Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
01-02-2012, 12:49 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.
Blake pressed the gas pedal again and again and again – until he saw there was a large obstruction in the form of a fairly tall suit of armor. Although the undead man stranded from the eighteen century did not understand car mechanics or modern insurance, he figured that he might as well check how the jalopy of the vehicle he borrowed (not stolen, mind you) was holding up.
Like a zombie gopher going out of its hovel, Ablendan tentatively – slowly – poked his hooded head out of the broken window on his left. There was a helmeted helm looking down on him out of annoyance if he looked up, but Blake did not care. He needed to see the front and in order to see the front, he needed to scout further. Not exactly wanting to get out of his precious horseless carriage, Blake carefully peeked further and further – until he had half of his body out of the car.
“Oh, stop changing colors. You are getting way too abstract!”
And yet, the grass kept changing. Rippling and blurring liked his own muddled paints, the wretched plants refused his kind corrections - undulating into shades of blues, yellows, reds, and even…purple-green? What the hell!? Was purple-green even a legitimate shade of color? One of Tschichold’s eyes did a little spasm as he made an arbitrary conclusion: Mother Nature was such a bitch.
He had it with her.
“STOP IT. Just STOP IT!” Tschichold screamed.
As fortune dictated, the hues stopped at indiscernible shade of turtles, irking the painter even more. Good Lord. did he just yelled at grass? At that brief moment of clarity, Tschichold stood still, pondering, just pondering, if he was just completely off his rocker. At that miniscule realization, a generous stream of foam spilled from the painter’s mouth.
At that same moment, a cacophony of scattering glass and grunts disrupted his thoughts.
Tschichold wished he never looked up. The artist knew Blake. However, the thing in front of his eyes was a mere parody of that undead servant. The depraved doppelganger of Blake, was bedecked in bulbous circles, primitive plaid, and macabre motifs – all despicable incomprehensible assaults to his tender eyes. This was the truly mind-blowing, the most atrocious, the most unspeakable crime against aesthetics ever. Tschichold was completely speechless.
“What, I, UGH.” Tschichold manage to find his words back. He had to fix this mess. “It’s so, so PURPLE.”
Tschichold was extremely wrong. The polyester uniform in which Ablendan was wearing was not purple, but ugly stripes of fluorescent orange on white, tackily complemented by hilariously lime-green socks – not that it mattered. Blake’s instincts turned to surprised suspicion as a screaming artist went car-wards, wielding his brush like a lunatic. The undead servant managed to dart back in time, years of animalistic servitude honing his reflexes.
However, the window was shattered and the shield of glass long gone. The horsehair brush, dripping wet and heavy, darted into the open hole, decorating Blake’s face and mouth with foul-tasting, psychoactive paints.
Dangerous paint splattered everywhere, his young ward ill with toxins, the one hope of ever operating the vehicle in a drugged stupor – Alaster was understandably (and incredibly) lit with indignant annoyance. As Timothy stifled a small but audible groan, the clockwork knight was once again reminded of all the misdeeds that happened in this short period of time – and he knew who the culprit was.
<font color="#814444">With the young wizard in hand, Alaster angrily tromped towards Tschichold, who was currently murdering the orange out of Blake. Before the painter could react, an angry armored hand painfully grabbed him by the nape of the neck. Tschichold blinked as a knightly helmet focused in his vision.
“Why Did You Do That.” Alaster demanded, capitalizing each word with accusation. </font>
Tschichold was a runty fellow. As such, he was not so keen on being lifted a good couple of feet off the ground –and made sure everyone knew that. “Let me go!” He demanded, squirming all the same. “Also, you look ugly as fuck.” The artist reached a hand in an feeble attempt to redecorate Alaster’s ornate armor.
<font color="#696969">If Alaster had a face, he would frown. Luckily, he had limbs and strength, so he violently shook Tschichold to jar him to be more complying to answer. “What Is With Your Obsession With Visual Aesthetics. Your Obsession Is A -” Alaster tipped his head closer. “- Liability.”
The sentence hit the painter like a sack of bricks. Tschichold knew the answer, clear and true, to that particular question. The problem was, no matter the clarity of his reply, the truth was very hard to put in words. The artist’s eye darted around as he attempted to condense his thoughts into a concise answer without sounding too pretentious or vague.
After a few seconds of silence, Alaster snapped, in a way that only clockwork knights could do, “I Have No Time For This.” Then, the clockwork knight released his grip, letting the artist take the drop to the ground.
“You are so rude!” Tschichold yelled after Alaster, as the guardian of the young wizard stomped towards the more mechanically sound car. “Also ugly too. Like Baroque ugly. I just want to mention your ugliness again, just because. - ”
Tschichold jumped a few feet into the air, as Alaster ripped the roof off of the car, exposing the two very unconscious stoners in the back.</font>
Meanwhile, Blake was just slouching in his car, hunch over like an opium addict. The undead servant lazily licked the roof of his mouth in a manner not unlike a dog with peanut butter in his mouth. The paint was foul-tasting sure, but it was just medicine. Yeah, totally medicine. After all, all medicines are bitter but they do you good.
And Blake felt goooooooood. All the time, his undead life had been hell on Earth. - consuming flesh of the living, perpetually harangued by the accursed flies he called his companions. Yet, now, this was almost a spot of understanding, comprehension, and most of all, a spot of calmness. He could call this a spot of heaven.
Blake let out a wheezy laugh as the psilocybin-like effects swarmed over him like happy mist. Oh Lord, so many wonderful things. Clouds turn into dancing faeries. Morphing colors puttied to unicorns and birds. There were even walking erasers and angry pencils! As he watched his gnarled fingers turn into candy sticks, Blake’s euphoria was interrupted by three people.
<font color="#696969">“Can You Drive A Vehicle For Us.” The swell knight dude said, as his face beautifully exploded into giggles and happy faces.
Blake nodded (if slumping back and forth was a considered a nod). He was totally cool.
He was totally cool with it, man.</font>
Meanwhile, the dangerous jungles were still made of construction paper and aluminum foil. However, Lloyd the Trained Actor had recovered back to lucid consciousness. The collision with the suspiciously two-dimensional tree had done a lot to clear his head.
With one fell swoop, the actor ripped at his shitty costume, wiping his face with the remains. Lloyd was feeling quite chipper. Never in his entire career had he gathered the guts to defy his meaningless career under the tyrant named John. However, that event (which he remembered in a haze) gave him the spine, the snark, the confidence. A smile broke on his face. Oh, Lloyd was feeling oh-so-ambitious.
“YOU HEAR ME?” Lloyd snarled, feeling ecstasy with each word. “I am TOTALLY going to LEAVE. So FUCK YOU.” The actor flung up two middle fingers at no one in particular –just to make sure. “I QUIT.”
Hopping over his fellow unconscious actors, Lloyd ran to the main chief’s hut. The words were probably deflected by John’s stupid-hard head and the downtrodden actor really wanted to give that man a piece of his own mind. However, there was no fat head to punch in, no groin to kick. There was a television at the corner, nearly hidden by the bountiful debris of this room. For some reason, the screen was full of white noise.
“Hey, what the fuck is wrong with this television?” Lloyd slammed the side of the machine. Carelessly, he let the thumb touch the static-filled screen. “Can’t we call the –“
Without a warning, Lloyd was sucked in.
“Oh For The Love Of – Turn West. No No, That Is An East. Get Your Cardinal Directions Right.”
The insane swaying of the car and the whipping wind from the long-gone car roof woke the young wizard back to thinkable consciousness. The drug still clasped on his mind like a painful vise, however Timothy could at least move around a little.
The apprentice looked around in delirious curiosity. To his surprise, there was this funny looking zombie pawing at the wheel with childish joy. Why did he had a such a happy smile on his face? As Tim pondered, he looked at the back. There was the very strange artist again! He was rubbing his face again for some reason. Finally, Tim looked up and his heart was a-washed with relief as he saw the very familiar visage of Alaster.
“W-Where we going?” Tim croaked the words out. His tongue felt so swollen and dry – and he still did not feel so good.
<font color="#696969">Alaster peered down at his ward. “We Are Going To Get Help.” With that last word, an armored finger pointed at a white square with a red cross on the center. Underneath the symbol, the word “HOSPITAL” was printed clearly in bold.
Timothy sluggishly nodded and looked off to the distance. However, the stranger in the back was pulling at his curiosity. “Why is that weird man coming with us?”</font>
“Whatever It Is, The Evaporated Reagents From This Man Have Gravely Affected You. We Need To Bring The Source Along With Us,” Alaster spoke. Then, he looked back. “Plus That Man May Need Treatment.”
Tschichold groaned loudly, causing his neighboring stoners to stir a little. “I don’t have problems. Seriously.” Without a warning, the artist began to flail his arms around in a show of frustration.
“Why do people keep on thinking I have problems.”
Unknowing to the confused Timmy, Alaster (who was telling Tschichold to keep his arms to himself), Tschichold (who was still flailing his arms), and Ablendan (who was still high as the totally rainbow skies) there was a police blockade in the distance. As if there was some sort of hidden comedy rule, each cop was completely fat – as wide as their car was large.
One of the fat cops – his skin as pasty as the icing on the donut he was munching – was scrutinizing the upcoming car. Gears turning in this man’s mind as he observed the three breaking plenty of traffic laws, manners, and especially law. Normally, this was a comparatively minor crime, worthy of a fine and a warning, but no these three deserved more.
The cop convinced himself. They were breaking the sacred rules – the robot, the kid, the zombie, and especially that black dude in the back. They were not of his kind. They were complete aliens, unnaturally despicable in his normal eyes. They were deserving of – corpulent punishment.
Squinting, the policeman took a dramatic bite out of his donut.
Justice will be delicious.
Blake pressed the gas pedal again and again and again – until he saw there was a large obstruction in the form of a fairly tall suit of armor. Although the undead man stranded from the eighteen century did not understand car mechanics or modern insurance, he figured that he might as well check how the jalopy of the vehicle he borrowed (not stolen, mind you) was holding up.
Like a zombie gopher going out of its hovel, Ablendan tentatively – slowly – poked his hooded head out of the broken window on his left. There was a helmeted helm looking down on him out of annoyance if he looked up, but Blake did not care. He needed to see the front and in order to see the front, he needed to scout further. Not exactly wanting to get out of his precious horseless carriage, Blake carefully peeked further and further – until he had half of his body out of the car.
***
“Oh, stop changing colors. You are getting way too abstract!”
And yet, the grass kept changing. Rippling and blurring liked his own muddled paints, the wretched plants refused his kind corrections - undulating into shades of blues, yellows, reds, and even…purple-green? What the hell!? Was purple-green even a legitimate shade of color? One of Tschichold’s eyes did a little spasm as he made an arbitrary conclusion: Mother Nature was such a bitch.
He had it with her.
“STOP IT. Just STOP IT!” Tschichold screamed.
As fortune dictated, the hues stopped at indiscernible shade of turtles, irking the painter even more. Good Lord. did he just yelled at grass? At that brief moment of clarity, Tschichold stood still, pondering, just pondering, if he was just completely off his rocker. At that miniscule realization, a generous stream of foam spilled from the painter’s mouth.
At that same moment, a cacophony of scattering glass and grunts disrupted his thoughts.
Tschichold wished he never looked up. The artist knew Blake. However, the thing in front of his eyes was a mere parody of that undead servant. The depraved doppelganger of Blake, was bedecked in bulbous circles, primitive plaid, and macabre motifs – all despicable incomprehensible assaults to his tender eyes. This was the truly mind-blowing, the most atrocious, the most unspeakable crime against aesthetics ever. Tschichold was completely speechless.
“What, I, UGH.” Tschichold manage to find his words back. He had to fix this mess. “It’s so, so PURPLE.”
Tschichold was extremely wrong. The polyester uniform in which Ablendan was wearing was not purple, but ugly stripes of fluorescent orange on white, tackily complemented by hilariously lime-green socks – not that it mattered. Blake’s instincts turned to surprised suspicion as a screaming artist went car-wards, wielding his brush like a lunatic. The undead servant managed to dart back in time, years of animalistic servitude honing his reflexes.
However, the window was shattered and the shield of glass long gone. The horsehair brush, dripping wet and heavy, darted into the open hole, decorating Blake’s face and mouth with foul-tasting, psychoactive paints.
***
Dangerous paint splattered everywhere, his young ward ill with toxins, the one hope of ever operating the vehicle in a drugged stupor – Alaster was understandably (and incredibly) lit with indignant annoyance. As Timothy stifled a small but audible groan, the clockwork knight was once again reminded of all the misdeeds that happened in this short period of time – and he knew who the culprit was.
<font color="#814444">With the young wizard in hand, Alaster angrily tromped towards Tschichold, who was currently murdering the orange out of Blake. Before the painter could react, an angry armored hand painfully grabbed him by the nape of the neck. Tschichold blinked as a knightly helmet focused in his vision.
“Why Did You Do That.” Alaster demanded, capitalizing each word with accusation. </font>
Tschichold was a runty fellow. As such, he was not so keen on being lifted a good couple of feet off the ground –and made sure everyone knew that. “Let me go!” He demanded, squirming all the same. “Also, you look ugly as fuck.” The artist reached a hand in an feeble attempt to redecorate Alaster’s ornate armor.
<font color="#696969">If Alaster had a face, he would frown. Luckily, he had limbs and strength, so he violently shook Tschichold to jar him to be more complying to answer. “What Is With Your Obsession With Visual Aesthetics. Your Obsession Is A -” Alaster tipped his head closer. “- Liability.”
The sentence hit the painter like a sack of bricks. Tschichold knew the answer, clear and true, to that particular question. The problem was, no matter the clarity of his reply, the truth was very hard to put in words. The artist’s eye darted around as he attempted to condense his thoughts into a concise answer without sounding too pretentious or vague.
After a few seconds of silence, Alaster snapped, in a way that only clockwork knights could do, “I Have No Time For This.” Then, the clockwork knight released his grip, letting the artist take the drop to the ground.
“You are so rude!” Tschichold yelled after Alaster, as the guardian of the young wizard stomped towards the more mechanically sound car. “Also ugly too. Like Baroque ugly. I just want to mention your ugliness again, just because. - ”
Tschichold jumped a few feet into the air, as Alaster ripped the roof off of the car, exposing the two very unconscious stoners in the back.</font>
***
Meanwhile, Blake was just slouching in his car, hunch over like an opium addict. The undead servant lazily licked the roof of his mouth in a manner not unlike a dog with peanut butter in his mouth. The paint was foul-tasting sure, but it was just medicine. Yeah, totally medicine. After all, all medicines are bitter but they do you good.
And Blake felt goooooooood. All the time, his undead life had been hell on Earth. - consuming flesh of the living, perpetually harangued by the accursed flies he called his companions. Yet, now, this was almost a spot of understanding, comprehension, and most of all, a spot of calmness. He could call this a spot of heaven.
Blake let out a wheezy laugh as the psilocybin-like effects swarmed over him like happy mist. Oh Lord, so many wonderful things. Clouds turn into dancing faeries. Morphing colors puttied to unicorns and birds. There were even walking erasers and angry pencils! As he watched his gnarled fingers turn into candy sticks, Blake’s euphoria was interrupted by three people.
<font color="#696969">“Can You Drive A Vehicle For Us.” The swell knight dude said, as his face beautifully exploded into giggles and happy faces.
Blake nodded (if slumping back and forth was a considered a nod). He was totally cool.
He was totally cool with it, man.</font>
***
Meanwhile, the dangerous jungles were still made of construction paper and aluminum foil. However, Lloyd the Trained Actor had recovered back to lucid consciousness. The collision with the suspiciously two-dimensional tree had done a lot to clear his head.
With one fell swoop, the actor ripped at his shitty costume, wiping his face with the remains. Lloyd was feeling quite chipper. Never in his entire career had he gathered the guts to defy his meaningless career under the tyrant named John. However, that event (which he remembered in a haze) gave him the spine, the snark, the confidence. A smile broke on his face. Oh, Lloyd was feeling oh-so-ambitious.
“YOU HEAR ME?” Lloyd snarled, feeling ecstasy with each word. “I am TOTALLY going to LEAVE. So FUCK YOU.” The actor flung up two middle fingers at no one in particular –just to make sure. “I QUIT.”
Hopping over his fellow unconscious actors, Lloyd ran to the main chief’s hut. The words were probably deflected by John’s stupid-hard head and the downtrodden actor really wanted to give that man a piece of his own mind. However, there was no fat head to punch in, no groin to kick. There was a television at the corner, nearly hidden by the bountiful debris of this room. For some reason, the screen was full of white noise.
“Hey, what the fuck is wrong with this television?” Lloyd slammed the side of the machine. Carelessly, he let the thumb touch the static-filled screen. “Can’t we call the –“
Without a warning, Lloyd was sucked in.
***
“Oh For The Love Of – Turn West. No No, That Is An East. Get Your Cardinal Directions Right.”
The insane swaying of the car and the whipping wind from the long-gone car roof woke the young wizard back to thinkable consciousness. The drug still clasped on his mind like a painful vise, however Timothy could at least move around a little.
The apprentice looked around in delirious curiosity. To his surprise, there was this funny looking zombie pawing at the wheel with childish joy. Why did he had a such a happy smile on his face? As Tim pondered, he looked at the back. There was the very strange artist again! He was rubbing his face again for some reason. Finally, Tim looked up and his heart was a-washed with relief as he saw the very familiar visage of Alaster.
“W-Where we going?” Tim croaked the words out. His tongue felt so swollen and dry – and he still did not feel so good.
<font color="#696969">Alaster peered down at his ward. “We Are Going To Get Help.” With that last word, an armored finger pointed at a white square with a red cross on the center. Underneath the symbol, the word “HOSPITAL” was printed clearly in bold.
Timothy sluggishly nodded and looked off to the distance. However, the stranger in the back was pulling at his curiosity. “Why is that weird man coming with us?”</font>
“Whatever It Is, The Evaporated Reagents From This Man Have Gravely Affected You. We Need To Bring The Source Along With Us,” Alaster spoke. Then, he looked back. “Plus That Man May Need Treatment.”
Tschichold groaned loudly, causing his neighboring stoners to stir a little. “I don’t have problems. Seriously.” Without a warning, the artist began to flail his arms around in a show of frustration.
“Why do people keep on thinking I have problems.”
***
Unknowing to the confused Timmy, Alaster (who was telling Tschichold to keep his arms to himself), Tschichold (who was still flailing his arms), and Ablendan (who was still high as the totally rainbow skies) there was a police blockade in the distance. As if there was some sort of hidden comedy rule, each cop was completely fat – as wide as their car was large.
One of the fat cops – his skin as pasty as the icing on the donut he was munching – was scrutinizing the upcoming car. Gears turning in this man’s mind as he observed the three breaking plenty of traffic laws, manners, and especially law. Normally, this was a comparatively minor crime, worthy of a fine and a warning, but no these three deserved more.
The cop convinced himself. They were breaking the sacred rules – the robot, the kid, the zombie, and especially that black dude in the back. They were not of his kind. They were complete aliens, unnaturally despicable in his normal eyes. They were deserving of – corpulent punishment.
Squinting, the policeman took a dramatic bite out of his donut.
Justice will be delicious.