Post by Gurgen Hovhanissian on Jun 13, 2016 6:30:59 GMT -5
The screen is yet black but we already hear Bob’s voice, “Asger.”
Light begins to filter in, a flickering flame, a campfire, it seems.
“Asger Ahl …” comes the heavy drone of the Beastly voice.
“Stop!” Bob commands, “Just Asger. You don’t have to say the rest of his name. People will know who you’re talking about.”
“Then why have two names?!” The Beast is exasperated, evidently, this has been going on for a while already.
Beast and Bob are sitting at opposite sides of the campfire, which seems to be on a rocky beach. Well, Bob’s sitting, Beast is lounging. He has a beer in his paw. The mud from his previous video is still encrusted all over his face, beard and faux-Viking outfit.
To give himself so thinking time, Bob took a swig (?) from his own bottle.
A glimmer of hope twinkles in his eyes. Or the camera is really good at catching the campfire’s reflection in low light conditions.
“Look, what’s YOUR name?”
Gurgen thrust his paw in the air, spilling some of the precious ol (as the label claims it’s called) on the burning logs. They make a soothing hissing sound. “Beast!” Beast proudly proclaims.
“A-HA!” Bob rejoices, extending his own arm and the index finger of said arm.
Beast tries to acquire what Bob is pointing at, but, following the indicated direction, he sees nothing but the dark of night.
“A-WHAT?!” he inquires.
“You said ‘Beast’”
“That be name!”
Bob leans in. “Isn’t your name ‘Armenian Beast’?”
Beast begins to voice an objection but stops himself before a fully formed letter ‘a’ has managed to escape his mouth. Now it is he who needs time to think. So, he drains his ol, grabs another, slays that and halfway through the third, he finally stops drinking. He tries to push sound from his throat but yet is unable to complete a single letter. More thinking is needed. Down goes the third beer.
Enough information has solidified in the Beastly head to coagulate into a “Hey.”
“You could have said ‘Armenian Beast’ but you only said, ‘Beast’,” Bob reiterated in an effort to further cement this discovery into the depths of the Beastly brain, what’s left of it anyway.
Information gets lost in the dungeons of any man’s mind, but the Beast’s mind is more like an oubliette, where the only purpose, it seems, of anything that enters is to be lost forever.
Yet, Bob seems to have made progress, for, when he prompts, “So, your opponent is called …”
Very carefully, the Beast states, “As…ger … A …”
There, he stops. With a start, he sits upright. He stares into the flames and gives it another go, “Opponent be Asger.”
He sits there, waiting for terrible things to befall him, but nothing happens.
“Asger,” he directs at the flames.
“Asger!” he directs at Bob.
A smile makes some of the caked mud crumble from his face. “ASGER!” he bellows at the night.
The walls of the fjord they’re camping out in join in the underscoring of Beast’s new found skill. Reflecting the name back to Gurgen. There are ‘Asgar’s coming from all directions.
Beast leaps to his feet. He storms off. This needs celebration! And the beer in his belly, or rather the alcohol in his blood, convince him that fleetness of foot is required.
Alcohol being alcohol, it neglects to alert him to the fire he runs straight through. Still, his inverted sheepskin pants have quite the fire retardant qualities. Little more than a burst of embers and Bob rolling out the way ends up happening.
Beast is swallowed up by the shadows.
After a few seconds, Frank remarks from behind the camera, “Shouldn’t you go get him?”
“Nah, beer’s still here,” Bob nods at the beverages arrayed among the pebbles, “He’ll come back, any second …”
From out of nowhere, the Beast belly-flops back into his spot.
“… now.”
“QED,” Frank adds.
Beast beams. “Asger!” he shouts.
“Yes, Beast, Asger,” Bob says, handing his hairy friend another ol, “Now, you like him don’t you?”
Beast tries to simultaneously speak and drink. In the end, he settles for a nod.
“So, you won’t mind losing to him, right?”
Ah, now this required more thinking and thus drinking … there’s a reason those two words sound so alike. Whoever got up one morning and said to himself, ‘I’m going to invent English today’, really knew what he was doing. He’d have to have said it to himself in a different language though.
A definitive conclusion refused to present itself so he tried for more information, “How Bob figure that?”
“You’re just in it for the fight, so, as long as you get that, you won’t mind losing,” Bob goaded him on.
Beast rubbed his chin, dislodging Bottlecap. The little rodent indignantly bites Beast in the finger, snarls a righteous snarl and goes off to find a resting place in the Beastly fur coat. Beast is so lost in thought, as he invariably gets, that he doesn’t even notice the bite.
“Yes,” he finally says, “Like Vikings, Beast like good fight. And Beast know Asger Ahl … Asger like good fight. But why fight? Without chance of winnings or defeatings … why fight at all. Why not stay in bed all day and drink.”
To illustrate his point, he sucks the last bit of ol down and grabs another.
Before Bob can pose a follow up question, Beast continues on his own accord, “And … peoples tell Beasty that there be prize for winner of match.”
“Well, yeah, there IS a prize, but you’ll have to win a few more matches to get it,” Bob rectifies.
“Beast hope prize be ashtray.”
“Huh? You don’t smoke … you do everything else to ensure an early grave, but you don’t smoke.”
“No, no, no, Bob no get it. Then Beast have something to put on table.”
“Again, I must say, ‘Huh?’”
“Beast have table in basement of NAW. But Beast have nothing to put on it. So, if prize be ashtray, Beast have something to put on table.”
Bob leans away from the flames, taking in some urgent alcohol of his own. “Seriously … you get a chance at, maybe picking a championship belt match and all you can come up with is, ‘I want an ashtray to put on my table’?”
Glad that Bob understands, Beast beams. He nods profusely.
Beast opens two more beers and tosses one to Bob. “And that,” he says, ”be why Beast wanna win match.” He guzzles down the beer. But, oh deer, where were his manners?! He hadn’t given Frank a beer yet. So, to correct his error, he tossed a beer at Frank. The beer narrowly missed the camera and collided with a very audible thud with Frank’s head.
The camera tumbled onto the beach.
“Sorry!” Beast shouts as Bob rushes in to check on his friend.
Along with Frank’s lights, the camera goes out.
Light begins to filter in, a flickering flame, a campfire, it seems.
“Asger Ahl …” comes the heavy drone of the Beastly voice.
“Stop!” Bob commands, “Just Asger. You don’t have to say the rest of his name. People will know who you’re talking about.”
“Then why have two names?!” The Beast is exasperated, evidently, this has been going on for a while already.
Beast and Bob are sitting at opposite sides of the campfire, which seems to be on a rocky beach. Well, Bob’s sitting, Beast is lounging. He has a beer in his paw. The mud from his previous video is still encrusted all over his face, beard and faux-Viking outfit.
To give himself so thinking time, Bob took a swig (?) from his own bottle.
A glimmer of hope twinkles in his eyes. Or the camera is really good at catching the campfire’s reflection in low light conditions.
“Look, what’s YOUR name?”
Gurgen thrust his paw in the air, spilling some of the precious ol (as the label claims it’s called) on the burning logs. They make a soothing hissing sound. “Beast!” Beast proudly proclaims.
“A-HA!” Bob rejoices, extending his own arm and the index finger of said arm.
Beast tries to acquire what Bob is pointing at, but, following the indicated direction, he sees nothing but the dark of night.
“A-WHAT?!” he inquires.
“You said ‘Beast’”
“That be name!”
Bob leans in. “Isn’t your name ‘Armenian Beast’?”
Beast begins to voice an objection but stops himself before a fully formed letter ‘a’ has managed to escape his mouth. Now it is he who needs time to think. So, he drains his ol, grabs another, slays that and halfway through the third, he finally stops drinking. He tries to push sound from his throat but yet is unable to complete a single letter. More thinking is needed. Down goes the third beer.
Enough information has solidified in the Beastly head to coagulate into a “Hey.”
“You could have said ‘Armenian Beast’ but you only said, ‘Beast’,” Bob reiterated in an effort to further cement this discovery into the depths of the Beastly brain, what’s left of it anyway.
Information gets lost in the dungeons of any man’s mind, but the Beast’s mind is more like an oubliette, where the only purpose, it seems, of anything that enters is to be lost forever.
Yet, Bob seems to have made progress, for, when he prompts, “So, your opponent is called …”
Very carefully, the Beast states, “As…ger … A …”
There, he stops. With a start, he sits upright. He stares into the flames and gives it another go, “Opponent be Asger.”
He sits there, waiting for terrible things to befall him, but nothing happens.
“Asger,” he directs at the flames.
“Asger!” he directs at Bob.
A smile makes some of the caked mud crumble from his face. “ASGER!” he bellows at the night.
The walls of the fjord they’re camping out in join in the underscoring of Beast’s new found skill. Reflecting the name back to Gurgen. There are ‘Asgar’s coming from all directions.
Beast leaps to his feet. He storms off. This needs celebration! And the beer in his belly, or rather the alcohol in his blood, convince him that fleetness of foot is required.
Alcohol being alcohol, it neglects to alert him to the fire he runs straight through. Still, his inverted sheepskin pants have quite the fire retardant qualities. Little more than a burst of embers and Bob rolling out the way ends up happening.
Beast is swallowed up by the shadows.
After a few seconds, Frank remarks from behind the camera, “Shouldn’t you go get him?”
“Nah, beer’s still here,” Bob nods at the beverages arrayed among the pebbles, “He’ll come back, any second …”
From out of nowhere, the Beast belly-flops back into his spot.
“… now.”
“QED,” Frank adds.
Beast beams. “Asger!” he shouts.
“Yes, Beast, Asger,” Bob says, handing his hairy friend another ol, “Now, you like him don’t you?”
Beast tries to simultaneously speak and drink. In the end, he settles for a nod.
“So, you won’t mind losing to him, right?”
Ah, now this required more thinking and thus drinking … there’s a reason those two words sound so alike. Whoever got up one morning and said to himself, ‘I’m going to invent English today’, really knew what he was doing. He’d have to have said it to himself in a different language though.
A definitive conclusion refused to present itself so he tried for more information, “How Bob figure that?”
“You’re just in it for the fight, so, as long as you get that, you won’t mind losing,” Bob goaded him on.
Beast rubbed his chin, dislodging Bottlecap. The little rodent indignantly bites Beast in the finger, snarls a righteous snarl and goes off to find a resting place in the Beastly fur coat. Beast is so lost in thought, as he invariably gets, that he doesn’t even notice the bite.
“Yes,” he finally says, “Like Vikings, Beast like good fight. And Beast know Asger Ahl … Asger like good fight. But why fight? Without chance of winnings or defeatings … why fight at all. Why not stay in bed all day and drink.”
To illustrate his point, he sucks the last bit of ol down and grabs another.
Before Bob can pose a follow up question, Beast continues on his own accord, “And … peoples tell Beasty that there be prize for winner of match.”
“Well, yeah, there IS a prize, but you’ll have to win a few more matches to get it,” Bob rectifies.
“Beast hope prize be ashtray.”
“Huh? You don’t smoke … you do everything else to ensure an early grave, but you don’t smoke.”
“No, no, no, Bob no get it. Then Beast have something to put on table.”
“Again, I must say, ‘Huh?’”
“Beast have table in basement of NAW. But Beast have nothing to put on it. So, if prize be ashtray, Beast have something to put on table.”
Bob leans away from the flames, taking in some urgent alcohol of his own. “Seriously … you get a chance at, maybe picking a championship belt match and all you can come up with is, ‘I want an ashtray to put on my table’?”
Glad that Bob understands, Beast beams. He nods profusely.
Beast opens two more beers and tosses one to Bob. “And that,” he says, ”be why Beast wanna win match.” He guzzles down the beer. But, oh deer, where were his manners?! He hadn’t given Frank a beer yet. So, to correct his error, he tossed a beer at Frank. The beer narrowly missed the camera and collided with a very audible thud with Frank’s head.
The camera tumbled onto the beach.
“Sorry!” Beast shouts as Bob rushes in to check on his friend.
Along with Frank’s lights, the camera goes out.