Post by Gurgen Hovhanissian on Oct 12, 2016 6:33:10 GMT -5
“Where the hell is he?!” Bob shouted with unconcealed impotent rage, the only thing impotent about his person, or so he insisted towards his would-be conquest in that dive bar last night.
Bob was stampeding, much in the manner a certain moron of massive proportions was wont to do, in the main arena of NAW.
Frank panned across the plethora of people assembled in and around the ring. There were a dozen or so handsome men in full burlesque gear and an equal number of gorgeous women clad in vaguely medieval looking leather-with-studs biker gear, a vast and impressive array of Harley-Davidsons neatly parked in front of the ring. Suspended above the ring, leisurely chatting for wont of anything better to do, hung a pair of people whose gender it was hard to pin down. One was decked out in a smart suit and cute little devil horns, the other wore loose fitting white robes and a halo.
“I mean,” Bob continued his tirade, “Did he forget how to tell time again? Did he forget where the goddamned ring is? Did he go chasing after some imagined rainbow unicorn?!!! WHAT?!”
“As opposed to real life rainbow unicorns,” Frank’s ass smarted. His quip either went unheard or Bob was not in the mood for levity.
A representative of the motley troupe assembled in, around and above the ring, approached the irate reporter to inform him that his assembly would walk in 15 minutes.
Hoping against home, Bob despaired, “We’ll just have to go and find him.”
He took two steps towards the exit and then stopped in his tracks.
Frank damn near ran into him, camera and all.
“Where, though, that imbecile could literally be anywhere. He could be sleeping it off in the ladies bathroom, just around the corner or he might just as well be chasing kiwi birds around Auckland.”
“We ask around … something might turn up,” Frank offered.
“Tight plan,” Bob mocked, “Really, really tight plan. You’re a genius.”
But, as he himself lacked any plan other than run around in circles like a headless chicken and hope for the best, they went with Frank’s plan by a vote of one to nil with one abstaining.
Some highly sped up footage appeared of Bob interrogating absolutely everyone they encountered, including a cardboard cutout of Jenny Smith (Bob’s probably a bit of a fan).
Eventually, we reacquired Bob, at regular speed, somewhere outside the NAW building. He explained to the camera, “So, I guess the fifteen minutes have passed by now, so all the extras we hired, on Gurgen’s dime, by the way, have by now probably left to hit the nearest bar where they’ll spend all the cash they earned for standing around and holding their dicks … or vaginas … or whatever those two suspended above the ring have, …”
“I hope someone remembered to bring them back down,” Frank interrupted.
“Anyway,” Bob dismissed, “If we’re going to get anything useful, we still need to actually find The Beast.”
“What have we learned,” Bob summed up, “He was seen, in the analogue media department. Whoever came up with that name probably has a huge paycheck and earns none of it. He asked for, and was given, one old poster … from an event he wasn’t even involved in. Why he wants it, we didn’t know, until … until we found one guy who said he also asked for and was given, a book of matches.”
“And his next match is, of course, …”
“Phoenix!” Frank completed the sentence.
“Exactly, in his mind, he’s probably picturing Jason Phoenix as an actual bird of fire, so we figure he’s probably going to commit arson. Also, the Phoenix is a bird and he was seen heading for the nearest park, so … anyone for some roast duck?”
After some more accelerated footage of Bob and Frank combing the park, we were shown a Beastly form in the distance, kneeling next to a pond. Nothing was ablaze yet.
“Gurgen!” Bob called out.
The hairy shape did not react.
Bob shouted even louder but it had the same non-effect.
They approached the Massive Moron with caution and no small amount of regret over not wearing asbestos underwear … or a hazmat suit, for that matter.
Gurgen appeared to be holding something in his paw. Frank focused the camera.
It was Bottlecap. The little fellow looked positively tiny in the huge Beastly paw. Gurgen stroked his little friend with an index finger, almost as wide as the mouse’s chest.
It wasn’t quite clear at first; Gurgen seemed to be humming, but upon closer inspection, it turned out he was singing in a surprisingly soft and low voice, doubly so as this was a guy who’d routinely produce sounds more closely associated with a grizzly bear with a sore throat, a four decades old Lada with gearbox problems or the early stages of an 8.4 earthquake.
The translator got to have a paycheck once more as captions appeared at the bottom of the screen.
“Lay on a field of green
With Mother Eve
With Father Pine reaching high
Look at yourself in the eyes of Bottlecap”
“That rodent ain’t moving,” observed Frank.
“You don’t think he …,” Bob didn’t finish the sentence.
Gurgen, however did finish his song. He placed the still form of his little buddy on the ground. He pulled a pair of scissors from his bountiful coat and cut the bottom two inches off his beard. He fashioned the beard into a little bed and placed it in a paper boat, made from the poster he obtained. There was a pyre of sorts in the middle of the boat, made from twigs and Popsicle sticks. Atop this structure, he lay Bottlecap, making sure his little friend was comfortably wrapped in the beard hair bed.
Gurgen then fetched a bottle of wodka from the depths of the coat. He took a big gulp and filled up Bottlecap’s bottle cap to the brim. He placed the bottle cap next to his buddy on the pyre.
Now, he placed the boat in the pond and gave it a little push.
It quietly sailed off towards some ducks, gathered in the middle of the pond.
Gurgen pulled the matchbook from his coat, struck a match and used it to light the whole pack on fire.
With expert precision he tossed the burning matchbook at the boat. With a whoosh, the wodka in the boat caught fire. Ducks scattered every which way, one of them with its tail on fire. Not saying a thing, Gurgen just stood there, watching the boat burn.
Frank filmed it all. Bottlecap’s final ride lost integrity soon enough. The Earthly remains of the valiant rodent disappeared into the water of the pond.
Before Bob could prompt Beast for a comment, the latter spoke of his own accord.
“Beast give Bottlecap dinner like always. Stale snickers bar … his favorite. Then Beast and Bottlecap share drink and Bottlecap crawl into beard for sleeping.”
His chest filled with a big breath of air, he exhaled in a great sigh.
“In morning, Bottlecap forget to wake up.”
Frank paned across to waters to where Bottlecap’s final resting place was.
“Beard feel empty.”
Breaking the prime directive of interaction with The Beast, Bob actually touched the Irradiated Imbecile on the shoulder.
“My condolences, Beast.”
Frank expressed the same sentiment.
Allowing yet a moment’s silence, Bob finally spoke, “Beast, we do need to …”
“Yes, yes, yes, Beast know. Beast have match. Beast make porno about match.”
“Promo,” Bob corrected the Hairy Horror.
“Gesundheid,” Beast said.
He turned his gaze away from the pond his little friend now rested in. He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to force the moisture that was leaking out back inside.
Looking straight into the camera for the first time in this shoot, he spoke, ”Beast fight Jason Firebird.”
“Beast no can help but wonder, why Jason take name of Firebird? It been said that firebirds come back from dead.“
He glanced over at the pond. Was he expecting Bottlecap to emerge from the waters amidst glorious flames? Who knows how the Beastly mind work, if at all.
“Beast?” Bob tried to gain his attention.
The Beast turned his head back to the camera, a total lack of comprehension in his eyes for a moment, then he recalled what the hell he was doing less than a minute ago. Who knows how the Beastly memory works, if at all.
“Maybe it be because no matter how hard peoples hit Jason, Jason always get up … like firebird from ashes. But Beast be smart … there be no flames when Jason be in ring! Jason Firebird be liar. And even if Jason bring fires to ring … Beast no fear fires. Beast face worse than mere fire even when Beast just be little boy.”
An inset, added in post-production appeared behind and to the right of Beast, showing the devastated Pripyat nuclear power plant.
”So, Jason, Beast no care what Jason bring to ring. Beast take it all and Beast be one who rises from ashes. Beast know Jason have lots of friends who follow Jason around like violent little puppies. Beast no care who Jason bring to ring either. It just give Beast more faces to plant fist in … or boot, Beast be flexible that way. Jason bring all his friends to ring and Beast just bring Beast. It be Beast who rises from ashes.”
He stroked his beard, somewhat shorter than before due to the bit that accompanied Bottlecap to his watery grave.
“Jason no worry, beard still be plenty long enough. There still be enough beard there for Jason to choke on. Jason tell Beast, what Jason thing beard taste like? Jason think about that? Jason think hard on that. Maybe Jason already begin to taste beard in mouth. Can you taste it already, Jason? You’ll be tasting it soon enough.”
Beast shut up abruptly. He turned towards the pond, placed his hand on his heart and in a low voice resumed his rendition of Endless Forms Most Beautiful.
Content that he got SOMETHING that made came halfway to making the slightest bit of sense out of the Irradiated Imbecile, Bob motioned for Frank to back up.
The scene slowly began to fade to black. Beast’s singing was isolated from the ambient noise.
Halfway through a line, Beast reached for his beard. He stuffed it into his own mouth and munched on it some.
His voice still primarily in evidence, we could hear him appreciatively say, “Hm, sour cream and endives.”
At which point he resumed his singing and the video gratefully committed suicide.
Bob was stampeding, much in the manner a certain moron of massive proportions was wont to do, in the main arena of NAW.
Frank panned across the plethora of people assembled in and around the ring. There were a dozen or so handsome men in full burlesque gear and an equal number of gorgeous women clad in vaguely medieval looking leather-with-studs biker gear, a vast and impressive array of Harley-Davidsons neatly parked in front of the ring. Suspended above the ring, leisurely chatting for wont of anything better to do, hung a pair of people whose gender it was hard to pin down. One was decked out in a smart suit and cute little devil horns, the other wore loose fitting white robes and a halo.
“I mean,” Bob continued his tirade, “Did he forget how to tell time again? Did he forget where the goddamned ring is? Did he go chasing after some imagined rainbow unicorn?!!! WHAT?!”
“As opposed to real life rainbow unicorns,” Frank’s ass smarted. His quip either went unheard or Bob was not in the mood for levity.
A representative of the motley troupe assembled in, around and above the ring, approached the irate reporter to inform him that his assembly would walk in 15 minutes.
Hoping against home, Bob despaired, “We’ll just have to go and find him.”
He took two steps towards the exit and then stopped in his tracks.
Frank damn near ran into him, camera and all.
“Where, though, that imbecile could literally be anywhere. He could be sleeping it off in the ladies bathroom, just around the corner or he might just as well be chasing kiwi birds around Auckland.”
“We ask around … something might turn up,” Frank offered.
“Tight plan,” Bob mocked, “Really, really tight plan. You’re a genius.”
But, as he himself lacked any plan other than run around in circles like a headless chicken and hope for the best, they went with Frank’s plan by a vote of one to nil with one abstaining.
Some highly sped up footage appeared of Bob interrogating absolutely everyone they encountered, including a cardboard cutout of Jenny Smith (Bob’s probably a bit of a fan).
Eventually, we reacquired Bob, at regular speed, somewhere outside the NAW building. He explained to the camera, “So, I guess the fifteen minutes have passed by now, so all the extras we hired, on Gurgen’s dime, by the way, have by now probably left to hit the nearest bar where they’ll spend all the cash they earned for standing around and holding their dicks … or vaginas … or whatever those two suspended above the ring have, …”
“I hope someone remembered to bring them back down,” Frank interrupted.
“Anyway,” Bob dismissed, “If we’re going to get anything useful, we still need to actually find The Beast.”
“What have we learned,” Bob summed up, “He was seen, in the analogue media department. Whoever came up with that name probably has a huge paycheck and earns none of it. He asked for, and was given, one old poster … from an event he wasn’t even involved in. Why he wants it, we didn’t know, until … until we found one guy who said he also asked for and was given, a book of matches.”
“And his next match is, of course, …”
“Phoenix!” Frank completed the sentence.
“Exactly, in his mind, he’s probably picturing Jason Phoenix as an actual bird of fire, so we figure he’s probably going to commit arson. Also, the Phoenix is a bird and he was seen heading for the nearest park, so … anyone for some roast duck?”
After some more accelerated footage of Bob and Frank combing the park, we were shown a Beastly form in the distance, kneeling next to a pond. Nothing was ablaze yet.
“Gurgen!” Bob called out.
The hairy shape did not react.
Bob shouted even louder but it had the same non-effect.
They approached the Massive Moron with caution and no small amount of regret over not wearing asbestos underwear … or a hazmat suit, for that matter.
Gurgen appeared to be holding something in his paw. Frank focused the camera.
It was Bottlecap. The little fellow looked positively tiny in the huge Beastly paw. Gurgen stroked his little friend with an index finger, almost as wide as the mouse’s chest.
It wasn’t quite clear at first; Gurgen seemed to be humming, but upon closer inspection, it turned out he was singing in a surprisingly soft and low voice, doubly so as this was a guy who’d routinely produce sounds more closely associated with a grizzly bear with a sore throat, a four decades old Lada with gearbox problems or the early stages of an 8.4 earthquake.
The translator got to have a paycheck once more as captions appeared at the bottom of the screen.
“Lay on a field of green
With Mother Eve
With Father Pine reaching high
Look at yourself in the eyes of Bottlecap”
“That rodent ain’t moving,” observed Frank.
“You don’t think he …,” Bob didn’t finish the sentence.
Gurgen, however did finish his song. He placed the still form of his little buddy on the ground. He pulled a pair of scissors from his bountiful coat and cut the bottom two inches off his beard. He fashioned the beard into a little bed and placed it in a paper boat, made from the poster he obtained. There was a pyre of sorts in the middle of the boat, made from twigs and Popsicle sticks. Atop this structure, he lay Bottlecap, making sure his little friend was comfortably wrapped in the beard hair bed.
Gurgen then fetched a bottle of wodka from the depths of the coat. He took a big gulp and filled up Bottlecap’s bottle cap to the brim. He placed the bottle cap next to his buddy on the pyre.
Now, he placed the boat in the pond and gave it a little push.
It quietly sailed off towards some ducks, gathered in the middle of the pond.
Gurgen pulled the matchbook from his coat, struck a match and used it to light the whole pack on fire.
With expert precision he tossed the burning matchbook at the boat. With a whoosh, the wodka in the boat caught fire. Ducks scattered every which way, one of them with its tail on fire. Not saying a thing, Gurgen just stood there, watching the boat burn.
Frank filmed it all. Bottlecap’s final ride lost integrity soon enough. The Earthly remains of the valiant rodent disappeared into the water of the pond.
Before Bob could prompt Beast for a comment, the latter spoke of his own accord.
“Beast give Bottlecap dinner like always. Stale snickers bar … his favorite. Then Beast and Bottlecap share drink and Bottlecap crawl into beard for sleeping.”
His chest filled with a big breath of air, he exhaled in a great sigh.
“In morning, Bottlecap forget to wake up.”
Frank paned across to waters to where Bottlecap’s final resting place was.
“Beard feel empty.”
Breaking the prime directive of interaction with The Beast, Bob actually touched the Irradiated Imbecile on the shoulder.
“My condolences, Beast.”
Frank expressed the same sentiment.
Allowing yet a moment’s silence, Bob finally spoke, “Beast, we do need to …”
“Yes, yes, yes, Beast know. Beast have match. Beast make porno about match.”
“Promo,” Bob corrected the Hairy Horror.
“Gesundheid,” Beast said.
He turned his gaze away from the pond his little friend now rested in. He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to force the moisture that was leaking out back inside.
Looking straight into the camera for the first time in this shoot, he spoke, ”Beast fight Jason Firebird.”
“Beast no can help but wonder, why Jason take name of Firebird? It been said that firebirds come back from dead.“
He glanced over at the pond. Was he expecting Bottlecap to emerge from the waters amidst glorious flames? Who knows how the Beastly mind work, if at all.
“Beast?” Bob tried to gain his attention.
The Beast turned his head back to the camera, a total lack of comprehension in his eyes for a moment, then he recalled what the hell he was doing less than a minute ago. Who knows how the Beastly memory works, if at all.
“Maybe it be because no matter how hard peoples hit Jason, Jason always get up … like firebird from ashes. But Beast be smart … there be no flames when Jason be in ring! Jason Firebird be liar. And even if Jason bring fires to ring … Beast no fear fires. Beast face worse than mere fire even when Beast just be little boy.”
An inset, added in post-production appeared behind and to the right of Beast, showing the devastated Pripyat nuclear power plant.
”So, Jason, Beast no care what Jason bring to ring. Beast take it all and Beast be one who rises from ashes. Beast know Jason have lots of friends who follow Jason around like violent little puppies. Beast no care who Jason bring to ring either. It just give Beast more faces to plant fist in … or boot, Beast be flexible that way. Jason bring all his friends to ring and Beast just bring Beast. It be Beast who rises from ashes.”
He stroked his beard, somewhat shorter than before due to the bit that accompanied Bottlecap to his watery grave.
“Jason no worry, beard still be plenty long enough. There still be enough beard there for Jason to choke on. Jason tell Beast, what Jason thing beard taste like? Jason think about that? Jason think hard on that. Maybe Jason already begin to taste beard in mouth. Can you taste it already, Jason? You’ll be tasting it soon enough.”
Beast shut up abruptly. He turned towards the pond, placed his hand on his heart and in a low voice resumed his rendition of Endless Forms Most Beautiful.
Content that he got SOMETHING that made came halfway to making the slightest bit of sense out of the Irradiated Imbecile, Bob motioned for Frank to back up.
The scene slowly began to fade to black. Beast’s singing was isolated from the ambient noise.
Halfway through a line, Beast reached for his beard. He stuffed it into his own mouth and munched on it some.
His voice still primarily in evidence, we could hear him appreciatively say, “Hm, sour cream and endives.”
At which point he resumed his singing and the video gratefully committed suicide.