Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
02-25-2012, 05:43 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by The Deleter.
“YOU’RE ALL TERRIBLE AT EVERYTHING”
Alaster couldn’t agree more with Tschichold at this moment in time. The zombiefied man, who was apparently called Blake judging by the screams of the painter in the back seat, was terrible at driving. The painter was terrible at giving constructive advice, preferring to scream at everybody about how ugly they were. And Timothy was terrible at doing what he was told.
“How are we going so fast?”
“Keep Your Head Down, Please.”
Tim struggled against his sickness, but he was eight and wasn’t very good at it. And oh, lovely, now the stoners in the back had woken up and were screaming in awful, high-pitched tones. They were the WORST duet, and Tschichold had no qualms about telling them so.
Alaster was getting wound up, and not just because it was made of clockwork. It was in a strange place, surrounded by people that either wanted to hurt Timothy or inhale toxic substances. It hadn’t found the time to repair the damage that woman had done either, and the occasional grrrrrg noise punctuating the ticks wasn’t sounding healthy. And now it had put its charge in a fast-moving vehicle being driven by a man affected by hallucinogenic substances.
The list of problems was so long, it endangered several species of tree.
“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE, SHUT UP!”
There was the sound of paint splattering, and the stoner’s screams quickly ceased. Well, that was one problem taken care of. Now to try and deal with the other ones.
Alaster turned to Blake, who was slapping at the wheel with joyful abandon.
“You Are A Terrible Driver. Give Me The Wheel.”
But Blake did not want to give the strange suit the wheel. Blake was having a lot of fun with all the colours running by and the loud noises, and he did not want to give up those experiences. The suit was trying to take the joy from his life! The zombie-man clutched possessively at the wheel and snarled at Alaster. Maybe it would go away in a bit, and then he could go back to having fun.
Tschichold laughed snidely.
“Oh, great,” he said to Alaster. “You want to drive? What makes you think you’d be any better at driving this hunk of crap?”
“The Fact That I Have Two Working Eyes.”
“…Oh, no, you DIDN’T! And anyway, just because I have the one glowing eye, doesn’t mean -”
Blake ignored the argument. The silly shapes were being stupid and not providing the explosions of unicorns and stationary that they had been doing a while ago. In fact, the colours were fading away rather quickly. Blake wondered if they had someplace to be. Hold on, that was an asinine thought, colours didn’t GO anywhere. Where was HE, in fact? He hadn’t exactly MOVED, had he? He was still in the car…
As a rapidly sobering Blake tried to drive on, the other two argued.
“- and you’re a baroque piece of shit!”
“That Doesn’t Have Anything To Do With Our Current Situation.”
“Alaster, what does shi-“
“You Will Find Out When You Are Older.”
“I MEAN, how the hell would YOU drive this thing? HE can’t drive! He’s never been able to drive! That was the WORST channel! And YOU can’t drive because you’re all from the dark ages except with magic spells and half-dressed elves and skulls on things! I HATE skulls! Skulls are a terrible design choice! So, what I’m saying is, I should drive!”
“We Have No Guarantee You Would Comply With Our Demands.”
“That’s right! I’d drive right on out of this awful channel! Or into a ditch! Or ANYTHING! I’m already sick of this place and I haven’t even BEEN here that long!”
“I Would Like To Remind You That I Have A Large Sword And I Can Lift Two Hundred Pounds In Weight.”
“What, you’d FORCE me? Hah! That’s rich! Fuck you, man! In fact, just because I feel like saying this…”
Tschichold, at the height of a fume-induced migraine and at the end of his temper, leaned forward dangerously.
“FUCK YOOOOOUUUU-” he began.
Blake noticed the police blockade, and hit the brakes. Gravity responded by slamming everybody back into their seats as the car’s brakes wailed to please, make the pain end. A few more metaphors later, the car eventually coughed and stalled, rolling to a halt a short distance from the barricade. The occupants stared at the row of black and white vehicles with apprehension.
After some time, the fattest cop any of the three had ever seen walked up. The rest of him took a while to follow, but it got there. His piggish eyes stared at the occupants, trying to work out which racial stereotypes these people slotted into. The guy in the suit of armour was Mexican, clearly.
“What the hell is going on here?” the cop demanded. He sniffed the air.
“And what is that smell?” he added.
An awkward pause.
“We Are Trying To Reach The Hospital,” said Alaster, slowly. “My… Son Is Ill.”
Alaster hadn’t lied before, and all things considered that was a pretty good one. Tschich, however, was having some trouble.
“It, um…” The painter’s gaze flicked to the others, but help wasn’t forthcoming. Oh, to hell with it then.
“It’s me,” he admitted. “It’s me. I thought it was decriminalized. To be honest with you, I have horrible anorexia and it helps my appetite. I'm so sorry.”
The fat cop seemed to accept this for the moment. He moved on to Blake, who was rocking back and forth in an attempt to get himself together. His already narrow eyes narrowed even further.
“What’s wrong with him?”
This didn’t get a response. The fat cop took this as his cue to walk around the car and grab Blake by the back of his cloak, breaking several rules of police operation, personal space and common sense. He turned Blake’s head to look at the zombie’s face, and saw the glowing red eyes. For a moment, the cop had trouble putting two and two together (his back-story added that he’d had trouble with that at school as well), but then his face twisted.
“Lemme tell you something, buster,” he growled, pulling out a pair of handcuffs, “weed is NOT decriminalized in this state, and this guy’s eyes are redder than the devil’s dick! You’re busted!”
“This Is A Terrible Mistake,” tried Alaster.
“Hell no it ain’t! You’re off to county jail, you dirty-” and here the cop said a word that should not be repeated in front of children or, indeed, anyone with good taste. Neither Alaster, Timothy nor Blake knew what it meant, but Tschich did. And Tschic was at the end of his tether.
“Okay. I’ve had enough.”
Before the cop could respond, Tschich darted forward and smeared a few layers of paint across his target’s face. It was a highly unpleasant experience for both sides, but it worked out for both of them in the end – an obstacle was removed for Tschich, and the cop was sent to Happy Rainbow Land.
Timothy giggled as the cop, sitting on the side of the road, began to sing a nursery rhyme.
“He’s funny,” he said, and then coughed weakly.
There was a rising growl from the driver’s seat. Blake had sobered up, and was very angry about pretty much everything that had happened so far. How DARE that painter make him lose his senses? When Ablendan got hold of him, he was going to start with his HANDS, and then pull his lungs out, and then maybe rip that glowing eye out of its socket! And THEN –
Alaster and Tschichold looked at each other briefly.
Another splat of paint later, and Blake’s thoughts of revenge were replaced with Technicolor snails.
“Thank You.”
“You’re welcome,” said Tschich, more on reflex than anything. He looked at the two stoners in the back seat.
“Are we keeping those guys or what?” he asked. “I mean, they’re AWFUL to listen to, and thir fashion sense is appaling...”
“No. They Are An Unnecessary Load. Leave Them With The Law Enforcement."
Law enforcement. Cop. Cops.
Oh dear. Tschich knew he had forgotten something. He looked up and saw, not to his great surprise, more portly cops tumbling or pushing their way out of the other vehicles, like caterpillars abandoning the chrysalis. They didn’t look too happy about the fact that their partner was an incoherent, burbling mess at the side of the road.
“I’ll drive,” he offered.
“Okay,” responded Alaster.
-*-
A few minutes later, the car screamed down the road again, pursued by a fleet of police cars.
-*-
About an hour of in-channel time later, a battered, roofless sedan, splattered with mud and dirt, pulled slowly into the hospital parking bay.
Tschichold switched off the engine and removed the chicken from his head.
“Let’s never do that again,” he offered.
Alaster wiped some mud off its pauldrons, and then picked up one of the t-shirts they had acquired from a washing line somewhere and wrapped a shivering Timothy in it.
“Agreed,” it added.
Blake snored in the back seat.
“YOU’RE ALL TERRIBLE AT EVERYTHING”
Alaster couldn’t agree more with Tschichold at this moment in time. The zombiefied man, who was apparently called Blake judging by the screams of the painter in the back seat, was terrible at driving. The painter was terrible at giving constructive advice, preferring to scream at everybody about how ugly they were. And Timothy was terrible at doing what he was told.
“How are we going so fast?”
“Keep Your Head Down, Please.”
Tim struggled against his sickness, but he was eight and wasn’t very good at it. And oh, lovely, now the stoners in the back had woken up and were screaming in awful, high-pitched tones. They were the WORST duet, and Tschichold had no qualms about telling them so.
Alaster was getting wound up, and not just because it was made of clockwork. It was in a strange place, surrounded by people that either wanted to hurt Timothy or inhale toxic substances. It hadn’t found the time to repair the damage that woman had done either, and the occasional grrrrrg noise punctuating the ticks wasn’t sounding healthy. And now it had put its charge in a fast-moving vehicle being driven by a man affected by hallucinogenic substances.
The list of problems was so long, it endangered several species of tree.
“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE, SHUT UP!”
There was the sound of paint splattering, and the stoner’s screams quickly ceased. Well, that was one problem taken care of. Now to try and deal with the other ones.
Alaster turned to Blake, who was slapping at the wheel with joyful abandon.
“You Are A Terrible Driver. Give Me The Wheel.”
But Blake did not want to give the strange suit the wheel. Blake was having a lot of fun with all the colours running by and the loud noises, and he did not want to give up those experiences. The suit was trying to take the joy from his life! The zombie-man clutched possessively at the wheel and snarled at Alaster. Maybe it would go away in a bit, and then he could go back to having fun.
Tschichold laughed snidely.
“Oh, great,” he said to Alaster. “You want to drive? What makes you think you’d be any better at driving this hunk of crap?”
“The Fact That I Have Two Working Eyes.”
“…Oh, no, you DIDN’T! And anyway, just because I have the one glowing eye, doesn’t mean -”
Blake ignored the argument. The silly shapes were being stupid and not providing the explosions of unicorns and stationary that they had been doing a while ago. In fact, the colours were fading away rather quickly. Blake wondered if they had someplace to be. Hold on, that was an asinine thought, colours didn’t GO anywhere. Where was HE, in fact? He hadn’t exactly MOVED, had he? He was still in the car…
As a rapidly sobering Blake tried to drive on, the other two argued.
“- and you’re a baroque piece of shit!”
“That Doesn’t Have Anything To Do With Our Current Situation.”
“Alaster, what does shi-“
“You Will Find Out When You Are Older.”
“I MEAN, how the hell would YOU drive this thing? HE can’t drive! He’s never been able to drive! That was the WORST channel! And YOU can’t drive because you’re all from the dark ages except with magic spells and half-dressed elves and skulls on things! I HATE skulls! Skulls are a terrible design choice! So, what I’m saying is, I should drive!”
“We Have No Guarantee You Would Comply With Our Demands.”
“That’s right! I’d drive right on out of this awful channel! Or into a ditch! Or ANYTHING! I’m already sick of this place and I haven’t even BEEN here that long!”
“I Would Like To Remind You That I Have A Large Sword And I Can Lift Two Hundred Pounds In Weight.”
“What, you’d FORCE me? Hah! That’s rich! Fuck you, man! In fact, just because I feel like saying this…”
Tschichold, at the height of a fume-induced migraine and at the end of his temper, leaned forward dangerously.
“FUCK YOOOOOUUUU-” he began.
Blake noticed the police blockade, and hit the brakes. Gravity responded by slamming everybody back into their seats as the car’s brakes wailed to please, make the pain end. A few more metaphors later, the car eventually coughed and stalled, rolling to a halt a short distance from the barricade. The occupants stared at the row of black and white vehicles with apprehension.
After some time, the fattest cop any of the three had ever seen walked up. The rest of him took a while to follow, but it got there. His piggish eyes stared at the occupants, trying to work out which racial stereotypes these people slotted into. The guy in the suit of armour was Mexican, clearly.
“What the hell is going on here?” the cop demanded. He sniffed the air.
“And what is that smell?” he added.
An awkward pause.
“We Are Trying To Reach The Hospital,” said Alaster, slowly. “My… Son Is Ill.”
Alaster hadn’t lied before, and all things considered that was a pretty good one. Tschich, however, was having some trouble.
“It, um…” The painter’s gaze flicked to the others, but help wasn’t forthcoming. Oh, to hell with it then.
“It’s me,” he admitted. “It’s me. I thought it was decriminalized. To be honest with you, I have horrible anorexia and it helps my appetite. I'm so sorry.”
The fat cop seemed to accept this for the moment. He moved on to Blake, who was rocking back and forth in an attempt to get himself together. His already narrow eyes narrowed even further.
“What’s wrong with him?”
This didn’t get a response. The fat cop took this as his cue to walk around the car and grab Blake by the back of his cloak, breaking several rules of police operation, personal space and common sense. He turned Blake’s head to look at the zombie’s face, and saw the glowing red eyes. For a moment, the cop had trouble putting two and two together (his back-story added that he’d had trouble with that at school as well), but then his face twisted.
“Lemme tell you something, buster,” he growled, pulling out a pair of handcuffs, “weed is NOT decriminalized in this state, and this guy’s eyes are redder than the devil’s dick! You’re busted!”
“This Is A Terrible Mistake,” tried Alaster.
“Hell no it ain’t! You’re off to county jail, you dirty-” and here the cop said a word that should not be repeated in front of children or, indeed, anyone with good taste. Neither Alaster, Timothy nor Blake knew what it meant, but Tschich did. And Tschic was at the end of his tether.
“Okay. I’ve had enough.”
Before the cop could respond, Tschich darted forward and smeared a few layers of paint across his target’s face. It was a highly unpleasant experience for both sides, but it worked out for both of them in the end – an obstacle was removed for Tschich, and the cop was sent to Happy Rainbow Land.
Timothy giggled as the cop, sitting on the side of the road, began to sing a nursery rhyme.
“He’s funny,” he said, and then coughed weakly.
There was a rising growl from the driver’s seat. Blake had sobered up, and was very angry about pretty much everything that had happened so far. How DARE that painter make him lose his senses? When Ablendan got hold of him, he was going to start with his HANDS, and then pull his lungs out, and then maybe rip that glowing eye out of its socket! And THEN –
Alaster and Tschichold looked at each other briefly.
Another splat of paint later, and Blake’s thoughts of revenge were replaced with Technicolor snails.
“Thank You.”
“You’re welcome,” said Tschich, more on reflex than anything. He looked at the two stoners in the back seat.
“Are we keeping those guys or what?” he asked. “I mean, they’re AWFUL to listen to, and thir fashion sense is appaling...”
“No. They Are An Unnecessary Load. Leave Them With The Law Enforcement."
Law enforcement. Cop. Cops.
Oh dear. Tschich knew he had forgotten something. He looked up and saw, not to his great surprise, more portly cops tumbling or pushing their way out of the other vehicles, like caterpillars abandoning the chrysalis. They didn’t look too happy about the fact that their partner was an incoherent, burbling mess at the side of the road.
“I’ll drive,” he offered.
“Okay,” responded Alaster.
-*-
A few minutes later, the car screamed down the road again, pursued by a fleet of police cars.
-*-
About an hour of in-channel time later, a battered, roofless sedan, splattered with mud and dirt, pulled slowly into the hospital parking bay.
Tschichold switched off the engine and removed the chicken from his head.
“Let’s never do that again,” he offered.
Alaster wiped some mud off its pauldrons, and then picked up one of the t-shirts they had acquired from a washing line somewhere and wrapped a shivering Timothy in it.
“Agreed,” it added.
Blake snored in the back seat.