Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
12-07-2011, 12:20 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.
Celebration continued in the village as Tschichold continued to stew inside the fake-looking cauldron. Unfortunately, for the main ingredient in question, the natives had enough savvy this time to tie up his limbs, ruining any chance of wiggling out of the main course.
Of course, he was not just sitting there, keeping his mouth shut. All this time, Tschichold had been yelling, screaming, and bitching – seeming to fall only on deaf ears. Geez, what was with them? Did the cheap craft store materials clog their ears or something? It was either that or they have selective hearing. At this point, he was willing to try anything. Perhaps, he could be a little nicer? The water was really burning up his thighs and he was pretty sure he had an unsightly rash on his ass –which is terrible.
“I am not exactly the tastiest or the healthiest meat in the world, so can you let me go?” Tschichold pleadingly reasoned. “Pretty please?” He added, smiling nervously.
Tschichold’s eye lit up as the chef seemed to notice. Unfortunately for the artist, this channel, like all other channels, ran on television logic, which could be nonsensical in frigid proportions. Even though the native-actors do speak English, they chose to selectively hear the hapless artist’s sentences in their (made-up) indigenous language.
His plead,
“Ee amnu exacterth testho’tha hathtee meenath worso canule me’o” which meant
<font color="DarkGreen">“I am a delicious food product shining with fat and full of essential vitamins and nutrients!”
Also coincidentally,
“pretty please” sounds like
“pret’the ease” which in the native language meant </font>
“I’m freaking delicious!”
To the artist’s confusion, the tribal members erupted into a joyous celebration and jumped into an eye-cringing choreography. Tschichold could feel a massive migraine incoming. The tribal “dance” (if it could be called a dance) was ATROCIOUS. That’s it. He was a goner. He was pretty much doomed. Any chance of his survival in this aesthetic hell had gone to pot.
After the awful footwork and music had ended, the natives scurried to the feasting shrine (actually a picnic table covered in butcher paper) and returned with plastic utensils. Some were holding forks. Others were holding spoons. Tschichold wonder how they were going eat him with spoon, but he did not want to know. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. He had control. Sure, he was going to die a very embarrassing death,
but that did not mean he was forced to see it!
In the dark void of space, emptiness stretched infinite. Not a single thing in sight – no dust, no particles, no stars. It was startlingly, almost clear. The crippling realization was there. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing was happening.
Seriously.
It has been a couple of minutes and no amount of bodily harm or sudden unconsciousness had crept up to him. Was this how death, especially of the embarrassing flavor felt like? Fear seized his heart, but the he felt the burning need to know. Tentatively, Tschichold decided to open one eye, wondering what the abyss that was forthcoming for him to be like.
To his surprise, there was no abyss. There was no darkness. In fact, everything was the way before, just as artistically horrible and poorly productive. Sure, he was still in aesthetic hell, but he was alive, dammit, alive! He could never been this happier in his meaningless existence – especially since the burning had receded down to his knees.
Wait, was it? Tschichold checked again. Yes, apparently, the soup that supposedly cooked him had went down a couple of levels. The painter was confused as why they drank the soup instead of eating him. Television logic? Regardless, he should be glad they were stupid enough to drink the multi-colored soup instead of taking a chunk out of any extremities he had out.
Obviously, the tribal members were under the immediate influence of their so-called meal, considering they actually ingested the artist’s psychoactive paints orally. They were groaning and moaning from the toxicity, but mostly from the headache-inducing hallucinations thanks to their overdose.
<font color="DarkGreen">“Oh boy, this stew is elephants!” Then, the native wheezed, made retching sounds, and collapsed.
Tschichold was somewhat jubilant at this happy accident – somewhat, because the native were clearly high off their rocker. Despite what they had done to him, he really needed someone who was somewhat motor-functional to cut away at his binds.
A native staggered to him, the bottom half of his paper mask stained dark with stomach contents. Without nary a pause, he forced his face onto the artist’s.
“I hate my job.” The native whispered.
“Come again?” Tschichold raised an unseen eyebrow in surprise. The painter knew the jungle was clearly fake-looking (and horrible-looking to boot), but he arbitrarily assumed the aesthetic was part of this craft-store hellhole.
“I hate my job.” He screamed and before the painter could interrupt, blurted out. “I am a thespian. I went to acting school. I worked my ass off to pay for my tuition, my student loans, my DREAMS.” His voice began to quaver in indignant sorrow. “And what is my supposed dream job? This. THIS. Playing some goddamn native extra in some movie with shitty-o-vision. WHERE DID MY LIFE GO.”
“Uh-“
“The director is a complete ASSHOLE.” He spat the last word with such malice that it made Tschichold’s eye twitch a little. “He thinks he is the next Alfred Hitchcock. The next David Lynch. But really? Really? He’s more like, Ed Wood. NO, like Tommy Wiseau. You know, what? He’s a shit. A fucking prick. Fuck his work. Fuck his face. You know what?” The delirious native turned to the skies.
“SURE THING.” The actor slurred, taking a genuine knife out of his pocket. “I AM IN CONTROL OF MY OWN LIFE. I AM MYSELF. THE DIRECTOR CANNOT HANDLE ME, HANDLE MY ACTING GRACE.”
With a quick hack and slash, Tschichold’s bonds were free. It was not that hard really, considering the rope was incredibly cheap and shoddy. Looking rather smug (and stoned), the native screamed, waggling his knife to the cosmos. “I QUIT THIS JOB. YOU HEAR ME? WATCH OUT WORLD, LLOYD’S GONNA QUIT.” Then, Lloyd ran away, slammed into an oddly two-dimensional tree, and immediately fell unconscious.</font>
Tschichold carefully tried not to step on the prone bodies. He should be glad he was alive and in one piece and he was. Tschichold did not like this place for the obvious reason. He was definitely sure of this next goal: find a way out of this place.
He was not exactly keen on going into the forest again, considering a possibility of a CGI monster or an enlarged toy dinosaur eating him up like a human-shaped licorice. He was not taking any chances of threats to his existence, especially embarrassing threats. Perhaps he could search the village for any clues?
So far, his luck was not helping. He was turning up junk, like a plastic skull (made in China) or a tropical-looking plant (price tag still on), but still, he kept going. If this poor-productive place followed the plot (if there was a plot, he grumbled), perhaps he could find a way out, probably a temple with a giant television screen or something. Tschichold did not know. He just wanted out.
Lo and behold, in front of him, there was the most eldtrich architecture he could possibly imagine. The gaudiest, the most depraved-looking cobbled together model in the collective universe. Any concrete expression of this wretched prop was impossible. In a way, this was horrible, too horrible to be real – so perverse, it was inhumanly beautiful.
Tschichold shuddered.
Of course, when he went inside, he was in for a surprise.
The artist’s jaw slightly slacked as he saw what was inside. There was his oil-painting kit, leaning on the poorly-pasted wallpaper. However, there was also a television set, a real television set. In the secluded tribal village of cannibals, their culture isolated in the jungle, there was a freaking real television set in one of the huts - truly the most baffling anachronism of the ages.
He could try to logic why a television set was incongruously was in this place. What this some sort of absurdist movement? Was this environment made for ironic purposes? Why everything did not make any goddamn sense? He could stay and wonder, bask in this ugly beauty. However, the natives could recover any time and his escape route was just in front of him. What was he waiting for? Clutching his paint kit, Tschichold ran
And jumped into the set.
Change fluttered around in mild annoyance as the camera zoomed towards him. As the embodiment of transactions fruitlessly attempted to escape the eyes of the unseen audience, the omnipresent Narrator continued. “Mother Nature had given the researchers of Fjorn Lief’s laboratory a surprising serendipity, a biological miracle between the fine thread of living and non-living. This may look like a wad of mere bills, but really –"
A string of expletives interrupted the balmy atmosphere of the nature documentary, as Tschichold shot through the screen of the television and on to the floor with a heavy splash. The painter laid still, face flat -bubbles of garbled anger formed around his head as his paints diluted in the spilled water.
An awkward silence passed and was broken as Steve decided to go forth and prod the prone figure. Without even a hint of astonishment, the Narrator continued its monotone documentary. “Ah, Nature had done it again, another miracle with these laboratories! Here we have a very unusual species, probably of reptilian lineage despite its humanoid figure. Steve Chip observes the pigmented liquids it naturally sloughs off…”
Celebration continued in the village as Tschichold continued to stew inside the fake-looking cauldron. Unfortunately, for the main ingredient in question, the natives had enough savvy this time to tie up his limbs, ruining any chance of wiggling out of the main course.
Of course, he was not just sitting there, keeping his mouth shut. All this time, Tschichold had been yelling, screaming, and bitching – seeming to fall only on deaf ears. Geez, what was with them? Did the cheap craft store materials clog their ears or something? It was either that or they have selective hearing. At this point, he was willing to try anything. Perhaps, he could be a little nicer? The water was really burning up his thighs and he was pretty sure he had an unsightly rash on his ass –which is terrible.
“I am not exactly the tastiest or the healthiest meat in the world, so can you let me go?” Tschichold pleadingly reasoned. “Pretty please?” He added, smiling nervously.
Tschichold’s eye lit up as the chef seemed to notice. Unfortunately for the artist, this channel, like all other channels, ran on television logic, which could be nonsensical in frigid proportions. Even though the native-actors do speak English, they chose to selectively hear the hapless artist’s sentences in their (made-up) indigenous language.
His plead,
“I am not exactly the tastiest or the healthiest meat in the world, so can you let me go?” had been bastardized to
“Ee amnu exacterth testho’tha hathtee meenath worso canule me’o” which meant
<font color="DarkGreen">“I am a delicious food product shining with fat and full of essential vitamins and nutrients!”
Also coincidentally,
“pretty please” sounds like
“pret’the ease” which in the native language meant </font>
“I’m freaking delicious!”
After the awful footwork and music had ended, the natives scurried to the feasting shrine (actually a picnic table covered in butcher paper) and returned with plastic utensils. Some were holding forks. Others were holding spoons. Tschichold wonder how they were going eat him with spoon, but he did not want to know. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. He had control. Sure, he was going to die a very embarrassing death,
but that did not mean he was forced to see it!
***
In the dark void of space, emptiness stretched infinite. Not a single thing in sight – no dust, no particles, no stars. It was startlingly, almost clear. The crippling realization was there. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing was happening.
Seriously.
It has been a couple of minutes and no amount of bodily harm or sudden unconsciousness had crept up to him. Was this how death, especially of the embarrassing flavor felt like? Fear seized his heart, but the he felt the burning need to know. Tentatively, Tschichold decided to open one eye, wondering what the abyss that was forthcoming for him to be like.
To his surprise, there was no abyss. There was no darkness. In fact, everything was the way before, just as artistically horrible and poorly productive. Sure, he was still in aesthetic hell, but he was alive, dammit, alive! He could never been this happier in his meaningless existence – especially since the burning had receded down to his knees.
Wait, was it? Tschichold checked again. Yes, apparently, the soup that supposedly cooked him had went down a couple of levels. The painter was confused as why they drank the soup instead of eating him. Television logic? Regardless, he should be glad they were stupid enough to drink the multi-colored soup instead of taking a chunk out of any extremities he had out.
Obviously, the tribal members were under the immediate influence of their so-called meal, considering they actually ingested the artist’s psychoactive paints orally. They were groaning and moaning from the toxicity, but mostly from the headache-inducing hallucinations thanks to their overdose.
<font color="DarkGreen">“Oh boy, this stew is elephants!” Then, the native wheezed, made retching sounds, and collapsed.
Tschichold was somewhat jubilant at this happy accident – somewhat, because the native were clearly high off their rocker. Despite what they had done to him, he really needed someone who was somewhat motor-functional to cut away at his binds.
A native staggered to him, the bottom half of his paper mask stained dark with stomach contents. Without nary a pause, he forced his face onto the artist’s.
“I hate my job.” The native whispered.
“Come again?” Tschichold raised an unseen eyebrow in surprise. The painter knew the jungle was clearly fake-looking (and horrible-looking to boot), but he arbitrarily assumed the aesthetic was part of this craft-store hellhole.
“I hate my job.” He screamed and before the painter could interrupt, blurted out. “I am a thespian. I went to acting school. I worked my ass off to pay for my tuition, my student loans, my DREAMS.” His voice began to quaver in indignant sorrow. “And what is my supposed dream job? This. THIS. Playing some goddamn native extra in some movie with shitty-o-vision. WHERE DID MY LIFE GO.”
“Uh-“
“The director is a complete ASSHOLE.” He spat the last word with such malice that it made Tschichold’s eye twitch a little. “He thinks he is the next Alfred Hitchcock. The next David Lynch. But really? Really? He’s more like, Ed Wood. NO, like Tommy Wiseau. You know, what? He’s a shit. A fucking prick. Fuck his work. Fuck his face. You know what?” The delirious native turned to the skies.
“FUCK YOU, JOHN. FUUUUUUUUUCK YOU.”
And ad nauseum. The painter was shocked at the amount of swear words pouring from the native-actor’s mouth. He could sit back and listen, but escape was an important thing on his mind. “Can you let me go then?” Tschichold nudged the question forth.“SURE THING.” The actor slurred, taking a genuine knife out of his pocket. “I AM IN CONTROL OF MY OWN LIFE. I AM MYSELF. THE DIRECTOR CANNOT HANDLE ME, HANDLE MY ACTING GRACE.”
With a quick hack and slash, Tschichold’s bonds were free. It was not that hard really, considering the rope was incredibly cheap and shoddy. Looking rather smug (and stoned), the native screamed, waggling his knife to the cosmos. “I QUIT THIS JOB. YOU HEAR ME? WATCH OUT WORLD, LLOYD’S GONNA QUIT.” Then, Lloyd ran away, slammed into an oddly two-dimensional tree, and immediately fell unconscious.</font>
***
Tschichold carefully tried not to step on the prone bodies. He should be glad he was alive and in one piece and he was. Tschichold did not like this place for the obvious reason. He was definitely sure of this next goal: find a way out of this place.
He was not exactly keen on going into the forest again, considering a possibility of a CGI monster or an enlarged toy dinosaur eating him up like a human-shaped licorice. He was not taking any chances of threats to his existence, especially embarrassing threats. Perhaps he could search the village for any clues?
So far, his luck was not helping. He was turning up junk, like a plastic skull (made in China) or a tropical-looking plant (price tag still on), but still, he kept going. If this poor-productive place followed the plot (if there was a plot, he grumbled), perhaps he could find a way out, probably a temple with a giant television screen or something. Tschichold did not know. He just wanted out.
Lo and behold, in front of him, there was the most eldtrich architecture he could possibly imagine. The gaudiest, the most depraved-looking cobbled together model in the collective universe. Any concrete expression of this wretched prop was impossible. In a way, this was horrible, too horrible to be real – so perverse, it was inhumanly beautiful.
Tschichold shuddered.
Of course, when he went inside, he was in for a surprise.
The artist’s jaw slightly slacked as he saw what was inside. There was his oil-painting kit, leaning on the poorly-pasted wallpaper. However, there was also a television set, a real television set. In the secluded tribal village of cannibals, their culture isolated in the jungle, there was a freaking real television set in one of the huts - truly the most baffling anachronism of the ages.
He could try to logic why a television set was incongruously was in this place. What this some sort of absurdist movement? Was this environment made for ironic purposes? Why everything did not make any goddamn sense? He could stay and wonder, bask in this ugly beauty. However, the natives could recover any time and his escape route was just in front of him. What was he waiting for? Clutching his paint kit, Tschichold ran
And jumped into the set.
***
The scientists were completely soaked, yet, their eyes continued to goggle at the spectacle the two intruders had caused. Steve Chip carefully wiped his glasses, making sure to show astonishment in his gestures and actions. The jellyfish was biologically fascinating, defying all known nature. However, there were these <font color="#808080">two fine specimens, actually one. The other one was a boring old human. “Good lord!” Chip gasped as he decided to check out the unusual species of floating indeterminable bills.</font>Change fluttered around in mild annoyance as the camera zoomed towards him. As the embodiment of transactions fruitlessly attempted to escape the eyes of the unseen audience, the omnipresent Narrator continued. “Mother Nature had given the researchers of Fjorn Lief’s laboratory a surprising serendipity, a biological miracle between the fine thread of living and non-living. This may look like a wad of mere bills, but really –"
A string of expletives interrupted the balmy atmosphere of the nature documentary, as Tschichold shot through the screen of the television and on to the floor with a heavy splash. The painter laid still, face flat -bubbles of garbled anger formed around his head as his paints diluted in the spilled water.
An awkward silence passed and was broken as Steve decided to go forth and prod the prone figure. Without even a hint of astonishment, the Narrator continued its monotone documentary. “Ah, Nature had done it again, another miracle with these laboratories! Here we have a very unusual species, probably of reptilian lineage despite its humanoid figure. Steve Chip observes the pigmented liquids it naturally sloughs off…”