Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
12-03-2011, 09:56 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.
Meanwhile in this dimension, a commotion was happening.
The dappled butcher-paper jungles of low-budget movies were a dangerous place, despite all pretenses. The costume-store denizens knew of the hazards. One moment, a green-wrapped hand-vine could take you away to left-stage. Another moment, a vicious cardboard tiger could “break” your neck, leaving corn-syrup blood in its vicious trace. Despite the (poorly-constructed) threats against man, the native were especially in a happy mood today, for today was a day for celebration!
They had caught a massive man-ape –a shadowy creature obscured in myths and legends. Actually, they had no idea what kind of creature they had founded. However, the thing leaked colored liquids, so it MUST be a creature of the myth and legends. After all, could the all-too-monstrous aluminum-foil lizard leak pigmented paints? Obviously, this silhouetted beast was worthy of awe and respect.
Naturally, the natives were going to eat him.
Tschichold wished he never woke up.
- for the reality he woke up to assaulted his visual senses. The shoddily crafted props. The hastily placed-together garb of natives. The miserable tissue paper leaves. UGH, this place was the stuff of the artistic nightmares! This had to be a dream, a stuff of his hallucinations. Well, he could have reached to the conclusion that this was just another one of his mere delusions. However, feeling of boiling water from chest down (despite the cauldron being a giant cardboard box sprayed with stone-texture paint) convinced him otherwise. Also, the toilet-paper tube spear poking at his left cheek helped.
The artist’s visible eye twitched and darted as he attempted to figure out what was going on, fruitlessly attempting to push away the atrocious aesthetics of the place from his view. So, he was just remembering things and suddenly, there were so many flashing lights. Also, there was this broadcaster, who kind of sounded like a jerk. That was not the most important issue because there was this battle going on and –
Wait, battle?
Panic seized Tschichold’s heart (if he had one). A battle? Seriously? He mulled on that realization a little more. A battle to the death? Did that mean he could die any moment, anytime? The shadowy artist started to choke on the stubborn lump in his throat. It was not that he was afraid of death. It was that he does not want to die an embarrassing death. From what he knew, there was embarrassing death mines everywhere in this place. It was a horrible effigy of a jungle, yes, but it was a jungle, nevertheless. Tschichold was no ecologist, but he was pretty sure jungles were extremely dangerous. He might get a case of purple permanent-marker pox or something. HE DOES NOT KNOW. HE WAS AN ARTIST NOT AN VIROLOGIST.
Through the haze of the cauldron smoke, sputtering and hissing suspiciously like dry ice, a wretched mask appeared. A piece of poster paper, decorated with cheap-restaurant crayons, plastic craft-feathers, and glitter. Two bleary eyes stared out of the uneven eyeholes as forced, but muffled, laughter echoed behind. The masked native continued his cackle as he dropped some baby carrots into the stew in which Tschichold was going to be part of. However, Tschichold did not realize the baby carrots were actually real (surprise!). He was staring in horror. He was staring into the mask that seemed to be made by a second-grader. He was staring into the abyss. No, not that. He was staring into the face of death, THE FACE OF EMBARRASSING DEATH.
Tschichold screamed.
The artist could not take it much longer. With a sudden buck of his feet, Tschichold squirmed out of the cauldron. Fortunately for the main meal escapee, the native did not have the savvy hindsight to hinder his limbs with some sort of binding material. As such, the escape proved to be disappointingly easy. To the surprise of the dumbfounded natives, Tschichold was a good ten feet away from the cauldron, making surprisingly good ground despite his wimpy legs.
Tschichold ran with all his might, panicking thoughts streaming rapidly through his head. So many questions! So many what-ifs. What if he had an embarrassing death right now? That was a horrible epiphany. An epiphany reinforced by a spear nearly nicking his ear. A painted spear clearly made of cardboard and duct tape embedded itself in the strangely two-dimensional tree, spooking Tschichold. He would probably die sometime in the future, but not with a goddamn cardboard tube stuck on his back.
Suddenly, more cardboard-tube spears came raining down, convincing Tschichold to continue his fugitive escape. How was he going to get out of this channel. He was in a (poorly-constructed) jungle! How could he find a television screen in particular place? The only sentient people here were the natives and they were going to eat him.
A bola made of rope and wadded newspapers tangled his limbs, slamming him on the ground with such a force. Suddenly, the natives swarmed around him. Despite protests and the kicking, the hunters managed to truss up Tschichold like a paint-leaking shadow turkey. A deceptively strong cardboard tube was threaded between space of his arms and legs. Before long, the artist was hoisted back to the native settlement.
<font color="DarkGreen">
“We got him!” The spear-wielding native proudly announced. Joyous cheering erupted from the villagers as their prey was shoved back into the stone-textured cardboard cauldron.
Tschichold wondered why they spoke English.</font>
Meanwhile in this dimension, a commotion was happening.
The dappled butcher-paper jungles of low-budget movies were a dangerous place, despite all pretenses. The costume-store denizens knew of the hazards. One moment, a green-wrapped hand-vine could take you away to left-stage. Another moment, a vicious cardboard tiger could “break” your neck, leaving corn-syrup blood in its vicious trace. Despite the (poorly-constructed) threats against man, the native were especially in a happy mood today, for today was a day for celebration!
They had caught a massive man-ape –a shadowy creature obscured in myths and legends. Actually, they had no idea what kind of creature they had founded. However, the thing leaked colored liquids, so it MUST be a creature of the myth and legends. After all, could the all-too-monstrous aluminum-foil lizard leak pigmented paints? Obviously, this silhouetted beast was worthy of awe and respect.
Naturally, the natives were going to eat him.
***
Tschichold wished he never woke up.
- for the reality he woke up to assaulted his visual senses. The shoddily crafted props. The hastily placed-together garb of natives. The miserable tissue paper leaves. UGH, this place was the stuff of the artistic nightmares! This had to be a dream, a stuff of his hallucinations. Well, he could have reached to the conclusion that this was just another one of his mere delusions. However, feeling of boiling water from chest down (despite the cauldron being a giant cardboard box sprayed with stone-texture paint) convinced him otherwise. Also, the toilet-paper tube spear poking at his left cheek helped.
The artist’s visible eye twitched and darted as he attempted to figure out what was going on, fruitlessly attempting to push away the atrocious aesthetics of the place from his view. So, he was just remembering things and suddenly, there were so many flashing lights. Also, there was this broadcaster, who kind of sounded like a jerk. That was not the most important issue because there was this battle going on and –
Wait, battle?
Panic seized Tschichold’s heart (if he had one). A battle? Seriously? He mulled on that realization a little more. A battle to the death? Did that mean he could die any moment, anytime? The shadowy artist started to choke on the stubborn lump in his throat. It was not that he was afraid of death. It was that he does not want to die an embarrassing death. From what he knew, there was embarrassing death mines everywhere in this place. It was a horrible effigy of a jungle, yes, but it was a jungle, nevertheless. Tschichold was no ecologist, but he was pretty sure jungles were extremely dangerous. He might get a case of purple permanent-marker pox or something. HE DOES NOT KNOW. HE WAS AN ARTIST NOT AN VIROLOGIST.
Through the haze of the cauldron smoke, sputtering and hissing suspiciously like dry ice, a wretched mask appeared. A piece of poster paper, decorated with cheap-restaurant crayons, plastic craft-feathers, and glitter. Two bleary eyes stared out of the uneven eyeholes as forced, but muffled, laughter echoed behind. The masked native continued his cackle as he dropped some baby carrots into the stew in which Tschichold was going to be part of. However, Tschichold did not realize the baby carrots were actually real (surprise!). He was staring in horror. He was staring into the mask that seemed to be made by a second-grader. He was staring into the abyss. No, not that. He was staring into the face of death, THE FACE OF EMBARRASSING DEATH.
Tschichold screamed.
The artist could not take it much longer. With a sudden buck of his feet, Tschichold squirmed out of the cauldron. Fortunately for the main meal escapee, the native did not have the savvy hindsight to hinder his limbs with some sort of binding material. As such, the escape proved to be disappointingly easy. To the surprise of the dumbfounded natives, Tschichold was a good ten feet away from the cauldron, making surprisingly good ground despite his wimpy legs.
Tschichold ran with all his might, panicking thoughts streaming rapidly through his head. So many questions! So many what-ifs. What if he had an embarrassing death right now? That was a horrible epiphany. An epiphany reinforced by a spear nearly nicking his ear. A painted spear clearly made of cardboard and duct tape embedded itself in the strangely two-dimensional tree, spooking Tschichold. He would probably die sometime in the future, but not with a goddamn cardboard tube stuck on his back.
Suddenly, more cardboard-tube spears came raining down, convincing Tschichold to continue his fugitive escape. How was he going to get out of this channel. He was in a (poorly-constructed) jungle! How could he find a television screen in particular place? The only sentient people here were the natives and they were going to eat him.
A bola made of rope and wadded newspapers tangled his limbs, slamming him on the ground with such a force. Suddenly, the natives swarmed around him. Despite protests and the kicking, the hunters managed to truss up Tschichold like a paint-leaking shadow turkey. A deceptively strong cardboard tube was threaded between space of his arms and legs. Before long, the artist was hoisted back to the native settlement.
<font color="DarkGreen">
“We got him!” The spear-wielding native proudly announced. Joyous cheering erupted from the villagers as their prey was shoved back into the stone-textured cardboard cauldron.
Tschichold wondered why they spoke English.</font>