Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
12-13-2011, 12:07 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by WaveOfBabies.
Ablendan continued burying through the static like a trooper, his mind giddy with excitement as being released from the house with the bad-tempered bird and the odd painter person. And especially being away from that horrifying looking child, with his oddly perfect features and apparent nature as a cosmic horror. In fact, he was so giddy that he didn't even notice the static clearing away until he had finished barreling through all of it. At this point, though, two thoughts hit him.
The first was that he had just taken that whole "stay away from the big scary static" warning and showed it who was boss, and that made him as prideful as a demonic peacock. The second thought was accompanied by a burning sensation in his hands, as he realized just why that warning was given in the first place. He collapsed to the ground in pain, and flies had to stuff themselves into his mouth as a makeshift gag to stop him from screaming and hissing. Eventually Ablendan righted himself once more, bu he shuddered. He's never burying through that static again.
Still, Junior would probably start whining about "Daddy isn't following the script!" again and would probably end up locking him in a whole prison of static. So like any good predator, Ablendan decided to cover his tracks. He picked up the door, ripped off its hinges but still intact, and shoddily placed it against the hole where it once belonged. It wasn't a perfect fit by far, and in fact Ablendan had the organizational skills of a drunken manatee, but to his addled mind a covered door was a covered door.
The first thing the tormented man did was run right for the garage, where he found a familiar, beautiful sight: the horseless carriage. He hopped into it, inserted the horse-replacing key, and listened to the beautiful sound of its engines firing up. That sound was just as perfect the second time, Ablendan smashing the dashboard with one hand in animalistic delight. Of course, his hands were still quite burned from tunneling, so he quickly winced and pulled his hand away. After a while of just listening to the engine, he slammed his foot on the gas as hard as he could and sped out of the garage.
People driving at peaceful, 50s-accepted speeds found themselves having to swerve away from Ablendan's lunatic driving. Being both from the 1700s and incredibly insane, he had no concept of simple things like common courtesy, road lines, or "there are other people driving you git." He drove down the wrong side of the road half the time, never stopped at stop signs, and even ran over a raccoon or two in his mad pursuit to just drive. Eventually, though, he noticed a large sign and stopped to read it. "BIG Co," he sounded out, still not fully used to his voice.
As soon as he said this, he found himself getting out of his car to get a better look at the sign. The flies buzzed around his head cautiously, prepared to pull him out of harm's way in case he was suddenly ambushed.
"Mr. Blake! I've been expecting you!" Ablendan wheeled around in surprise, nearly tearing the man's face off before deeming him not a threat. It was another horrible tasting plastic person, this one with an exaggerated smile and a suit like the one he was wearing. He was balding and quite short. A horrible meal, and a complete waste of a kill. Ablendan lowered his claw and decided to try and hear what this penguin-suited man had to say.
"Now, as you probably know-" Ablendan knew nothing this suited person had to say, or even what his name was. But, deciding this to be preferable to his "family," he stuck around and listened. "-the BIG Co. company baseball championship is tonight! We've lost to our rivals from the town over for seven years in a row, but this year things'll finally change! You think you're up to the challenge, Mr. Blake?"
Ablendan was uncomprehending. "Base . . . ball?" he sounded out, confusing palpable in his voice. For some reason, this only seemed to send Mr. Big into uproarious laughter. "Haha! Pretending you don't know America's favorite pastime. What a joker! I'll get a uniform for you from company storage. Do you bat lefty or righty?"
The man, who Ablendan just decided to dub Mr. Big for now, produced an object that made Ablendan's eyes light up with delight. A club, way more polished and well-formed than any he had seen before. Was this the "bat" they were talking about? He snatched it out of Mr. Big's hands, cradling it like it was his own child. Then Ablendan stepped back and took a practice swing with it, slamming the bat hard enough to send it flying out of his hands and into his car. It made a dent, much to his shock.
". . . Wow, what an arm, Mr. Blake!" cheered Mr. Big, patting Ablendan on the back and ignoring the obvious discomfort that resulted. "I have a feeling our luck will turn around this year with you on our team! Now, come along, and lets get that uniform . . . "
Mr. Big walked off, his perfect smile briefly collapsing into a look of disgust once he was "off camera." While trained to never deviate from the script, his ringer smelt of corpses and flies and looked like death warmed over. If not for the thought that the camera could be back on him at any second, he would have just vomited right then and there.
Ablendan, meanwhile, merely shrugged and took his club. Leaving this behind? Not freaking likely. He didn't know what a uniform meant, but if it meant he got to run around and hit things with a club he didn't really mind.
~~~~~
Junior watched his "father" drive off, letting out a low chuckle at his pride. Slowly, the static that he had clawed through began to pull itself back together, in case the other two had any funny business on their minds. "Daddy's a good daddy," he crooned. "He does just what he's supposed to."
Ablendan continued burying through the static like a trooper, his mind giddy with excitement as being released from the house with the bad-tempered bird and the odd painter person. And especially being away from that horrifying looking child, with his oddly perfect features and apparent nature as a cosmic horror. In fact, he was so giddy that he didn't even notice the static clearing away until he had finished barreling through all of it. At this point, though, two thoughts hit him.
The first was that he had just taken that whole "stay away from the big scary static" warning and showed it who was boss, and that made him as prideful as a demonic peacock. The second thought was accompanied by a burning sensation in his hands, as he realized just why that warning was given in the first place. He collapsed to the ground in pain, and flies had to stuff themselves into his mouth as a makeshift gag to stop him from screaming and hissing. Eventually Ablendan righted himself once more, bu he shuddered. He's never burying through that static again.
Still, Junior would probably start whining about "Daddy isn't following the script!" again and would probably end up locking him in a whole prison of static. So like any good predator, Ablendan decided to cover his tracks. He picked up the door, ripped off its hinges but still intact, and shoddily placed it against the hole where it once belonged. It wasn't a perfect fit by far, and in fact Ablendan had the organizational skills of a drunken manatee, but to his addled mind a covered door was a covered door.
The first thing the tormented man did was run right for the garage, where he found a familiar, beautiful sight: the horseless carriage. He hopped into it, inserted the horse-replacing key, and listened to the beautiful sound of its engines firing up. That sound was just as perfect the second time, Ablendan smashing the dashboard with one hand in animalistic delight. Of course, his hands were still quite burned from tunneling, so he quickly winced and pulled his hand away. After a while of just listening to the engine, he slammed his foot on the gas as hard as he could and sped out of the garage.
People driving at peaceful, 50s-accepted speeds found themselves having to swerve away from Ablendan's lunatic driving. Being both from the 1700s and incredibly insane, he had no concept of simple things like common courtesy, road lines, or "there are other people driving you git." He drove down the wrong side of the road half the time, never stopped at stop signs, and even ran over a raccoon or two in his mad pursuit to just drive. Eventually, though, he noticed a large sign and stopped to read it. "BIG Co," he sounded out, still not fully used to his voice.
As soon as he said this, he found himself getting out of his car to get a better look at the sign. The flies buzzed around his head cautiously, prepared to pull him out of harm's way in case he was suddenly ambushed.
"Mr. Blake! I've been expecting you!" Ablendan wheeled around in surprise, nearly tearing the man's face off before deeming him not a threat. It was another horrible tasting plastic person, this one with an exaggerated smile and a suit like the one he was wearing. He was balding and quite short. A horrible meal, and a complete waste of a kill. Ablendan lowered his claw and decided to try and hear what this penguin-suited man had to say.
"Now, as you probably know-" Ablendan knew nothing this suited person had to say, or even what his name was. But, deciding this to be preferable to his "family," he stuck around and listened. "-the BIG Co. company baseball championship is tonight! We've lost to our rivals from the town over for seven years in a row, but this year things'll finally change! You think you're up to the challenge, Mr. Blake?"
Ablendan was uncomprehending. "Base . . . ball?" he sounded out, confusing palpable in his voice. For some reason, this only seemed to send Mr. Big into uproarious laughter. "Haha! Pretending you don't know America's favorite pastime. What a joker! I'll get a uniform for you from company storage. Do you bat lefty or righty?"
The man, who Ablendan just decided to dub Mr. Big for now, produced an object that made Ablendan's eyes light up with delight. A club, way more polished and well-formed than any he had seen before. Was this the "bat" they were talking about? He snatched it out of Mr. Big's hands, cradling it like it was his own child. Then Ablendan stepped back and took a practice swing with it, slamming the bat hard enough to send it flying out of his hands and into his car. It made a dent, much to his shock.
". . . Wow, what an arm, Mr. Blake!" cheered Mr. Big, patting Ablendan on the back and ignoring the obvious discomfort that resulted. "I have a feeling our luck will turn around this year with you on our team! Now, come along, and lets get that uniform . . . "
Mr. Big walked off, his perfect smile briefly collapsing into a look of disgust once he was "off camera." While trained to never deviate from the script, his ringer smelt of corpses and flies and looked like death warmed over. If not for the thought that the camera could be back on him at any second, he would have just vomited right then and there.
Ablendan, meanwhile, merely shrugged and took his club. Leaving this behind? Not freaking likely. He didn't know what a uniform meant, but if it meant he got to run around and hit things with a club he didn't really mind.
~~~~~
Junior watched his "father" drive off, letting out a low chuckle at his pride. Slowly, the static that he had clawed through began to pull itself back together, in case the other two had any funny business on their minds. "Daddy's a good daddy," he crooned. "He does just what he's supposed to."