the phone down, and looks around the room. Fate is not here, just like last time. Prophet turns on the television and immediately turns to the channel he saw the news report on before. However, as he is flipping through the channels, the television screen begins to bleed. Crimson veils the normal color of the channel as Prophet stops. He moves out of the bed, and kneels in front of the television. Blood has dripped down onto the dresser now. Prophet touches the blood, and recoils. The blood is warm, as if it was from a fresh kill. The blood begins to pour out faster now, as drops roll down the dresser and drip onto the carpet.
“What the hell is going on here?” Prophet says, freaking out still from what was going on before.
Prophet stands up, and runs to the door. He pulls open the door only to reveal that he is staring at a brick wall. He slams the door, and turns around. The television is hemorrhaging blood like a slashed jugular. Prophet walks over toward the bathroom, but as he does, a hand comes out of nowhere and turns him around. His face white with fear, he stares into the eyes of Fate. Fate’s face is twisted, and his eyes are fogged over like that of a corpse.
“Hey, Darky. Your family is gone. I made sure of that…” His voice is twisted, high pitched, and not the same voice Fate usually would use.
“Fate?” Prophet asks.
“Think…darker.” The voice says, cackling like a psychopath.
“Jaques?” Prophet says, naming one of Fate’s other personalities.
“Think, despair. Think, terror. Think, Blacker.” The voice says, laughing maniacally.
Prophet’s eyes widen with fear as he realizes what he is staring at. “Angelo Della Muerte…”
“Ding, Ding, Ding! You won! And what is your prize? Well pick one of these three doors and find out!”
The room twists into a nightmarish version of itself. The walls rusted and broken, breathe like a kid with asthma. The floor disintegrates beneath Prophet’s feet to reveal a rusted chain fence holding him over a black pit. The walls close in, and three doors appear before Prophet and this thing controlling Fate’s body.
“Pick your door, Darky. Pick the door wisely. Why? Well only one of these doors will let you out of this constant string of nightmares; endlessly driving you mad until you are nothing more than a broken shell. One of the other two doors will be a real killer. You think you can’t die in dreams? Well I think you may not like which prize hides behind that door.”
Prophet is hesitant to speak, still in disbelief he is still in a nightmare. “And the third door?”
“Well, lets keep that one a secret. So, pick your door, Darky. Pick your door and get your PRIZE!”
Angelo Della Muerte, using Fate’s body, fades into nothing. Prophet looks at the three doors. One door is rusted, and looks like it might be almost impossible to open. The second door is chained shut, as if to deter him from opening. The final door is a mirror, reflecting only what it sees. None of the doors looks pleasing to Prophet. None of these doors appears to be any different than the others. The mirror Door reflects the nightmare room Prophet is in, not showing anything favorable in its reflection.
“God…please let this be the right door.”
Prophet begins to pull at the chains binding the middle door. He struggles with all his might, and one by one he rips them from the rusted wall. Prophet stares now, at a wooden door stained in blood. Hesitantly he puts his hand on the handle and turns it. The door glows as it opens and we are engulfed in an ethereal white light.
“Great…I’ve ****in died and gone to somewhere.”
Prophet’s words fade away as everything turns to black. We remain in the darkness for what seems like eternity, but is only twenty seconds. The camera pulls itself upward from the side of the bed. Prophet awakes with a start, screaming, yet again. This time, Fate is sleeping on the floor like he normally would. This time, the sun is rising outside. And this time, Prophet thinks he’s actually gotten out of the nightmare.
“I…did it?” Prophet asks himself, unsure if what he is seeing is reality or the beginning of yet another nightmare.
“What the hell are you screaming for?” Fate says, slowly sitting up from his sleeping bag on the floor.
“Fate, are you…you?” Prophet asks.
“What the **** are you talking about, am I me? Of course I’m me!”
“Ok…now…if only I could have something to tell me this isn’t another ****ing nightmare. I’m beginning to think I’m losing my ****ing mind.”
Fate stands up, and shakes his head of the spider webs of his dreams. Prophet begins to reach for the TV remote, but falters. He can’t bring himself to turn it on, fearing the worst. He touches the phone with a light hand, but thinks twice.
“What is wrong with you, man? You are even more twisted and confused than normal. Maybe I gave you too much medicine…or too little…with a guy your size it can be hard to tell.”
“I don’t know, man. I just…all night, it just seemed like I was bouncing from realistic nightmare to realistic nightmare. First there was this really odd one, the world kinda was something out of a Picasso painting. But slowly, the world turned from Picasso to a sort of Dali-mix-Silent Hill kinda thing. Then the next one, you were acting weird. You gave me some [bleep] and it turned out to be a [bleep]ball. And you were there, laughing as you played Russian Roulette watching me slowly die. Then…”
“Okay, Okay!” Fate speaks up; “I’ll prove to you that this is real. You are Dark Prophet, God of all things Xtreme. You are a ****ing psycho. You are the father of two ****ed up kids, and your wife is a nymphomaniac SnM freak. You have a match at A Night to Remember against Sexy Jason for the Xtreme Title. You’re gonna win, and you’re gonna ****in calm down before I have to sedate you again.”
Prophet looks at Fate with disbelief. Did he really wake up? Is he really back in “reality”? Even from what we saw, his entire night must have been some trip.
“Listen, Fate…I’m sorry if I freaked. I…”
“No problem,” Fate interrupts, “I’ve been there before. Maybe I should stop giving you the generic stuff. I think I really need to pull some strings and get you some of what they used on me. This [bleep] regimen isn’t working to do anything but make you more paranoid and have terrible nightmares. I guess I should have listened a bit closer to all those Alice In Chains songs.”
“Especially ‘Angry Chair’” Prophet chimes in.
“Good god, yeah…I used that for my theme for a short time. I don’t think I could do that period of my life over again and not die. I did so much [bleep] I’m surprised I have any money or veins left. I mean, I was on my way to being as bad as Layne himself.”
“Yeah…” Prophet trails off. His mind is thinking of all the nightmares that he witnessed last night. More nightmares than he could count. More nightmares than a single story could tell. More nightmares than one man’s life, let alone night, should have.
Prophet sighs, and pulls out his box of cigarettes. He lights one up, and takes a very long drag from it. He passes the pack to Fate, who declines.
“What’s wrong?” Prophet asks.
“Nah, I just woke up, I aint got a nic fit yet. Maybe after breakfast.”
The two men smirk, showing that though they are student and teacher, their similarities are frightening. We fade to black.