Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
12-09-2011, 03:26 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by WaveOfBabies.
Ablendan continued heading outside, somewhat puzzled by this strange greyscale world. Everything looked so similar to the zombie world, but at the same time infinitely different. For a while, his brain looped back to the other contestants. So far he had only seen one, the mechanical bird. Too distant to be a help, too mechanical to be a good meal, and seemed more like a builder than an executioner. Useless to him. But she was the only other one trapped in this sitcom world, so if shit went down temporarily working with her couldn't be a bad option.
His introspection continued as he looked at some of the weird inventions on display. Like a pole full of letters, or a "mailbox." Were couriers not good enough anymore? He leafed through the mailbox, wondering why half of the letters seemed to be addressed to some guy named Bill, before dismissing it as garbage and knocking it over. A strange key rolled out, golden in color and not looking like any key he had seen. Shrugging, Ablendan put it in his new suit pocket. How useful! Then, suddenly, he felt a slam to the head.
![[Image: HEYNEIGHBOR.png]](https://i778.photobucket.com/albums/yy62/hermitcat/HEYNEIGHBOR.png)
"Hey, neighbor!" cheered the voice of an odd man. He looked human, but very clearly wasn't. His skin seemed almost plastic and rigid, his hair was a shade so bright, and presumably blond as well, that Ablendan had to avert his eyes when looking at him, and his teeth were impossibly flawless. He waved as he stepped forward, picking up the football. "Sorry 'bout that, neighbor-ooni," he apologized in a grating voice, as ghostly laughter was heard. "The kid's coming back from Harvard, and I was tossing the old pigskin around to practice for a game with him."
Ablendan Blake was not amused.
"Say, you look like death warmed over," commented the man. "Need any help? I AM a doctor, you know." Ablendan clenched his fists with annoyance at the smug tone of superiority in this strange superman's voice as he continued to ramble about his accomplishments. What was he going to say next, that he owns a massive tract of land with more serfs than members of the King's army? He slowly zoned out, thinking about how satisfying shutting this freakish human up with a slash to the jugular would be, only for the sound of the door flying open to snap him out of his trance.
"Honey, are you STILL tossing around that silly football?" asked a woman in a nearly see-through nightgown. She looked exactly as blonde and plastic as the man, and if they weren't supposed to be a married couple you could almost mistake them for siblings. She was large-chested, and judging from the disembodied audience's non-verbal "oohs" and "aahs" the camera was probably focusing on this fact. "Why don't you come inside, so we can continue . . . talking"
"Hold on, Sharon," commented the neighbor, motioning for his wife to leave. "I'm meeting the new neighbor, Mr. Blake." Ablendan was taken aback by how this man seemed to know his name, and scowled at the thought. With each word this man said, Ablendan slowly started to hate him more and more. Eventually, though, he had an idea.
"Neighbor," he creaked out, cringing a little at the sound of his own voice. It reminded him briefly of a time when he was more human . . . oh, how far he had fallen. He looked around before his eyes settled on a large attachment to his house, conveniently labeled "GARAGE." "Want to see the new garage? I have . . . things to show you." Any normal man would not have been so easily lured, but sitcom characters are always easy to fool when hijinks would end up occurring as a result. Only in this case, it was a very bloody set of hijinks. "Of course, Mr. Blake!" the man replied, flashing his perfect smile for the last time as he headed into the garage.
~~~~
Kriok tried to work. She really did. But when one kept hearing slams and thuds from the garage, it was very easy to get distracted. After the fifth set of loud slams and bangs, she swore to herself and walked out to the garage to try and see what the hell all the commotion of. Sure enough, Flyboy over there was slamming some guys head into a wall repeatedly, letting out delighted, gravelly chuckles with each slam.
Maybe at another time Kriok would have been disgusted. But she was sick of this sitcom already, and all she regarded Ablendan's latest kill as was a distraction. She sighed, annoyed, as she stormed back into the kitchen. Every door was shut behind her to help block out noise, as Kriok slowly began to get back to work. "Remind me not to piss him off," she sarcastically quipped, voice deadpan. However, as noise continued to seep into the kitchen despite her best efforts, a thought did cross her head. This guy seemed to have a lot of brute force behind him, and all he seemed to need was something to kill every now and again. Maybe if she dangled the proper carrot in front of him he'd make himself useful.
~~~~
Finally, Mr. Perfect had stopped struggling, but much to Ablendan's displeasure he made a horrible meal. The meat tasted like plastic, and when the flesh-eater tried to taste his organs he found them withered away from the abuse of many substances. Even the brain was comically tiny. Looks like Mr. Perfect wasn't so perfect after all. As Ablendan haphazardly shoved the skeleton into a garbage can, a burst of static seeming to form as he did this, Ablendan decided to check out just what a garage was anyway.
Most of it seemed rather pointless. Novelty store items, mounted fish, and random pieces of junk littered the garage. But one thing in particular confused Ablendan the most. As he looked around the room he noticed what appeared to be a horseless carriage, sitting inert in the middle of the room. "Useless," he grumbled as he looked at what we would know is an automobile, wondering how it would even run if it didn't have a horse attached. He looked at the door, puzzled by it. How did people get a fresh breath of air with that annoying glass in the way. In a move only Ablendan would consider sane, he punched through the glass with his bare hands. Much better.
Despite Ablendan's continued efforts to ignore it, though, the mysteries of the car enticed him. He opened the door, nearly swinging it off of its hinges from the sheer power of its grip, as he sat down in the driver's seat. Apparently carriages of the future had a fifth wheel, which was inside of the carriage. Ablendan's confusion only grew as he looked at the various functions and buttons that he had no idea how to use. He was a caveman witnessing a UFO, and no effort he made to push the car into working succeeded. He tried slamming, banging, slamming and banging at the same time, and even threatening the car with grumbled swears. But no matter what, it refused to budge.
Then Ablendan noticed the keyhole in the ignition. Using the wonderful gift of short-term memory, he checked his pockets and produced the key he had taken from the mailbox earlier. He knew about keys opening doors, but keys opening carriages? The very idea confounded him. But with no better options, all Ablendan could think to do was insert the key into the ignition. Slowly, he began to turn it . . .
Ablendan continued heading outside, somewhat puzzled by this strange greyscale world. Everything looked so similar to the zombie world, but at the same time infinitely different. For a while, his brain looped back to the other contestants. So far he had only seen one, the mechanical bird. Too distant to be a help, too mechanical to be a good meal, and seemed more like a builder than an executioner. Useless to him. But she was the only other one trapped in this sitcom world, so if shit went down temporarily working with her couldn't be a bad option.
His introspection continued as he looked at some of the weird inventions on display. Like a pole full of letters, or a "mailbox." Were couriers not good enough anymore? He leafed through the mailbox, wondering why half of the letters seemed to be addressed to some guy named Bill, before dismissing it as garbage and knocking it over. A strange key rolled out, golden in color and not looking like any key he had seen. Shrugging, Ablendan put it in his new suit pocket. How useful! Then, suddenly, he felt a slam to the head.
"Hey, neighbor!" cheered the voice of an odd man. He looked human, but very clearly wasn't. His skin seemed almost plastic and rigid, his hair was a shade so bright, and presumably blond as well, that Ablendan had to avert his eyes when looking at him, and his teeth were impossibly flawless. He waved as he stepped forward, picking up the football. "Sorry 'bout that, neighbor-ooni," he apologized in a grating voice, as ghostly laughter was heard. "The kid's coming back from Harvard, and I was tossing the old pigskin around to practice for a game with him."
Ablendan Blake was not amused.
"Say, you look like death warmed over," commented the man. "Need any help? I AM a doctor, you know." Ablendan clenched his fists with annoyance at the smug tone of superiority in this strange superman's voice as he continued to ramble about his accomplishments. What was he going to say next, that he owns a massive tract of land with more serfs than members of the King's army? He slowly zoned out, thinking about how satisfying shutting this freakish human up with a slash to the jugular would be, only for the sound of the door flying open to snap him out of his trance.
"Honey, are you STILL tossing around that silly football?" asked a woman in a nearly see-through nightgown. She looked exactly as blonde and plastic as the man, and if they weren't supposed to be a married couple you could almost mistake them for siblings. She was large-chested, and judging from the disembodied audience's non-verbal "oohs" and "aahs" the camera was probably focusing on this fact. "Why don't you come inside, so we can continue . . . talking"
"Hold on, Sharon," commented the neighbor, motioning for his wife to leave. "I'm meeting the new neighbor, Mr. Blake." Ablendan was taken aback by how this man seemed to know his name, and scowled at the thought. With each word this man said, Ablendan slowly started to hate him more and more. Eventually, though, he had an idea.
"Neighbor," he creaked out, cringing a little at the sound of his own voice. It reminded him briefly of a time when he was more human . . . oh, how far he had fallen. He looked around before his eyes settled on a large attachment to his house, conveniently labeled "GARAGE." "Want to see the new garage? I have . . . things to show you." Any normal man would not have been so easily lured, but sitcom characters are always easy to fool when hijinks would end up occurring as a result. Only in this case, it was a very bloody set of hijinks. "Of course, Mr. Blake!" the man replied, flashing his perfect smile for the last time as he headed into the garage.
~~~~
Kriok tried to work. She really did. But when one kept hearing slams and thuds from the garage, it was very easy to get distracted. After the fifth set of loud slams and bangs, she swore to herself and walked out to the garage to try and see what the hell all the commotion of. Sure enough, Flyboy over there was slamming some guys head into a wall repeatedly, letting out delighted, gravelly chuckles with each slam.
Maybe at another time Kriok would have been disgusted. But she was sick of this sitcom already, and all she regarded Ablendan's latest kill as was a distraction. She sighed, annoyed, as she stormed back into the kitchen. Every door was shut behind her to help block out noise, as Kriok slowly began to get back to work. "Remind me not to piss him off," she sarcastically quipped, voice deadpan. However, as noise continued to seep into the kitchen despite her best efforts, a thought did cross her head. This guy seemed to have a lot of brute force behind him, and all he seemed to need was something to kill every now and again. Maybe if she dangled the proper carrot in front of him he'd make himself useful.
~~~~
Finally, Mr. Perfect had stopped struggling, but much to Ablendan's displeasure he made a horrible meal. The meat tasted like plastic, and when the flesh-eater tried to taste his organs he found them withered away from the abuse of many substances. Even the brain was comically tiny. Looks like Mr. Perfect wasn't so perfect after all. As Ablendan haphazardly shoved the skeleton into a garbage can, a burst of static seeming to form as he did this, Ablendan decided to check out just what a garage was anyway.
Most of it seemed rather pointless. Novelty store items, mounted fish, and random pieces of junk littered the garage. But one thing in particular confused Ablendan the most. As he looked around the room he noticed what appeared to be a horseless carriage, sitting inert in the middle of the room. "Useless," he grumbled as he looked at what we would know is an automobile, wondering how it would even run if it didn't have a horse attached. He looked at the door, puzzled by it. How did people get a fresh breath of air with that annoying glass in the way. In a move only Ablendan would consider sane, he punched through the glass with his bare hands. Much better.
Despite Ablendan's continued efforts to ignore it, though, the mysteries of the car enticed him. He opened the door, nearly swinging it off of its hinges from the sheer power of its grip, as he sat down in the driver's seat. Apparently carriages of the future had a fifth wheel, which was inside of the carriage. Ablendan's confusion only grew as he looked at the various functions and buttons that he had no idea how to use. He was a caveman witnessing a UFO, and no effort he made to push the car into working succeeded. He tried slamming, banging, slamming and banging at the same time, and even threatening the car with grumbled swears. But no matter what, it refused to budge.
Then Ablendan noticed the keyhole in the ignition. Using the wonderful gift of short-term memory, he checked his pockets and produced the key he had taken from the mailbox earlier. He knew about keys opening doors, but keys opening carriages? The very idea confounded him. But with no better options, all Ablendan could think to do was insert the key into the ignition. Slowly, he began to turn it . . .