Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
12-10-2011, 05:33 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.
Even the animalistic undead servant of Beelzebub realized that Junior was pretty much bad business. As he averted his one good eye away from the eye-scouring static of the child, gears in Ablendan’s head were turning. Delving deep into his instincts, Blake decided it would be prudent to place as much distance between him and Junior. Considering that the creepy kid was apparently focusing all his attention on Kriok, the current plan seemed to be a good idea.
As Junior advanced, Ablendan sidled away as quietly as he possibly could (especially with those damn flies). The confrontation was none of his business and he was glad about that considering his plate was full of problems. Keeping his wary eye on the two, the former man reached a tentative clawed hand towards the entrance.
It was blocked.
Ablendan turned around. The main entrance was just as door-less as usual, but for some reason, he could not leave! There was some invisible wall to his goal, as if the channel needed to add more insult to his injury. The demonic servant looked up in confusion as the edges of the entrance were burning away into static, almost reminiscent of a paper to a flame. In time too short to be a second, the door was a wall of white noise, an impregnable monolith to his escape.
<font color="white">“Daddy isn’t supposed to leave right now,” giggled a cruel but familiar voice. Ablendan turned around and saw Junior staring, smiling – his lips pursed into a distorted smile. The child began to advance towards him. The noise of static growing louder and louder.
“Now would you act your part.” </font>
At the sheer swing of Junior’s character, Tschichold was immediately terrified to the point to clinging on a very annoyed Kriok, who was not so keen on a shadowy octopus clinging on with all four of his limbs. Regardless, the ephemeral fear had melted away in a short moment.
For to his horror, Tschichold realized that he had ruined his own artwork! The artist stumbled onto the ground as he realized the atrocity he had caused. The expert brushwork he had meticulously dabbed over the oh-so-ugly metal parts. All that effort wasted. All that detail, muddied up by additional paints. Everything was RUINED, RUINED FOREVER.
In his horror, Tschichold pulled at his own hair. This was DEFINITELY NOT HIS FAULT. No sir! Not his fault. Why would he ruin his own work? Well, not in his own pretense. Clearly, someone forced him to ruin his own work. The ladybird was clearly not the culprit (how could a canvas paint itself anyway). The business-zombie was too far away. Who could be the criminal?
That’s it! There was this twerp, maybe nine, ten, or eleven years old. TSCHICHOLD DID NOT KNOW (especially considering he was a poor judge of age). Regardless, there was this nine, ten, or eleven years old kid who SCARED HIM, and therefore RUINED HIS STYLE. Everything was that damn brat’s fault. EVERYTHING. At that moment, his horror had spontaneously combusted into fiery indignant rage. That kid needed to be punished.
Of course, he could not be too heavy-handed. He was a bona-fide artist. Logically, he had to give the most artsy punishment possible. What was the most artsy punishment, anyway? Tschichold thought for while and luckily decided the artiest course of action:
he decided to spit on Junior.
Junior felt something wet hitting him on his sleeve. As the static child raised his arm up, his suspicions were correct. It was that damn artist. Junior’s face screwed up into intense annoyance. Yet another actor acting out of character again. In hindsight, he should had picked his performers more carefully and not just willy-nilly grab up whatever thing the television barfed out next. However, the list of dramatis personae was huge and people were hard to come by.
However, the show must go on.
Kriok was somewhat perturbed at the cascade of actions. As Junior advanced towards them, Kriok turned around, focusing her augmented eyes on Tschichold. “Why did you do that?” She asked.
<font color="#814444">Tschichold immediately fired an irritable answer under his breath. “He was ruining my style.”
Kriok’s eyebrow-equivalents (that is, if she had any) arched into question-marks. “Honestly?”
“YES. Didn’t you see?” Tschichold glared back in self-righteous annoyance.
Kriok rubbed her temples with her free hand. First there was this undead zombie who was supposed to be her husband. Then, there was this belligerent brat that was supposed to be her kid. Finally, there was this crazy artist was supposed to be her other kid. They are starting to be annoying, just a little.
This family loony bin was grating on her artificial nerves. She needed to be just alone. Of course, annoyance was around the corner just as a white placard decided to drift in her view. “You are grounded, young man! [to Chad]”, the written words demanded of her.
<span style="background-color:black;"> Kriok swung around and lo behold, there was Junior. His eyes were completely normal, but you did not need augmentation to feel the controlling malice from that child. “Well, mommy?” the words oozing from Junior were positively disgusting.
“Mommy needs a little drink,” Kriok mumbled. It was not the best excuse, but she really wanted to be left alone.
“But Chaddy needs a little control.” The placard began to nudge at her beak.
Kriok had positively enough. She tossed the placard out of her face and faced the kid. “You know, it isn’t ‘Chad’ who needs control. Maybe, you are the one who needs control. After all, what did Chad do wrong? Nothing! And what have YOU done? Subjugate us, control us and trap us.” Kriok’s eyes flickered downwards.
“You are grounded, young man.”</span></font>
Junior’s lips quavered at the sheer paradox that beheld him. The Mother was acting out of character again and yet, it was part of the script! The two matched as well as water and oil mixed. This was illogical, no IMPOSSIBLE. The static child’s face twisted into a downwards crescent, then suddenly bounded back into a terrible, scheming smile.
“Okay mommy!”Junior chirped in a falsetto sing-song manner. “I’ll be in my room, waiting out my punishment!” Then, he tipped his head close. “FOR NOW.” The shockingly flanged voice made Kriok almost jump out of her feathers (and her metal parts too).
Giggling, Junior skipped into his room, making sure to sidle across the linoleum floor with his cute socks. Before entering, he made sure to show a very nice (note: horrifying) smile to Mommy. After all, he was a very good boy.
Giving himself a nice congratulatory chortle, Junior closed the door. After a snap of the lock, all was silence.
Tschichold’s jaw slacked in surprise all the windows spontaneously blew up at the same time. Immediately, the broken glass floated up and dissolved into static, which was used to fill the space in the frames. The painter checked all the doors, all the windows, all the televisions. Everything, it seems, every way of exit had been replaced by static, even the air vents had been filled with that wretched white noise!
Tschichold moved his arms around in frustration. The static, the static was so, so not aesthetically pleasing. How was this even possible? He had to paint over it. The painter went to the front window, ruining the sofa in the process. Tschichold thoughtfully chewed on the tip of his brush. How would he fill this ugly space?
After a while, he decided to fill his canvas with a nice sunrise.
Ignorant of the events behind him, Ablendan continued to scratch fruitlessly at the impregnable noise that blocked his freedom. This was going onto massive levels of frustrating! The demonic servant let out a desperate whine, drowned out by the hum of flesh-eating flies that chose him as their companion.
Just when he was about the give up, the static gave way! Ablendan drew back a hand in surprise. It was true! The noise crumbled away at his claws like wet sand at a beach. Surprised and relieved, Ablendan continued to dig at the white noise, tunneling through just as a grub would do through decaying flesh. Ablendan was cautious, unsure of the prospects in front of him,
but his instincts were fraying with anticipation!
![[Image: sitcom-1.gif]](https://i778.photobucket.com/albums/yy62/hermitcat/sitcom-1.gif)
As Junior advanced, Ablendan sidled away as quietly as he possibly could (especially with those damn flies). The confrontation was none of his business and he was glad about that considering his plate was full of problems. Keeping his wary eye on the two, the former man reached a tentative clawed hand towards the entrance.
It was blocked.
Ablendan turned around. The main entrance was just as door-less as usual, but for some reason, he could not leave! There was some invisible wall to his goal, as if the channel needed to add more insult to his injury. The demonic servant looked up in confusion as the edges of the entrance were burning away into static, almost reminiscent of a paper to a flame. In time too short to be a second, the door was a wall of white noise, an impregnable monolith to his escape.
<font color="white">“Daddy isn’t supposed to leave right now,” giggled a cruel but familiar voice. Ablendan turned around and saw Junior staring, smiling – his lips pursed into a distorted smile. The child began to advance towards him. The noise of static growing louder and louder.
“Now would you act your part.” </font>
***
At the sheer swing of Junior’s character, Tschichold was immediately terrified to the point to clinging on a very annoyed Kriok, who was not so keen on a shadowy octopus clinging on with all four of his limbs. Regardless, the ephemeral fear had melted away in a short moment.
For to his horror, Tschichold realized that he had ruined his own artwork! The artist stumbled onto the ground as he realized the atrocity he had caused. The expert brushwork he had meticulously dabbed over the oh-so-ugly metal parts. All that effort wasted. All that detail, muddied up by additional paints. Everything was RUINED, RUINED FOREVER.
In his horror, Tschichold pulled at his own hair. This was DEFINITELY NOT HIS FAULT. No sir! Not his fault. Why would he ruin his own work? Well, not in his own pretense. Clearly, someone forced him to ruin his own work. The ladybird was clearly not the culprit (how could a canvas paint itself anyway). The business-zombie was too far away. Who could be the criminal?
That’s it! There was this twerp, maybe nine, ten, or eleven years old. TSCHICHOLD DID NOT KNOW (especially considering he was a poor judge of age). Regardless, there was this nine, ten, or eleven years old kid who SCARED HIM, and therefore RUINED HIS STYLE. Everything was that damn brat’s fault. EVERYTHING. At that moment, his horror had spontaneously combusted into fiery indignant rage. That kid needed to be punished.
Of course, he could not be too heavy-handed. He was a bona-fide artist. Logically, he had to give the most artsy punishment possible. What was the most artsy punishment, anyway? Tschichold thought for while and luckily decided the artiest course of action:
he decided to spit on Junior.
***
Junior felt something wet hitting him on his sleeve. As the static child raised his arm up, his suspicions were correct. It was that damn artist. Junior’s face screwed up into intense annoyance. Yet another actor acting out of character again. In hindsight, he should had picked his performers more carefully and not just willy-nilly grab up whatever thing the television barfed out next. However, the list of dramatis personae was huge and people were hard to come by.
However, the show must go on.
***
Kriok was somewhat perturbed at the cascade of actions. As Junior advanced towards them, Kriok turned around, focusing her augmented eyes on Tschichold. “Why did you do that?” She asked.
<font color="#814444">Tschichold immediately fired an irritable answer under his breath. “He was ruining my style.”
Kriok’s eyebrow-equivalents (that is, if she had any) arched into question-marks. “Honestly?”
“YES. Didn’t you see?” Tschichold glared back in self-righteous annoyance.
Kriok rubbed her temples with her free hand. First there was this undead zombie who was supposed to be her husband. Then, there was this belligerent brat that was supposed to be her kid. Finally, there was this crazy artist was supposed to be her other kid. They are starting to be annoying, just a little.
This family loony bin was grating on her artificial nerves. She needed to be just alone. Of course, annoyance was around the corner just as a white placard decided to drift in her view. “You are grounded, young man! [to Chad]”, the written words demanded of her.
<span style="background-color:black;"> Kriok swung around and lo behold, there was Junior. His eyes were completely normal, but you did not need augmentation to feel the controlling malice from that child. “Well, mommy?” the words oozing from Junior were positively disgusting.
“Mommy needs a little drink,” Kriok mumbled. It was not the best excuse, but she really wanted to be left alone.
“But Chaddy needs a little control.” The placard began to nudge at her beak.
Kriok had positively enough. She tossed the placard out of her face and faced the kid. “You know, it isn’t ‘Chad’ who needs control. Maybe, you are the one who needs control. After all, what did Chad do wrong? Nothing! And what have YOU done? Subjugate us, control us and trap us.” Kriok’s eyes flickered downwards.
“You are grounded, young man.”</span></font>
***
Junior’s lips quavered at the sheer paradox that beheld him. The Mother was acting out of character again and yet, it was part of the script! The two matched as well as water and oil mixed. This was illogical, no IMPOSSIBLE. The static child’s face twisted into a downwards crescent, then suddenly bounded back into a terrible, scheming smile.
“Okay mommy!”Junior chirped in a falsetto sing-song manner. “I’ll be in my room, waiting out my punishment!” Then, he tipped his head close. “FOR NOW.” The shockingly flanged voice made Kriok almost jump out of her feathers (and her metal parts too).
Giggling, Junior skipped into his room, making sure to sidle across the linoleum floor with his cute socks. Before entering, he made sure to show a very nice (note: horrifying) smile to Mommy. After all, he was a very good boy.
Giving himself a nice congratulatory chortle, Junior closed the door. After a snap of the lock, all was silence.
***
Tschichold’s jaw slacked in surprise all the windows spontaneously blew up at the same time. Immediately, the broken glass floated up and dissolved into static, which was used to fill the space in the frames. The painter checked all the doors, all the windows, all the televisions. Everything, it seems, every way of exit had been replaced by static, even the air vents had been filled with that wretched white noise!
Tschichold moved his arms around in frustration. The static, the static was so, so not aesthetically pleasing. How was this even possible? He had to paint over it. The painter went to the front window, ruining the sofa in the process. Tschichold thoughtfully chewed on the tip of his brush. How would he fill this ugly space?
After a while, he decided to fill his canvas with a nice sunrise.
***
Ignorant of the events behind him, Ablendan continued to scratch fruitlessly at the impregnable noise that blocked his freedom. This was going onto massive levels of frustrating! The demonic servant let out a desperate whine, drowned out by the hum of flesh-eating flies that chose him as their companion.
Just when he was about the give up, the static gave way! Ablendan drew back a hand in surprise. It was true! The noise crumbled away at his claws like wet sand at a beach. Surprised and relieved, Ablendan continued to dig at the white noise, tunneling through just as a grub would do through decaying flesh. Ablendan was cautious, unsure of the prospects in front of him,
but his instincts were fraying with anticipation!