Re: THIS PROGRAM HAS BEEN CANCELED [S!1][ROUND TWO: ETA CARINA]
05-07-2012, 10:23 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.
Tschichold was sobbing - and also getting nauseous. The artist was getting dizzy from the plumbing changing about six different colors (plus a few dozen more). He would have welcomed the eventual blackout that came with vertigo package deal. However, there was some sneaky rat shuffling about in his emotional haven (reader’s note: a very expensive bathroom) - no doubt ruining his art. He would had a very good cry, but hey, sometimes things had to interrupt - things like rude people barging in without asking permission. Tschichold was not exactly happy with this. After all, rude people were the worst.
Tschichold frowned at the scuffling of boots (or whatever footwear equivalent) on the marble. Rude people! Rude people were not only disrespectful, but also very noisy. Being one of those unpleasant fellows whose wrath was proportional to the amount of trivial din in the air, Tschichold also hated noisy people. So rude, the painter cursed the intruder under his breath. Probably rude enough to vandalize my murals. That’s it. The crimes were too much to ignore. The artist needed to give that person a piece of his mind.
Meanwhile, Aaron was getting equally nauseous. Being a man of wizardly scholarship, the aurumancer was pondering the secrets of the universe (reader’s note: a very expensive bathroom) - namely “how long he can hold his lunch” and “why is the floor not obeying his legs.” It was hard to ponder these very important secrets when everything was going through every nanometer of the visible wavelength. As much as Change was a bit of a nagger sometimes, Aaron seriously wished that sentient pile of metaphysical cash was here so he could ask him for some advice - especially when one of the bathroom stalls spoke “HEY.”
“Yes you.” The bathroom stall demanded of his attention. Aaron became slightly slack-jawed at this daft violation of reality. How could bathroom stalls talk? Well, non-magical ones anyway. Even then, the novel phenomenon was incredibly confusing to the increasingly disoriented wizard considering even in his native universe, lavatories (very common in his civilization) do not even talk. Aaron was about to spew at this perplexity of this difficult ignorance until he saw a familiar-looking head hovering above one of those doors.
The painter frowned as soon as he recognized who the annoying visitor was. Oh wow, it was Aaron Abstract of all the seven or so whatever contestants. Who the hell was that robe-wearing pansy anyway. What was his purpose here anyway. He seemed boring. Oh, how Tschichold hated boring people. When was the last time he was forced to hang out with this stupid-also-boring wizard - some weird-ass jellyfish documentary followed with that sports fiasco...and lets not get started Trek Wars.
From what he could remember with his hallucinogenically-hindered mind, Tschichold fidgeted so violently on his makeshift perch. His wizardly observer though he was suffering a comically-placed seizure - clinging on the bathroom door stall of all places. The plastic door of privacy clattered violently on the locks, a cacophony that caused further distress (and additional nausea) within the two contestants - especially in this enclosed space (reader’s note: a very expensive bathroom). Eventually the noise was too abrasive for Aaron’s addled ears and he pleaded an auditory ceasefire with a very loud “STOP.”
Tschichold let out a surprised yelp - and a string of colorful curses as his body met the marble floor. Aaron just met this paranoid painter a few in-round minutes ago -and now that guy is squatting in the lavatory of all cases. The wizard did not quite know how to react or reply to this barmy fellow or why he was dwelling in a bathroom - a bathroom that Aaron Abstract could use.
“What you want,” The nasally voice demand of the mage.
Aaron could feel the paranoia ever-burning in that terse sentence. Coincidentally, his esophagus was ever-burning too - at least it was starting to burn anyway. “Why are you he--”
Tschichold did not bother to let Aaron finish. Why should he? His words were probably boring anyway. “Go away.”
“At least you can let me--”
“I said go away.” An awkward pause descended. “I don’t trust capitalists.”
Despite his hazy vision, Aaron felt slightly offended at that statement. Why he was an aurumancer - that was totally different from the shadowy man had accused of him being. So piqued by that slander that Abstract decided to give him an impromptu lecture on the title that he had spent so much time, tears, and taxes to rightfully earn.
“Listen, sir. There is a fine difference between economist and an aurumancer. First of economists are social theorists who concern themselves behind distribution of goods and services; they may or may not be magical. On the other hand, aurumancers.” There was much emphasis on that word. “aurumancers are magicians concern themselves with the meaning of value - a metaphysical application! Got it?”
The words practically bounced off of Tschichold. He had only a very basic idea of what economics was and he could not be positively arsed to care about Aaron’s little lecture. As far as he knew, boring-capitalist wizard worked with money - a sentient pile, no less (where was that so-called “moneybags” anyway) and capitalists worked with money too. It was simple logic. Aaron was a capitalist,
a filthy, filthy capitalist.
“That still counts as capitalism, you idiot.” The painter snapped. Aaron was slightly taken back at this statement. “Shouldn’t trust capitalists -- such liars and you are no different...”
The accusations degenerated into a smear of grumbles, dotted with the occasional meaningless phrase such as “Maynard Keynes” and “Friedrich Hayek.” It was pretty clear that Tschichold had no idea what he was talking about and he just wanted to vent his emotional frustrations into this pointless lecture of rage. Aaron on the other hand was getting a little greenish. After all, he was in the same place (reader’s note: a very expensive bathroom) as a guy who involuntarily shed toxic paints everywhere. The droning was making him angry and sick. He needed to get a receptacle - quick.
While Tschichold was bungling over the concept of mercantilism, he heard his door opening. Cursing that he had not lock the door appropriately, the painter spewed even more profanities as soon as he realized the intruder was Aaron himself - faded robes and all.
“Why are YOU here?” Tschichold screamed.
“Move outta the way.” Aaron groaned. He had never felt this sick since the week before finals.
“CAN’T A GIRL GET SOME PRIVACY?”
The two men in the stall exchanged bewildered looks at each other. Tschichold was slightly shocked at the statement that just spewed out of his much. Aaron was also slightly shocked at that incredibly random statement. Not to mention, he had to also spew, eject, upchuck, disgorge, eject - you know, vomit. Regardless of the euphemisms, the wizard really needed to do a technicolor waterfall-- now. So, he did.
Unfortunately, Tschichold was in the way.
“What...what have you done.” A person spoke - each word including increasing panic.
“Ugh, you.” A voice returned - gruff and low. The purpose behind that statement was ambiguous. However, the tone sounded like a demand - or a threat.
“Why. Why did you do this to me?”
“Shut. Up.”
“I didn’t deserve this. I didn’t ask for this.”
“No, this is your fault. This is all your fault. So shut. Up.”
The sounds of the two voices layer upon each other, degenerating into an unlistenable slurry of babble and swear words - which Freefall could care less about. Her place of work had their fair share of drunken vagrants and even in this casino, this was no different. Suddenly, a shrill scream erupted and prolonged, punctuated with nigh-discernible phrases such as <font color="#808080">“oh my gods, please shut up” and “I think I am going to throw up again.” Someone was in trouble, her instincts whispered to her. Doesn’t matter the circumstances. That woman needed help.
Fury welled within her. Like an ocean crashing into the tide, Freefall sundered the wall, both of her eyes shining with heroic determination. She had completely wrecked the division between her and the distressed cry. Plumbing cracked, spraying water everywhere. Ceramic and metal shattered into powder. She was doing a lot at the expense of the local architecture, but collateral damage be damned! Time was of an utter essence; her obligations burning strong. That woman needed help. She needed to get there.</font>
To her surprise, there was no helpless civilian. There was no gun-wielding thug. There was two familiar faces: a wizard with faded robes and a sickly looking expression on his face, and a shadowy man - for some reason, covered in what Freefall guessed was vomitus. Both of these men had slacked-jaw expressions and wide eyes - no doubt from her dramatic intrusion into their portion of the room (reader’s note: a very expensive bathroom). Oh, so it was those two.
“YOU!” The painter screamed, pointing an accusing finger at her.
Freefall never felt this underwhelmingly disappointed before.
Tschichold was sobbing - and also getting nauseous. The artist was getting dizzy from the plumbing changing about six different colors (plus a few dozen more). He would have welcomed the eventual blackout that came with vertigo package deal. However, there was some sneaky rat shuffling about in his emotional haven (reader’s note: a very expensive bathroom) - no doubt ruining his art. He would had a very good cry, but hey, sometimes things had to interrupt - things like rude people barging in without asking permission. Tschichold was not exactly happy with this. After all, rude people were the worst.
Tschichold frowned at the scuffling of boots (or whatever footwear equivalent) on the marble. Rude people! Rude people were not only disrespectful, but also very noisy. Being one of those unpleasant fellows whose wrath was proportional to the amount of trivial din in the air, Tschichold also hated noisy people. So rude, the painter cursed the intruder under his breath. Probably rude enough to vandalize my murals. That’s it. The crimes were too much to ignore. The artist needed to give that person a piece of his mind.
Meanwhile, Aaron was getting equally nauseous. Being a man of wizardly scholarship, the aurumancer was pondering the secrets of the universe (reader’s note: a very expensive bathroom) - namely “how long he can hold his lunch” and “why is the floor not obeying his legs.” It was hard to ponder these very important secrets when everything was going through every nanometer of the visible wavelength. As much as Change was a bit of a nagger sometimes, Aaron seriously wished that sentient pile of metaphysical cash was here so he could ask him for some advice - especially when one of the bathroom stalls spoke “HEY.”
“Yes you.” The bathroom stall demanded of his attention. Aaron became slightly slack-jawed at this daft violation of reality. How could bathroom stalls talk? Well, non-magical ones anyway. Even then, the novel phenomenon was incredibly confusing to the increasingly disoriented wizard considering even in his native universe, lavatories (very common in his civilization) do not even talk. Aaron was about to spew at this perplexity of this difficult ignorance until he saw a familiar-looking head hovering above one of those doors.
The painter frowned as soon as he recognized who the annoying visitor was. Oh wow, it was Aaron Abstract of all the seven or so whatever contestants. Who the hell was that robe-wearing pansy anyway. What was his purpose here anyway. He seemed boring. Oh, how Tschichold hated boring people. When was the last time he was forced to hang out with this stupid-also-boring wizard - some weird-ass jellyfish documentary followed with that sports fiasco...and lets not get started Trek Wars.
From what he could remember with his hallucinogenically-hindered mind, Tschichold fidgeted so violently on his makeshift perch. His wizardly observer though he was suffering a comically-placed seizure - clinging on the bathroom door stall of all places. The plastic door of privacy clattered violently on the locks, a cacophony that caused further distress (and additional nausea) within the two contestants - especially in this enclosed space (reader’s note: a very expensive bathroom). Eventually the noise was too abrasive for Aaron’s addled ears and he pleaded an auditory ceasefire with a very loud “STOP.”
Tschichold let out a surprised yelp - and a string of colorful curses as his body met the marble floor. Aaron just met this paranoid painter a few in-round minutes ago -and now that guy is squatting in the lavatory of all cases. The wizard did not quite know how to react or reply to this barmy fellow or why he was dwelling in a bathroom - a bathroom that Aaron Abstract could use.
“What you want,” The nasally voice demand of the mage.
Aaron could feel the paranoia ever-burning in that terse sentence. Coincidentally, his esophagus was ever-burning too - at least it was starting to burn anyway. “Why are you he--”
Tschichold did not bother to let Aaron finish. Why should he? His words were probably boring anyway. “Go away.”
“At least you can let me--”
“I said go away.” An awkward pause descended. “I don’t trust capitalists.”
Despite his hazy vision, Aaron felt slightly offended at that statement. Why he was an aurumancer - that was totally different from the shadowy man had accused of him being. So piqued by that slander that Abstract decided to give him an impromptu lecture on the title that he had spent so much time, tears, and taxes to rightfully earn.
“Listen, sir. There is a fine difference between economist and an aurumancer. First of economists are social theorists who concern themselves behind distribution of goods and services; they may or may not be magical. On the other hand, aurumancers.” There was much emphasis on that word. “aurumancers are magicians concern themselves with the meaning of value - a metaphysical application! Got it?”
The words practically bounced off of Tschichold. He had only a very basic idea of what economics was and he could not be positively arsed to care about Aaron’s little lecture. As far as he knew, boring-capitalist wizard worked with money - a sentient pile, no less (where was that so-called “moneybags” anyway) and capitalists worked with money too. It was simple logic. Aaron was a capitalist,
a filthy, filthy capitalist.
“That still counts as capitalism, you idiot.” The painter snapped. Aaron was slightly taken back at this statement. “Shouldn’t trust capitalists -- such liars and you are no different...”
The accusations degenerated into a smear of grumbles, dotted with the occasional meaningless phrase such as “Maynard Keynes” and “Friedrich Hayek.” It was pretty clear that Tschichold had no idea what he was talking about and he just wanted to vent his emotional frustrations into this pointless lecture of rage. Aaron on the other hand was getting a little greenish. After all, he was in the same place (reader’s note: a very expensive bathroom) as a guy who involuntarily shed toxic paints everywhere. The droning was making him angry and sick. He needed to get a receptacle - quick.
While Tschichold was bungling over the concept of mercantilism, he heard his door opening. Cursing that he had not lock the door appropriately, the painter spewed even more profanities as soon as he realized the intruder was Aaron himself - faded robes and all.
“Why are YOU here?” Tschichold screamed.
“Move outta the way.” Aaron groaned. He had never felt this sick since the week before finals.
“CAN’T A GIRL GET SOME PRIVACY?”
The two men in the stall exchanged bewildered looks at each other. Tschichold was slightly shocked at the statement that just spewed out of his much. Aaron was also slightly shocked at that incredibly random statement. Not to mention, he had to also spew, eject, upchuck, disgorge, eject - you know, vomit. Regardless of the euphemisms, the wizard really needed to do a technicolor waterfall-- now. So, he did.
Unfortunately, Tschichold was in the way.
***
Freefall examined her costume in the mirror. Despite the comic-book level science of her suit, even the nano-tech repairs could not fully remove the vandalism by a certain someone - and the projectile impacts from the Television Land fiascoes did not help. Now, she looked like some sort of modernist art exhibition - yellow, orange, and green racing stripes along her right, with spattered polka dots of bare suit where bullet-holes had been nano-sealed. Her suit was arguably a complete mess. On the other hand, this was partially a happy accident. Freefall had to begrudgingly admit - the paints had a pleasing sort of industrial aesthetic in their application. She continued to ponder the logistics of the damage upon her equipment - until she overheard a particularly tense conversation.“What...what have you done.” A person spoke - each word including increasing panic.
“Ugh, you.” A voice returned - gruff and low. The purpose behind that statement was ambiguous. However, the tone sounded like a demand - or a threat.
“Why. Why did you do this to me?”
“Shut. Up.”
“I didn’t deserve this. I didn’t ask for this.”
“No, this is your fault. This is all your fault. So shut. Up.”
The sounds of the two voices layer upon each other, degenerating into an unlistenable slurry of babble and swear words - which Freefall could care less about. Her place of work had their fair share of drunken vagrants and even in this casino, this was no different. Suddenly, a shrill scream erupted and prolonged, punctuated with nigh-discernible phrases such as <font color="#808080">“oh my gods, please shut up” and “I think I am going to throw up again.” Someone was in trouble, her instincts whispered to her. Doesn’t matter the circumstances. That woman needed help.
Fury welled within her. Like an ocean crashing into the tide, Freefall sundered the wall, both of her eyes shining with heroic determination. She had completely wrecked the division between her and the distressed cry. Plumbing cracked, spraying water everywhere. Ceramic and metal shattered into powder. She was doing a lot at the expense of the local architecture, but collateral damage be damned! Time was of an utter essence; her obligations burning strong. That woman needed help. She needed to get there.</font>
To her surprise, there was no helpless civilian. There was no gun-wielding thug. There was two familiar faces: a wizard with faded robes and a sickly looking expression on his face, and a shadowy man - for some reason, covered in what Freefall guessed was vomitus. Both of these men had slacked-jaw expressions and wide eyes - no doubt from her dramatic intrusion into their portion of the room (reader’s note: a very expensive bathroom). Oh, so it was those two.
“YOU!” The painter screamed, pointing an accusing finger at her.
Freefall never felt this underwhelmingly disappointed before.