Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
12-18-2011, 04:53 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by WaveOfBabies.
Another scene transition happened. Ablendan was now in a shoddily-made park area, a new short man in a suit trying to hype him up for the game. Briefly the man wondered where Mr. Big had went, and how this new replacement had arrived so quickly. He probably got scared off after the whole fly incident, but that still didn't explain where the new man came from. He looked creepily identical to Mr. Big, too. Currently the man was trying to reach for Ablendan's hood to take it off, much to the tormented man's annoyance.
"Come on, Mr. Blake," the other Mr. Big protested. "How are the loving crowds going to see you with that dinky hood on?" He reached for the hood one more time, finally robbing Ablendan of his patience. With an annoyed hiss, he opened his mouth and bit right down on the replacement's hand. The man screamed in pain and ran off, and soon another came on to replace him. How many identical yet disposable stars did this place HAVE, anyway? At this rate he wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Show-Off miraculously returned from the dead.
~~~~
Tschichold sighed with aggravation as he looked the steering wheel he was gripping with inky black hands. How did he even get there in the first place? Oh, yeah, because of those two.
He remembered them approaching him, one in a horrible blue jumpsuit and the other with a red shirt and grey pants. Ugh, what lack of style they had. One color? Was that REALLY it? And the other one had the audacity to wear grey? Their wardrobes could have used so much touching up. But instead of being able to help them with their fashion disasters, he found one of them grabbing him by the arm.
"Dufe!" one of them cried, his horrible facial hair scattered in every direction. His grating voice and horrible mispronunciation of "dude" made Tschichold want to claw his ears out. "We need you to be the driver tonight!" "Yeah!" the big nosed blue one cried out. "We had a driver but he got lost. Now how are we going to get to White Fortress?" "Can't get our fix of burgers and nachos without it!" Before Tschichold could protest, they dragged him to their car with surprising strength and single-mindedness.
Techichold snarled with annoyance. He was now trapped in a stuffy old car with a pair of stoners that wouldn't shut up about stupid in-jokes and getting fed. And worst of all, without any windows open, Tschichold was being assailed by his own natural fumes. His eyes glazed over, and his control over the car slowly started to wane. The stoners seemed to be affected too, as their already incomprehensible and asinine conversations were devolving into endless streams of internet memes being repeated. Tschichold, in his inebriated state, started to feel infuriated. Just because he kept getting high off of fumes the television thought to put him in a stoner comedy? That was just plain stereotypical! He clenched the steering wheel with an annoyance and made a mental note to teach those stoners the joys of silence later on.
~~~~
It was the head of the moment. The big game. And Ablendan honestly couldn't care less. As long as this kept him away from that "family" thing he had to deal with, it was fine by him. Besides, maybe he'd get to smash stuff. Much to his displeasure he was standing in the outfield, as far away from everyone else as possible. Looks like his usual form of stress relief, stabbing people's guts out, wouldn't be applying today.
Suddenly, he noticed a white object flying over the park's fence. His knowledge from Mr. Big's "lessons" let him know that this would be very bad. Most of the players sighed in resignation, knowing they wouldn't reach the ball. Ablendan, on the other hand, merely charged forward, scrambled up the fence, and leaped at the ball. A gloved hand, with claws awkwardly protruding through it, made direct contact with the ball and caught it. To celebrate, Ablendan tried eating it. The announcer, in the middle of declaring a home run, suddenly stopped and noticed Ablendan gnawing on the ball. "You're out!" he declared, a very prideful looking baseball player stopping his cocky run with a look of disbelief on his face.
Ablendan soon found himself being the team's de-facto home run catcher. Whatever he couldn't pounce at like a beast he was capable of snagging with the aid of his flies. But now it was time for a different role. Now Ablendan Blake was up at bat.
~~~~
Soon, Tschichold found himself in a stroke of luck. The two stoners had passed out from sheer fume overdose. Tschichold himself was starting to trip out and even hallucinate, but he had better control over his fumes than the unlucky stoners did. He climbed into the car's back seat to give the stoners the dress advice they deserved.
Mr. Grey Pants was the first to get altered. His pants were painted over and over again, until soon their grey was nothing more than a dark black. Then he began painting a dress coat styled design over the man's shirt, deciding to settle on a nice brown color. Finally, he painted over the man's unkempt facial hair to try and hide it. Next came Mr. Jumpsuit, who needed a total overhaul. By the time Tschichold was done with him he had painted on designs to resemble some tan slacks and a much more pleasant blue shirt. Finally, as one last favor to the two, he painted their mouths shut with layer after layer of paint. Content with his work and rapidly succumbing to hallucination, Tschichold dashed out of the car to get back into the beautiful fresh air.
~~~~
A pitcher hurled a ball at the demon-man too fast to even see. In a panic Ablendan blindly flailed his bat everywhere, but completely missed. Strike one. The next time Ablendan took a more controlled approach, but swung way too early and thus missed. Strike two.
For the final swing, Ablendan remembered the flies. He directed them all to swarm across his bat, inflating it to at least four times its size. With a bat of that magnitude, even a crappy hitter like Ablendan couldn't miss. He whacked the ball, sending it into the outfield, and ran off.
A man on the first white square was thrown the ball and held it up triumphantly. Ablendan responded by whacking him in the gut with the baseball bat, which he didn't bother dropping after running. An uneasy response from the laugh track followed. The man doubled over and Ablendan continued, the umpire too distracted with commentary to notice. Before the man could recover and throw the ball again, Ablendan had made it to home plate. "It's a home run!"
Home? Run? Run home? No! Screw that place and its confusing bird people and creepy static kids. He looked for the nearest exit, running off despite the protests of his co-workers. Realizing this, inspiration hit Ablendan. Of course! The workplace television! He kicked down the door, hissing menacingly to scare people out of his path until he reached the TV.
Some fat guy was watching some incredibly boring 50s shopping network channel. Ablendan forced him out of his seat and began fiddling with the remote, putting on channel after channel. His choices grew increasingly anachronistic, and static began to flicker on the television. Realizing that he didn't have much time before the static stuck, Ablendan dove right into the next channel he found: a stoner movie.
Another scene transition happened. Ablendan was now in a shoddily-made park area, a new short man in a suit trying to hype him up for the game. Briefly the man wondered where Mr. Big had went, and how this new replacement had arrived so quickly. He probably got scared off after the whole fly incident, but that still didn't explain where the new man came from. He looked creepily identical to Mr. Big, too. Currently the man was trying to reach for Ablendan's hood to take it off, much to the tormented man's annoyance.
"Come on, Mr. Blake," the other Mr. Big protested. "How are the loving crowds going to see you with that dinky hood on?" He reached for the hood one more time, finally robbing Ablendan of his patience. With an annoyed hiss, he opened his mouth and bit right down on the replacement's hand. The man screamed in pain and ran off, and soon another came on to replace him. How many identical yet disposable stars did this place HAVE, anyway? At this rate he wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Show-Off miraculously returned from the dead.
~~~~
Tschichold sighed with aggravation as he looked the steering wheel he was gripping with inky black hands. How did he even get there in the first place? Oh, yeah, because of those two.
He remembered them approaching him, one in a horrible blue jumpsuit and the other with a red shirt and grey pants. Ugh, what lack of style they had. One color? Was that REALLY it? And the other one had the audacity to wear grey? Their wardrobes could have used so much touching up. But instead of being able to help them with their fashion disasters, he found one of them grabbing him by the arm.
"Dufe!" one of them cried, his horrible facial hair scattered in every direction. His grating voice and horrible mispronunciation of "dude" made Tschichold want to claw his ears out. "We need you to be the driver tonight!" "Yeah!" the big nosed blue one cried out. "We had a driver but he got lost. Now how are we going to get to White Fortress?" "Can't get our fix of burgers and nachos without it!" Before Tschichold could protest, they dragged him to their car with surprising strength and single-mindedness.
Techichold snarled with annoyance. He was now trapped in a stuffy old car with a pair of stoners that wouldn't shut up about stupid in-jokes and getting fed. And worst of all, without any windows open, Tschichold was being assailed by his own natural fumes. His eyes glazed over, and his control over the car slowly started to wane. The stoners seemed to be affected too, as their already incomprehensible and asinine conversations were devolving into endless streams of internet memes being repeated. Tschichold, in his inebriated state, started to feel infuriated. Just because he kept getting high off of fumes the television thought to put him in a stoner comedy? That was just plain stereotypical! He clenched the steering wheel with an annoyance and made a mental note to teach those stoners the joys of silence later on.
~~~~
It was the head of the moment. The big game. And Ablendan honestly couldn't care less. As long as this kept him away from that "family" thing he had to deal with, it was fine by him. Besides, maybe he'd get to smash stuff. Much to his displeasure he was standing in the outfield, as far away from everyone else as possible. Looks like his usual form of stress relief, stabbing people's guts out, wouldn't be applying today.
Suddenly, he noticed a white object flying over the park's fence. His knowledge from Mr. Big's "lessons" let him know that this would be very bad. Most of the players sighed in resignation, knowing they wouldn't reach the ball. Ablendan, on the other hand, merely charged forward, scrambled up the fence, and leaped at the ball. A gloved hand, with claws awkwardly protruding through it, made direct contact with the ball and caught it. To celebrate, Ablendan tried eating it. The announcer, in the middle of declaring a home run, suddenly stopped and noticed Ablendan gnawing on the ball. "You're out!" he declared, a very prideful looking baseball player stopping his cocky run with a look of disbelief on his face.
Ablendan soon found himself being the team's de-facto home run catcher. Whatever he couldn't pounce at like a beast he was capable of snagging with the aid of his flies. But now it was time for a different role. Now Ablendan Blake was up at bat.
~~~~
Soon, Tschichold found himself in a stroke of luck. The two stoners had passed out from sheer fume overdose. Tschichold himself was starting to trip out and even hallucinate, but he had better control over his fumes than the unlucky stoners did. He climbed into the car's back seat to give the stoners the dress advice they deserved.
Mr. Grey Pants was the first to get altered. His pants were painted over and over again, until soon their grey was nothing more than a dark black. Then he began painting a dress coat styled design over the man's shirt, deciding to settle on a nice brown color. Finally, he painted over the man's unkempt facial hair to try and hide it. Next came Mr. Jumpsuit, who needed a total overhaul. By the time Tschichold was done with him he had painted on designs to resemble some tan slacks and a much more pleasant blue shirt. Finally, as one last favor to the two, he painted their mouths shut with layer after layer of paint. Content with his work and rapidly succumbing to hallucination, Tschichold dashed out of the car to get back into the beautiful fresh air.
~~~~
A pitcher hurled a ball at the demon-man too fast to even see. In a panic Ablendan blindly flailed his bat everywhere, but completely missed. Strike one. The next time Ablendan took a more controlled approach, but swung way too early and thus missed. Strike two.
For the final swing, Ablendan remembered the flies. He directed them all to swarm across his bat, inflating it to at least four times its size. With a bat of that magnitude, even a crappy hitter like Ablendan couldn't miss. He whacked the ball, sending it into the outfield, and ran off.
A man on the first white square was thrown the ball and held it up triumphantly. Ablendan responded by whacking him in the gut with the baseball bat, which he didn't bother dropping after running. An uneasy response from the laugh track followed. The man doubled over and Ablendan continued, the umpire too distracted with commentary to notice. Before the man could recover and throw the ball again, Ablendan had made it to home plate. "It's a home run!"
Home? Run? Run home? No! Screw that place and its confusing bird people and creepy static kids. He looked for the nearest exit, running off despite the protests of his co-workers. Realizing this, inspiration hit Ablendan. Of course! The workplace television! He kicked down the door, hissing menacingly to scare people out of his path until he reached the TV.
Some fat guy was watching some incredibly boring 50s shopping network channel. Ablendan forced him out of his seat and began fiddling with the remote, putting on channel after channel. His choices grew increasingly anachronistic, and static began to flicker on the television. Realizing that he didn't have much time before the static stuck, Ablendan dove right into the next channel he found: a stoner movie.