RE: MINI-GRAND 8801: ROUND ONE - GRIMEWORLD
8 hours ago
In the shadow of an alleyway between two rust-roofed buildings, Calvin Goodfellow stood, bracing himself against a yellow stained cement wall. His eyes were strained, yet unfocused. His right hand was pale, clutching the handle of a 9 iron so tightly the veins up his arm began to swell. Rapid short bursts of exhalation shot out from his lips as the pounding of his heartbeat filled his ears.
Calvin had spent much of the last decade of his life building layers of protection and luxury around himself. The world he had constructed around him made him more successful, more powerful, more comfortable, more and more irreproachable. Each accomplishment and resource was carefully constructed to give him more tools, more resources, more success. But now suddenly, a cacophony of eyes had smashed his Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs to pieces.
The temptation to explain his current circumstance as some kind of hallucination or brain injury beckoned Calvin’s struggling mind, offering him a veil of comfort, but something in Calvin knew otherwise. Some part of Calvin was just the smallest bit magic. He had a faint innate gift for sensing the fantastical. It was this magical gift that allowed him, among generations of people, to recognize that the joy that filled a child’s playtime with their toys also brought those same creatures to life. (Now, spearheading an organization that systematically created, enslaved, and exploited those magical creatures? That had nothing to do with this gift. That was all Calvin.)
So Calvin couldn’t deny his current circumstance. His gift wouldn’t let him. So he was faced with the cold reality that everything he had worked to create had been stripped from him in an instant.
His breathing quickened. He slammed his fist against the wall and...
A Pause. Followed by a deep. Intentional. Breath.
If I panic, I'll die…
Deep breath.
…stay calm, I'll live…
Another deep breath. As Calvin repeated the mantra to himself, he felt his senses returning. He’d experienced anxiety before. An investor conference, an uncertain board meeting, a nosy reporter….this wasn’t that different - the emotions were the same. He just had…to maintain…control.
Exhale.
He straightened up from his position against the wall.
Inhale.
He could smell the putrid decay that permiated the air of Grimeworld, feel the humidity clinging to his skin, and then he noticed the golf club still clenched in his hand.
“I was golfing” he whispered to himself, “with a Senator.”
“He was the last vote I needed before….” Calvin’s control cracked, “Something….decided…to FUCK with me!”
Calvin slammed his club against a rusted out garbage bin. The end of it broke through the flaking red sheeting and Calvin started kicking the container and yanking the club to dislodge it.
“Damn it! What the fuck is this?!”
Ripping the club free, he whiped his wrist around and tapped furiously on black screen of his gold-banded watch. No signal.
“Shit.”
Calvin wiped the sweat off his brow. He begun to frisk his pockets, reaching for his phone. In the tussle, a small golf ball rolled out of his pants pocket and bounced unceremoniously onto the cracked black lichen covered cement.
Calvin checked his phone battery, 72 percent. Current Location: Unknown. No nearby hotspots. Maybe he could...
“Mr. Goodfellow?” a small voice chimed out.
Calvin bolted backwards, brandishing his golf club. “Who’s there? Where are you?”
“Mr. Goodfellow?" the voice repeated, "Is this hole fourteen? Is it time to play?”
Calvin's gaze moved slowly down towards the ground until locking on to the small white golfball. Silhouetted by the black grime on the ground, it looked almost pearlescent, save for two eyes and a small mouth both crudely drawn in sharpie. The eyes and mouth animated while it spoke, moving along the grooves of the ball to produce a some-what worried, yet hopeful expression.
Calvin's eyes narrowed in disdain. “Hey, Dimple?" he spoke to the tiny golfball, “Does this look like a fucking golf course to you?” Waving out the 9-iron, Calvin gestured towards the barren street littered with puddles of tar and covered by the yellow haze of a smog filled sky.
“Do you see Senator Sanderson anywhere around here?" he continued, "Do you see that fat botox-faced dinosaur who can't shut the fuck up about his fucking grandkids? Do you see me forcing a smile while sucking down a mimosa while I contemplate blowing my brains out because some swingstate fuck can't just get with the program. It's not fucking child labor, when you pay kids to go to daycare! No Dimple! It is not fucking playtime! Look at this shit Dimple! We are fucked!”
"I'm..." Dimple stammered, "I'm sorry, Mr. GoodFellow, I just..."
Calvin scowled, "I'd smash you with this club if I didn't know you fucking liked it."
A sudden thought pierced Calvin's self-indulgent anger. His glare softened as his brow furrowed. Something was off about how Dimple was responding. In Calvin's experience, objects like Dimple never spoke out or offered conversation unless properly coerced. They'd rather play dead than engage in a conversation if they could help it. Sure, some could be trained with time, but Dimple was just a sentient ball, a useful tool to help Calvin impress clients or trick shareholders. Dimple never spoke up more than was required, but here he was, fully animating in front of Calvin with no coercion necessary.
Slowly, Calvin squatted down and picked up Dimple, staring at him intently.
“Why are you so chatty?” Calvin asked, “I can carry you around all day and you don't say a damn thing but the moment you pop out here you start asking to play?”
Dimples’ eyes glanced down. “I…I don’t know…”
“Bullshit you ‘don’t know’. What’s going on with you?”
Dimple looked away from Calvin’s gaze, up to the sky, and then back down to the ground.
“I really don’t know, Mr. Goodfellow. I guess…Normally, when someone is looking at me, it’s like...You know when you get caught in front of a sprinkler spraying you with water? It hurts. It is a lot. But like...right now…It feels sort of like I’ve fallen into a water-trap.”
“What?”
“Like when I fell into the lake at Winderson Pines, when I sunk to the bottom I was surrounded by water. It was all around me, but it didn't feel very intense?" The golfball continued, "So, right now you looking at me doesn’t bother me so much because it feels almost like…” Dimple paused, struggling to find the right words, “Everything is looking at me. It’s like every wall and floor and surface and the sky and my insides are all covered in eyes, and they’re all watching me at the same time. Does that make any sense?”
Calvin swallowed. The memory of falling while surrounded by the presence of the Panopticon stirred fresh in his mind.
“No. Dimple, I think I get it.”
Calvin stood up, gripping Dimple in his hand. Fortunately, he hadn't brought any other toys with him. A hoard of toys suddenly getting a lot more chatty and potentially a lot less compliant would be...problematic.
Carrying Dimple, Calvin began walking down the grime covered street, avoiding the larger puddles of muck, looking for anything that resembled something familiar. His mind raced through the instructions he had been given, trying to remember the others he had seen.
Kill to survive? He thought, I’ve never killed anyone before…not in anyway that matters. What was it that it called me? An 'exploiter of the weak'? Asshole sounds like that one reporter.
The word “weak” resonated to Calvin. He knew that out of the 'things' he had witnessed, he was the weakest of them all, or at least the most vulnerable. He needed strength, something he could use to fight, something he could control.
“Mr. Goodfellow, are you sure we won’t get any playtime?” Dimple chimed up.
Calvin rolled his eyes, “Yeah, Dimple, I’m a little occupied at the moment.”
“What about in there?” Dimple’s eyes darted towards an open doorway down the street. “I think…there’s someone watching us from in there. Maybe they’d like to play?”
Calvin stopped. He glanced down at Dimple. “You can sense someone in there?“
Dimple beamed, “Yeah! I think so. They might be fun!”
“You know what," Calvin said, "It is playtime. Go peek in, and then immediately roll back here.”
Setting Dimple down on the edge of curb, Calvin reared his club back, aimed, and with a quick whap Dimple was flying through the air, spinning towards the doorway
“WEEEEeee…” Dimple’s faint voice faded with distance. The little ball angled itself and crashed through an exposed pane of glass. Calvin heard a thud, the echo of a faint metallic *clunk*…and then seeming silence.
Dimple did not roll back.
Calvin had spent much of the last decade of his life building layers of protection and luxury around himself. The world he had constructed around him made him more successful, more powerful, more comfortable, more and more irreproachable. Each accomplishment and resource was carefully constructed to give him more tools, more resources, more success. But now suddenly, a cacophony of eyes had smashed his Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs to pieces.
The temptation to explain his current circumstance as some kind of hallucination or brain injury beckoned Calvin’s struggling mind, offering him a veil of comfort, but something in Calvin knew otherwise. Some part of Calvin was just the smallest bit magic. He had a faint innate gift for sensing the fantastical. It was this magical gift that allowed him, among generations of people, to recognize that the joy that filled a child’s playtime with their toys also brought those same creatures to life. (Now, spearheading an organization that systematically created, enslaved, and exploited those magical creatures? That had nothing to do with this gift. That was all Calvin.)
So Calvin couldn’t deny his current circumstance. His gift wouldn’t let him. So he was faced with the cold reality that everything he had worked to create had been stripped from him in an instant.
His breathing quickened. He slammed his fist against the wall and...
A Pause. Followed by a deep. Intentional. Breath.
If I panic, I'll die…
Deep breath.
…stay calm, I'll live…
Another deep breath. As Calvin repeated the mantra to himself, he felt his senses returning. He’d experienced anxiety before. An investor conference, an uncertain board meeting, a nosy reporter….this wasn’t that different - the emotions were the same. He just had…to maintain…control.
Exhale.
He straightened up from his position against the wall.
Inhale.
He could smell the putrid decay that permiated the air of Grimeworld, feel the humidity clinging to his skin, and then he noticed the golf club still clenched in his hand.
“I was golfing” he whispered to himself, “with a Senator.”
“He was the last vote I needed before….” Calvin’s control cracked, “Something….decided…to FUCK with me!”
Calvin slammed his club against a rusted out garbage bin. The end of it broke through the flaking red sheeting and Calvin started kicking the container and yanking the club to dislodge it.
“Damn it! What the fuck is this?!”
Ripping the club free, he whiped his wrist around and tapped furiously on black screen of his gold-banded watch. No signal.
“Shit.”
Calvin wiped the sweat off his brow. He begun to frisk his pockets, reaching for his phone. In the tussle, a small golf ball rolled out of his pants pocket and bounced unceremoniously onto the cracked black lichen covered cement.
Calvin checked his phone battery, 72 percent. Current Location: Unknown. No nearby hotspots. Maybe he could...
“Mr. Goodfellow?” a small voice chimed out.
Calvin bolted backwards, brandishing his golf club. “Who’s there? Where are you?”
“Mr. Goodfellow?" the voice repeated, "Is this hole fourteen? Is it time to play?”
Calvin's gaze moved slowly down towards the ground until locking on to the small white golfball. Silhouetted by the black grime on the ground, it looked almost pearlescent, save for two eyes and a small mouth both crudely drawn in sharpie. The eyes and mouth animated while it spoke, moving along the grooves of the ball to produce a some-what worried, yet hopeful expression.
Calvin's eyes narrowed in disdain. “Hey, Dimple?" he spoke to the tiny golfball, “Does this look like a fucking golf course to you?” Waving out the 9-iron, Calvin gestured towards the barren street littered with puddles of tar and covered by the yellow haze of a smog filled sky.
“Do you see Senator Sanderson anywhere around here?" he continued, "Do you see that fat botox-faced dinosaur who can't shut the fuck up about his fucking grandkids? Do you see me forcing a smile while sucking down a mimosa while I contemplate blowing my brains out because some swingstate fuck can't just get with the program. It's not fucking child labor, when you pay kids to go to daycare! No Dimple! It is not fucking playtime! Look at this shit Dimple! We are fucked!”
"I'm..." Dimple stammered, "I'm sorry, Mr. GoodFellow, I just..."
Calvin scowled, "I'd smash you with this club if I didn't know you fucking liked it."
A sudden thought pierced Calvin's self-indulgent anger. His glare softened as his brow furrowed. Something was off about how Dimple was responding. In Calvin's experience, objects like Dimple never spoke out or offered conversation unless properly coerced. They'd rather play dead than engage in a conversation if they could help it. Sure, some could be trained with time, but Dimple was just a sentient ball, a useful tool to help Calvin impress clients or trick shareholders. Dimple never spoke up more than was required, but here he was, fully animating in front of Calvin with no coercion necessary.
Slowly, Calvin squatted down and picked up Dimple, staring at him intently.
“Why are you so chatty?” Calvin asked, “I can carry you around all day and you don't say a damn thing but the moment you pop out here you start asking to play?”
Dimples’ eyes glanced down. “I…I don’t know…”
“Bullshit you ‘don’t know’. What’s going on with you?”
Dimple looked away from Calvin’s gaze, up to the sky, and then back down to the ground.
“I really don’t know, Mr. Goodfellow. I guess…Normally, when someone is looking at me, it’s like...You know when you get caught in front of a sprinkler spraying you with water? It hurts. It is a lot. But like...right now…It feels sort of like I’ve fallen into a water-trap.”
“What?”
“Like when I fell into the lake at Winderson Pines, when I sunk to the bottom I was surrounded by water. It was all around me, but it didn't feel very intense?" The golfball continued, "So, right now you looking at me doesn’t bother me so much because it feels almost like…” Dimple paused, struggling to find the right words, “Everything is looking at me. It’s like every wall and floor and surface and the sky and my insides are all covered in eyes, and they’re all watching me at the same time. Does that make any sense?”
Calvin swallowed. The memory of falling while surrounded by the presence of the Panopticon stirred fresh in his mind.
“No. Dimple, I think I get it.”
Calvin stood up, gripping Dimple in his hand. Fortunately, he hadn't brought any other toys with him. A hoard of toys suddenly getting a lot more chatty and potentially a lot less compliant would be...problematic.
Carrying Dimple, Calvin began walking down the grime covered street, avoiding the larger puddles of muck, looking for anything that resembled something familiar. His mind raced through the instructions he had been given, trying to remember the others he had seen.
Kill to survive? He thought, I’ve never killed anyone before…not in anyway that matters. What was it that it called me? An 'exploiter of the weak'? Asshole sounds like that one reporter.
The word “weak” resonated to Calvin. He knew that out of the 'things' he had witnessed, he was the weakest of them all, or at least the most vulnerable. He needed strength, something he could use to fight, something he could control.
“Mr. Goodfellow, are you sure we won’t get any playtime?” Dimple chimed up.
Calvin rolled his eyes, “Yeah, Dimple, I’m a little occupied at the moment.”
“What about in there?” Dimple’s eyes darted towards an open doorway down the street. “I think…there’s someone watching us from in there. Maybe they’d like to play?”
Calvin stopped. He glanced down at Dimple. “You can sense someone in there?“
Dimple beamed, “Yeah! I think so. They might be fun!”
“You know what," Calvin said, "It is playtime. Go peek in, and then immediately roll back here.”
Setting Dimple down on the edge of curb, Calvin reared his club back, aimed, and with a quick whap Dimple was flying through the air, spinning towards the doorway
“WEEEEeee…” Dimple’s faint voice faded with distance. The little ball angled itself and crashed through an exposed pane of glass. Calvin heard a thud, the echo of a faint metallic *clunk*…and then seeming silence.
Dimple did not roll back.