Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
03-05-2012, 10:08 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.
Thanks to the miracle of cars, the marauding police managed to get to places where heart aneurysm could not take them – namely the hospital. As the policeman tumbled out clown-car style, they saw the grand theft auto parked haphazardly near. A policeman waddled over and sniffed defiantly.
Those bastards did not even parallel park correctly!
Only then did he discover the sprawling form of Ablendan Blake. The policeman could not help but feel repulsed (but also racially superior) at the unconscious undead. What a troublesome Asian. Ginger. Whatever. The demonic servant’s desiccated flesh made it troublesome for the observing cop to pigeonhole an arbitrary ethnicity.
“Mangy mutts. They stay in trouble,” the policeman wheezed as he adjusted a pillowing fat roll. “but they can’t stay out.”
He decided to arrest this Clearly-A-Hispanic (such a filthy fly-ridden mongrel, like most Hispanics). His little friends were probably hiding in the hospital finagling with their meth lab –clearly. “We are going to need back-up,” the cop flapped his jowls at his radio.
“Lots and lots of backup.”
The shadow painter’s determination to eliminate all perceived ugliness on the hospital mural was strong as a million condensed suns. However, the clockwork knight’s grip was iron – well, actually steel and bronze reinforced with magic but regardless, Tschichold simply could not win against the mystical manhandling of Alaster he found himself in once again.
“Let me go, you Romanesque rickshaw. You Gothic cuntpuncher,” Tschichold snarled as his legs danced a tango on the paint-laden linoleum. “You Baroque piece of shit.” With that last word, Tschichold had a niggling realization that he was seriously running low on Alaster-themed insults. The epiphany made the artist freeze on feet.
“I’m so UNORIGINAL.” The relevation was too much for his already addled-mind, thus Tschichold broke down to tears and a puddle of melancholy blue. If mood swings were like roller coasters, then his was a drop tower – complete with sharks and flying bears.
Fortunately, the last insult fell on deaf ears - a merciful triumph for everyone’s good tastes. There was already too much on the plate for the contenders inside Stoner Comedy anyway as Alaster attempted to figure out what the hell was going on. The list of problems had already gotten to the point of mass deforestation. It was just that bad.
“I Said,” Alaster demanded. “What Have You Done.”
If Darren’s woes were a footnote to the list of problems, the result would cause a Precambrian Tree Extinction. The man was wary of the metallic behemoth of a guardian. However, as much as he wanted to know what have he had done, Darren said what he knew, “I have no idea. Seriously!”
“The Receptionist Had Called The Alarm As Soon As You Told Her,” Although its tone was a robotic monotone, the accusation was tangible to the man. “Something About A Static Infection. So I Say, What Have You Done.”
Darren let out a frustrated groan. His delicate situation was not exactly translatable to text (especially to a walking suit of armor who sounded like a robot). However, Darren needed all the help he could get. “The Static influenced my companion, I think – or at least caught her attention for a dangerous span of time. There might be-"
“Static,” Alaster interrupted, as if the word was held the key to solving this mess.
“—consequences,” Darren picked up his explanation as if nothing happened. “I have no idea what sort of consequences but –“
“FREEZE.”
Another interruption unpleasantly held up his sentence. The interruption was in the form of the ubiquitous cops. In the door. On the job. With their guns out. They were dangerous – fat dangerous as one might put it.
This would probably be an intimidating sight if it were not for the fact the blockade looked like a bunch of sentient marshmallows.
“MOTHERFUCKERS.”
A cocky cop decided to unload his Glock upwards, causing the faceless background to panic even more.
Of course, Tschichold was not too keen about this situation either.
“THIS. THIS IS SOCIALLY UNACCEPTABLE.” He paused as he attempted to recollect his thoughts. “ART.”
“This is fucking boring.” Lloyd grumbled as he traveled through the empty oblivion.
Well put, Lloyd. Well put.
“Whatever happens, I blame everything on you.”
Alaster did not quite heard the accusation and even if it did, it would shrug that off. Right now, its biggest problems were the blobby obstructions with the guns. On the job. In the front. Even if the clockwork knight was bulletproof, the weight of these beached security whales would be too much for one guardian.
“I think our chances are slim,” Darren said. He was not exactly fear-stricken. However, when you have your companion in your hands, bureaucracy holding up help, and the row of armed donut-holes in the front, you tend to feel a little uneasy in your knees.
“Slim? More like screwed.” Tschichold bellowed indignantly. “Now how am I going to art?”
Alaster stood still like a statue. The problem got a smidgen worse, thanks to circumstances beyond its control and knowing. So, the clockwork knight really wanted to get out of this dilemma as much as it had apparently got itself into there, especially since its ward was gravely sickened and...
“I SAID PUT YOUR HANDS UP.”
Another bullet lodged into the ceiling and the faceless crowd overturned into an uproar. Alaster had not spoken a word to these corpulent cops, yet it had a pretty good idea what they are like: fucking unreasonable. It did not exactly take a rocket scientist to realize that the cops were not going to ever listen.
A salvo of bullets upwards cemented Alaster’s viewpoint to reality. The participants of this battle to the death needed to get out pronto, or at least far away from this place. “We Need To Get Out Of Here,” Alaster declared loudly to the rest of the contenders.
“How?” The man from the traveling Rest demanded as he clasped tightly onto Sara. “What are you going to do? Go terminator on them?”
“No, That Would Be Too Inconvenient. And Risky.”
“Well,” Darren began to scratch at his chin with a free hand. “Other than that, the only other way I can think of is besides brute-forcing our way out is maybe we could go to another exit in this damned place. I don’t know.” He gave a slight shrug. “Maybe we need to think outside the box.”
Boxes! Alaster understood what the man had said, but it could not step outside the boundaries of conventional though-processes. After all, it is a technically a robot, well, a magical one, but regardless. It needed to follow logic, steps. Creativity was not exactly its greatest forte. Alaster may have to take risks.
Just then, Alaster had an idea – an idea that could sufficiently be described as crazy - so crazy it just might
work.
Alaster scanned the whole area, attempting to search for that one particular individual. After a few precious seconds, it managed to find his target – who was in the process of redecorating the receptionist desk with a colorful field of flowers.
“Let me go!” The artist was not too happy to be yanked from his life’s work, but at least he managed to think up new insults. “Let me go, you –SWEET JESUS ON A POGOSTICK.” Tschichold screamed as Alaster’s chest popped open, revealing a shimmering purple gem.
“Oh god, oh god, please don’t hurt – “ Against his pleading, Alaster deftly smeared Tschichold over its memory crystal like an expert artist with his brush, coloring the gem into a shocking yellow. As soon as the crystal was completely immersed, Tschichold was rudely dropped on the floor.
Darren warily stepped forward. “…Is he okay?”
Tschichold continued to sit here - his jaw slack-jawed from fear but mostly surprise! Never once in his miserable life had someone purposefully slathered paint on themselves. The artist was quite shocked—
-- especially since that the clockwork robot, with its chassis opened to the air, stirred a bit.
Alaster had only a couple of words to say,
“Hast La Vista, Baby.”
“BOOOOOOOOOOOOREEEEEEDDDDDD.”
The Trained Actor angrily fidgeted at the sheer lack of progress he was making for his personal quest. All he wanted to do was to get a new gig! He was getting increasingly – no – positively frustrated and there was nothing he could do about that.
“SO BORED.” Lloyd wished the oblivion did not echo back at him. It was getting rather annoying.
“Where the hell did he get that motorcycle?” Tschichold sputtered. The shock of such an acquirement was enough to break him into the uncharacteristic surprise – noteworthy especially since he usually was in the thrall of his own hallucinations.
Darren wondered the same thing too. From what he saw, there were no motorcycles or anything equivalent to a motorcycle-really. The man from Traveler’s Rest continued to ponder on how an incongruous leap of logic happened, but considering that they are actually making progress – Darren was willing to suspend his disbelief, especially when the clockwork knight turned around.
Alaster was wearing shades.
“Ugh, can’t you go a little slower.” Tschichold half-heartedly demanded. “I think I’m going to vomit.”
In the distant future, mankind would have to fight a war against the magic guardians. Fortunately, for the resistance, they reprogrammed a lone assassin to be the protector for the savior to be. The assassin was itself. The savior was little boy nestled in its front. Alaster knew what its mission was: to protect Timothy Yessic, the only chance for mankind to have any ground against the golems to come.
- at least that was the clockwork knight thought. Apparently, having your vitals in such close proximity to psychoactive paints gave you visions that alluded to particular types of pop-culture. It was in a hospital. On the run. From the cops. Despite that, the goal was so urgent, so important.
Naturally, Alaster pressed the accelerator.
“FUCK,” Tschichold spat, as he held his seat against the sudden acceleration. “WHAT IS GOING ON WITH Y-“
The painter never finished his sentence as his head made physical contact with a television on the overhang – the boxy kind where repeats of popular shows are shown to the amused visitors. It just so happen that a special of Trek Wars was on – and to the shock of Darren,
Tschichold incongruously disappeared into that show.
Freefall attempted to do some small talk. As much as she did not want to be in this place, the superheroine decided it would be practical to talk with her wizardly in-mate. After all, it was obviously crucial to gain as much information about others as possible.
Much to her disappointment, Aaron and Change seem rather…not paying attention to say the least. It was almost as if they were intently listening to something in the far-off distance. With that observation, Freefall wondered if sentient wads of cash could actually listen to things, especially if they do not have any ears (or at least visible ones).
“Do you hear that?” Aaron whispered.
“Yes,” Change fluttered around, his bills changing currencies in almost an inquisitive manner. “A string of expletives, each astoundingly cruder than the last. I’ll say, this sounds oddly familiar, almost as if we met the originator of the voice before – “
With a magnificent splat, Tschichold landed face flat on the prison floor. Although the fall was not fatal, it still felt rather unpleasant. The shadow painter felt like a pancake and that was not a pleasant feeling. To prove his displeasure, angry bubbles of air formed around him as he laid down on his own paints.
“Oh,” Aaron just stood there. “Okay.”
Thanks to the miracle of cars, the marauding police managed to get to places where heart aneurysm could not take them – namely the hospital. As the policeman tumbled out clown-car style, they saw the grand theft auto parked haphazardly near. A policeman waddled over and sniffed defiantly.
Those bastards did not even parallel park correctly!
Only then did he discover the sprawling form of Ablendan Blake. The policeman could not help but feel repulsed (but also racially superior) at the unconscious undead. What a troublesome Asian. Ginger. Whatever. The demonic servant’s desiccated flesh made it troublesome for the observing cop to pigeonhole an arbitrary ethnicity.
“Mangy mutts. They stay in trouble,” the policeman wheezed as he adjusted a pillowing fat roll. “but they can’t stay out.”
He decided to arrest this Clearly-A-Hispanic (such a filthy fly-ridden mongrel, like most Hispanics). His little friends were probably hiding in the hospital finagling with their meth lab –clearly. “We are going to need back-up,” the cop flapped his jowls at his radio.
“Lots and lots of backup.”
***
The shadow painter’s determination to eliminate all perceived ugliness on the hospital mural was strong as a million condensed suns. However, the clockwork knight’s grip was iron – well, actually steel and bronze reinforced with magic but regardless, Tschichold simply could not win against the mystical manhandling of Alaster he found himself in once again.
“Let me go, you Romanesque rickshaw. You Gothic cuntpuncher,” Tschichold snarled as his legs danced a tango on the paint-laden linoleum. “You Baroque piece of shit.” With that last word, Tschichold had a niggling realization that he was seriously running low on Alaster-themed insults. The epiphany made the artist freeze on feet.
“I’m so UNORIGINAL.” The relevation was too much for his already addled-mind, thus Tschichold broke down to tears and a puddle of melancholy blue. If mood swings were like roller coasters, then his was a drop tower – complete with sharks and flying bears.
Fortunately, the last insult fell on deaf ears - a merciful triumph for everyone’s good tastes. There was already too much on the plate for the contenders inside Stoner Comedy anyway as Alaster attempted to figure out what the hell was going on. The list of problems had already gotten to the point of mass deforestation. It was just that bad.
“I Said,” Alaster demanded. “What Have You Done.”
If Darren’s woes were a footnote to the list of problems, the result would cause a Precambrian Tree Extinction. The man was wary of the metallic behemoth of a guardian. However, as much as he wanted to know what have he had done, Darren said what he knew, “I have no idea. Seriously!”
“The Receptionist Had Called The Alarm As Soon As You Told Her,” Although its tone was a robotic monotone, the accusation was tangible to the man. “Something About A Static Infection. So I Say, What Have You Done.”
Darren let out a frustrated groan. His delicate situation was not exactly translatable to text (especially to a walking suit of armor who sounded like a robot). However, Darren needed all the help he could get. “The Static influenced my companion, I think – or at least caught her attention for a dangerous span of time. There might be-"
“Static,” Alaster interrupted, as if the word was held the key to solving this mess.
“—consequences,” Darren picked up his explanation as if nothing happened. “I have no idea what sort of consequences but –“
“FREEZE.”
Another interruption unpleasantly held up his sentence. The interruption was in the form of the ubiquitous cops. In the door. On the job. With their guns out. They were dangerous – fat dangerous as one might put it.
This would probably be an intimidating sight if it were not for the fact the blockade looked like a bunch of sentient marshmallows.
“MOTHERFUCKERS.”
A cocky cop decided to unload his Glock upwards, causing the faceless background to panic even more.
Of course, Tschichold was not too keen about this situation either.
“THIS. THIS IS SOCIALLY UNACCEPTABLE.” He paused as he attempted to recollect his thoughts. “ART.”
***
Meanwhile, Lloyd the Trained Actor was still travelling through the space between channels, channel-space if you may. For some reason, his inter-dimensional travel was taking an ungodly amount of time. His strong panic boiled down to sheer denial which simmered to a mild annoyance.“This is fucking boring.” Lloyd grumbled as he traveled through the empty oblivion.
Well put, Lloyd. Well put.
***
“Whatever happens, I blame everything on you.”
Alaster did not quite heard the accusation and even if it did, it would shrug that off. Right now, its biggest problems were the blobby obstructions with the guns. On the job. In the front. Even if the clockwork knight was bulletproof, the weight of these beached security whales would be too much for one guardian.
“I think our chances are slim,” Darren said. He was not exactly fear-stricken. However, when you have your companion in your hands, bureaucracy holding up help, and the row of armed donut-holes in the front, you tend to feel a little uneasy in your knees.
“Slim? More like screwed.” Tschichold bellowed indignantly. “Now how am I going to art?”
Alaster stood still like a statue. The problem got a smidgen worse, thanks to circumstances beyond its control and knowing. So, the clockwork knight really wanted to get out of this dilemma as much as it had apparently got itself into there, especially since its ward was gravely sickened and...
“I SAID PUT YOUR HANDS UP.”
Another bullet lodged into the ceiling and the faceless crowd overturned into an uproar. Alaster had not spoken a word to these corpulent cops, yet it had a pretty good idea what they are like: fucking unreasonable. It did not exactly take a rocket scientist to realize that the cops were not going to ever listen.
A salvo of bullets upwards cemented Alaster’s viewpoint to reality. The participants of this battle to the death needed to get out pronto, or at least far away from this place. “We Need To Get Out Of Here,” Alaster declared loudly to the rest of the contenders.
“How?” The man from the traveling Rest demanded as he clasped tightly onto Sara. “What are you going to do? Go terminator on them?”
“No, That Would Be Too Inconvenient. And Risky.”
“Well,” Darren began to scratch at his chin with a free hand. “Other than that, the only other way I can think of is besides brute-forcing our way out is maybe we could go to another exit in this damned place. I don’t know.” He gave a slight shrug. “Maybe we need to think outside the box.”
Boxes! Alaster understood what the man had said, but it could not step outside the boundaries of conventional though-processes. After all, it is a technically a robot, well, a magical one, but regardless. It needed to follow logic, steps. Creativity was not exactly its greatest forte. Alaster may have to take risks.
Just then, Alaster had an idea – an idea that could sufficiently be described as crazy - so crazy it just might
work.
Alaster scanned the whole area, attempting to search for that one particular individual. After a few precious seconds, it managed to find his target – who was in the process of redecorating the receptionist desk with a colorful field of flowers.
“Let me go!” The artist was not too happy to be yanked from his life’s work, but at least he managed to think up new insults. “Let me go, you –SWEET JESUS ON A POGOSTICK.” Tschichold screamed as Alaster’s chest popped open, revealing a shimmering purple gem.
“Oh god, oh god, please don’t hurt – “ Against his pleading, Alaster deftly smeared Tschichold over its memory crystal like an expert artist with his brush, coloring the gem into a shocking yellow. As soon as the crystal was completely immersed, Tschichold was rudely dropped on the floor.
Darren warily stepped forward. “…Is he okay?”
Tschichold continued to sit here - his jaw slack-jawed from fear but mostly surprise! Never once in his miserable life had someone purposefully slathered paint on themselves. The artist was quite shocked—
-- especially since that the clockwork robot, with its chassis opened to the air, stirred a bit.
Alaster had only a couple of words to say,
“Hast La Vista, Baby.”
***
Meanwhile, Lloyd was – “BOOOOOOOOOOOOREEEEEEDDDDDD.”
The Trained Actor angrily fidgeted at the sheer lack of progress he was making for his personal quest. All he wanted to do was to get a new gig! He was getting increasingly – no – positively frustrated and there was nothing he could do about that.
“SO BORED.” Lloyd wished the oblivion did not echo back at him. It was getting rather annoying.
***
The last few minutes were an incomprehensible blur for Darren as he clasped tightly to Sara. In a few uneventful second, he found themselves on the back of a very large motorcycle. A cursory glance told him they were not the only contenders on-board. There was the artist, his face not unlike a startled one-eyed cat. “Where the hell did he get that motorcycle?” Tschichold sputtered. The shock of such an acquirement was enough to break him into the uncharacteristic surprise – noteworthy especially since he usually was in the thrall of his own hallucinations.
Darren wondered the same thing too. From what he saw, there were no motorcycles or anything equivalent to a motorcycle-really. The man from Traveler’s Rest continued to ponder on how an incongruous leap of logic happened, but considering that they are actually making progress – Darren was willing to suspend his disbelief, especially when the clockwork knight turned around.
Alaster was wearing shades.
“Ugh, can’t you go a little slower.” Tschichold half-heartedly demanded. “I think I’m going to vomit.”
In the distant future, mankind would have to fight a war against the magic guardians. Fortunately, for the resistance, they reprogrammed a lone assassin to be the protector for the savior to be. The assassin was itself. The savior was little boy nestled in its front. Alaster knew what its mission was: to protect Timothy Yessic, the only chance for mankind to have any ground against the golems to come.
- at least that was the clockwork knight thought. Apparently, having your vitals in such close proximity to psychoactive paints gave you visions that alluded to particular types of pop-culture. It was in a hospital. On the run. From the cops. Despite that, the goal was so urgent, so important.
Naturally, Alaster pressed the accelerator.
“FUCK,” Tschichold spat, as he held his seat against the sudden acceleration. “WHAT IS GOING ON WITH Y-“
The painter never finished his sentence as his head made physical contact with a television on the overhang – the boxy kind where repeats of popular shows are shown to the amused visitors. It just so happen that a special of Trek Wars was on – and to the shock of Darren,
Tschichold incongruously disappeared into that show.
***
“So have you seen any good movies?” Freefall attempted to do some small talk. As much as she did not want to be in this place, the superheroine decided it would be practical to talk with her wizardly in-mate. After all, it was obviously crucial to gain as much information about others as possible.
Much to her disappointment, Aaron and Change seem rather…not paying attention to say the least. It was almost as if they were intently listening to something in the far-off distance. With that observation, Freefall wondered if sentient wads of cash could actually listen to things, especially if they do not have any ears (or at least visible ones).
“Do you hear that?” Aaron whispered.
“Yes,” Change fluttered around, his bills changing currencies in almost an inquisitive manner. “A string of expletives, each astoundingly cruder than the last. I’ll say, this sounds oddly familiar, almost as if we met the originator of the voice before – “
With a magnificent splat, Tschichold landed face flat on the prison floor. Although the fall was not fatal, it still felt rather unpleasant. The shadow painter felt like a pancake and that was not a pleasant feeling. To prove his displeasure, angry bubbles of air formed around him as he laid down on his own paints.
“Oh,” Aaron just stood there. “Okay.”