Post by Deleted on Jul 5, 2016 22:45:52 GMT -5
[Cut to a country yard where a homemade forge burns. A slender railing of steel protrudes from the furnace as a blower whirls at its highest volume. Lester Parish comes into frame wearing a leather apron and welder’s mask. He grips the cool end of his steel, pulling a glowing rod from piled coals. Parish holds the steel over an anvil, checking for a leveled surface. He then flattens the edges into a shape reminiscent of a medieval long sword. He flashes the blade’s new shape before dunking it in a water trough.]
“Few things in life culminate like hard work. I remember my father coming home with a lifter’s hunch. He’d drink before and after dinner. But he never regretted being a mover. No, my father had it down to a science. He had more flaws than smooth surfaces, but I think that's what made him likable: jagged edges can be our most beautiful surface. We should come to love what’s imperfect because it makes us unique. A snowflake dancing from the clouds. Its dainty points its individuality. Each wrinkle for a year of knowledge and character. Signs of love or tribulation, locked into our concentrated brows. Human form: a beautifully ugly thing.”
[Paris retrieves the metal from the water. Its colors have returned to its natural gray, but ash and other blemishes stick to the surface. He runs steel wool down the blade’s length, then sets the product back on the anvil.]
“If we chip each coagulated filament from the steel, a wondrous surface awaits. Realize that to appreciate the ugliness of something one must first see its underlying worth. Like the steel, there many out there wondering if this reality will give them hope. They endure such great heat over time, but never submerge from that abyss. We diver from a darkened alley because we are afraid. We do not dig because we are afraid of our buried goods. Our past hidden in soil. No clever mind can convince the frightened to be brave. That requires leadership. I am but a specter of the mighty, a spectator to a rising throne. If each trodden soul could wail their names--at the same time--our earth would quake into submission. They look beyond those out of power and those currently seated. The weak look to rockets as means of escape. Восход, the eyes of Russian people praising the moment humanity breached the stars. Our species realized its dream of going into space. For new power to rise, it must shatter its own ceiling. Only then can it hope to break from constraining forces. I’ve reached the zenith, but my rise is no fluke. Each hour, each week that has passed since my debut happened through calculation. Each stage of the rocket fueled me into orbit under a tumult, a thunderous explosion. It punches through that atmosphere with a defiant roar of engineering. That is a mission. Others go stagnant, a failure to launch. Восход is no mere saying—it as belief in action. And now I’ve reached the Gods themselves.”
[Cut to a view of a masked Parish carving a piece of wood into a smooth cylinder.]
“From the science of rising, there had to be an underlying surface. A code as complexly basic as DNA. When the smallest fraction of who I am came to be. The fans wonder what made this flaccid homunculus return from the business he derides. They ask if I am a victim or victimizer. If all the prophecies of a coming son are a deflection. An incomplete tale. My own workings to justify being miserable. Well, we should realize that carving has its benefits. What jagged parts cut or prick can be smoothed over an afternoon of calm whittling. Perfection grown in the palm. This fragile thing can blossom. Germination from a farmer’s hand. We aim for smoothness, yet work towards perfection. Only one is obtainable. Each week I’ve whittled away at these two, Trevor more so than Gregory, yet both have come to understand my methods. How close I’ve come to perfection over the last month—this arduous start to the summer. And now I’m ready to show them my greatest work yet.”
[Parish sets the cylindrical wood down and replaces it with two pieces of steel. One curves upwards like a lunar crescent, detailed to appear as angel wings. The other item resembles a thick coin with an Ankh inlaid. Parish jingles them in his hand.]
“Make it three, Trevor. We meet for a third time. Our fists await this third bout. You’ve called me many things leading up to now: monster, lunatic—anything to prove that my mission is flawed. When you think of a rocket, Trevor, do you think fire or ascension? I warned you what happens when you try to build into sky, and you looked away. You went up yet came crashing down at Blast. I see you’ve recovered. Although a loss gathers impurities. Only a patient washing can clean dirty metal into perfect steel. I think you’ll find that your ram’s approach will only lead to more defeats. You rush into the race. Expend every ounce of energy before losing stride. Twice I’ve seen this in your work and it nearly cost you consecutive losses. Be on the lookout for you have two men in your crosshairs. However, we’ve each distinguished ourselves in these types of matches before. Our third crossing may be our last. You hate me as much I detest you, Trevor, and I know this one comes personal. Feed off that idea. Hate me more than you ever have. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a chance this time.
Gregory, let’s have a discussion. We worked as three against another team, now we’re pitted against one another. I left you fuming. But have you figured it out yet? I’m not here for glory, Gregory. I aim to teach a little about yourself. For starters, I admire your past. You loved this business and it made you whole. Loyalty is another respectable quality in a man that can be harder to find than you might think. However, your pursuit of redemption has derailed from the start. You might think of these past weeks as polishing, but really, you’re using the same, filthy rag. If you try to revive what’s bygone there’s only hurt instore. Stealing the pin last week was a message: look forward, avert from glory and be yourself. Everything I do is a teaching example. Here’s another important fact: anger makes you sloppy. Rage creates discord from your aimless quest. You think a title will define your time here; alas, you’ve been misguided. Without improvement, we’ve no need for title shots. Your temper is not tempering well. Your craft is ugly, banging the steel into brittle shapes. Temper yourself Gregory. Learn how to whittle away these tiny imperfections and you might receive proper reverie: your truest form as a competitor.”
*****
[Parish opens a Periscope video from the inside of a ’90s Chevy Tahoe. His face hides behind a hooded sweatshirt, revealing only his mouth and bristled chin.]
“Here is the moment that you’ve waited for WCF. A cataclysm has built to this epicenter. Pulsing from these grounds, a new kingdom shall arise. From this spot, I shall help lay a path for the future. It takes the gull of a warrior to plant a flag. I’ve seen Tamerlane rising from the horizon. Mongols racing across the Steppes into a new land. Many will try to stymy their onslaught—and they will fail. None can prepare for what has no weakness. A perfect style with no known counter. I’ve seen the raider elephants marching over the Alps to the gates of Rome. I realize that you might be wondering what unstoppable force could penetrate your beloved company. Do you, dearest fans, think there’s an answer for this converging horde? Many deeds have secured the ranks of notable gangs around the WCF. These are old players. Romans, Greeks, Egyptians—we’ve seen them fight and know their tactics. When a new player takes the field, the old game must renew if it hopes to survive. The plague I’ve spoken of is one facet. It ravishes without counters. Such leaves our weak in sorrow and the strong in pitiful heaps. Understand that a new, unstoppable strain is heading your way. You cannot quarantine it.”
[Rustling scrambles the audio when Parish moves the phone into his shirt pocket. He walks out of his car to an open door blinker before slamming it shut. Another car pulls up parallel to his SUV. The second car kills its lights in a deserted parking lot. A sign across the street advertises Temple University. He waits for the driver, a young man in nondescript clothes, to make a sheepish walk over.]
“Hello, I’m with—”
“No names. We aren’t even here, kid. I know whom you’re with and he knows of me. Only he doesn’t know what I have to bring. So please, come closer. I’m no danger to you.”
[The younger man walks over with a nervous smile. Darkness obscures most of his face from the broadcast.]
“If I don’t know your name, how can I let him know you called?”
“He suspects me by now. I’ve been clandestine, yes. But your leader needs allies. He’s not blind or deaf to the shaking underneath the WCF. My reverberations are one of many quakes.”
“Right, well why am I here?”
“I wanted someone new to carry my message. Someone untainted by a personal mission or glory. The longer you’re involved it builds self-worth. People full of their affiliation get their own destinies. I wanted the tabula rasa. A clean face with no predispositions. Does that work?”
“Yes… and you said there was an urgent message?”
[Parish goes back into his SUV and grabs an object wrapped in a leather sheath. He keeps the door open when handing it over to the skittish kid.]
“What is this? Some kind of weapon?”
“Tell your leader that if he wants to touch God, he’ll need a lightning rod.”
“Okay, anything else?”
“Since he’s not uninformed, the message will be clearer than you’re hearing it. Go back and hand this over to him. You’ve done well this evening. I hope to work with you more in the future.”
“Thanks, uh, sir. Have a good night.”
[Parish laughs as they part ways. The phone picks up him climbing intothe vehicle. Headlights blind the screen for a moment as the second car pulls away. Parish takes the phone from that shirt pocket and turns it towards his covered face.]
“A disciple is a great asset. Few can be so calm under pressure. Secure in the faith of brotherly order. I sense a tension is growing in our wake. Too many giants have come from Niflheim to destroy this company. We meet at a common ground between turnbuckles. Far too many soldiers are aligning for this Armageddon. The lackluster state from nukes and blockbusters. The fans sit along the hills of Bull Run as a clash of titans begins. These tremors are a warning: Our current state cannot hold this much energy. Cataclysm may be the only option, but I am prepping for the worst of humankind. An alliance will best suit a setting of the blood moon, when terror reaps from its cursed fields. Fjords of Styx curve around a gallery of wanton souls. They clap and clap hoping the end will sunder them all.
Many have confused me with an agent of chaos. Not at all—I am an eraser. There are many impurities bluing the WCF. We must have a cleaner vintage, and a clearer dream. Legends build our dreams. Blueprints exist because they crated them over a course of months, even years. I wonder how many truly follow a leader into the fray. Do you, WCF, see us in that light? Are we the ones destined to save you from all that has and will go awry? Let me be a beacon. Boo if you must, but the visionary must cleave a path through outdated paradigms. A dogma entrenched with hidebound voice barking over the horizon. I ask… are you ready to rise?”
[Parish turns the ignition. It turns over several times before starting.]
“My mission from the first day revolved around each of you. Don’t cling to the false kingdom of Trevor Browning. He dismisses you because he relishes in your hate. Demons love hatred, racism, and all the terrible idioms of humanity. Don’t feed him your lacking energy. He only serves on man: himself. Those working for themselves create a world worse than any dictator could. Their vision sees one in the mirror and one on the planet. I bid you rise from your seats. Rise from the shackles he creates. Let me do the hard work of slaying another falsehood.
In another fledging prophecy, we hear the words of Greg St. Matthews. Neither a saint nor savior. I have seen our salvation, and he sits upon a throne yet to be built. That said Gregory paints an emotional victory. A fresca under the Mecca dome. Shed his stories. Wear a gasmask whenever he crop-dusts your airwaves in noxious clouds. Flee from his nagging appeal: the bad boy and the daredevil. Such men will only lead us astray from a better world. This isn’t Footloose. I won’t try to stop you from choosing wrong from right. All I ask is your undivided attention. WCF… look to your left and then to your right. Whom did you see? Were they friends? Your best kith and kin? Are you sure that they are your friends at all? Well, if they are still here after I sign off—you’ll know the answer. St. Matthews is a splinter pretending to have your interest. Once his voice reaches you, it can never be plucked out. Be patient. Soak your finger in warm water. Let those impure thoughts wrinkle. See sedition in its insidious skin folds. Once in a vulnerable state, the wood will slip right out. He is a troublesome prophet. Treat yourself from his lies.
"
[Parish tunes his radio to an AM station. He catches Handel’s Messiah, Part II, at the famed fourth scene of God’s reveal to those at Pentecost.]
“As if the revelation of a godsend is not clear enough. This mask keeps me from being a known thing. Dark covers reap identity from my work. There’s no glory in anonymity. The killing blow to Bin Laden. Whoever pulled the trigger on JFK. It’s not whom we direct to, but the cataclysm at the end of their stone skipping—sending waves through the pond. Tsunami have no name. Their destruction leaves an awful wake, but the nameless, faceless evil hide amongst you. I am not one of them, yet my work is dirty. These hands drag through an abysmal soil! My deeds... seem troublesome at this moment. But from this masked persona I will do you all right. We first have to remove the impurities weighing the steel. Only I bevel your world into its lightest form. Cleanse it of ash and rubble so that you each may shine like angels.
Восход was not the fear that launched satellites. Nor the fervor to launch ICBMs. It represents the belief of touching God’s face. Our need to rise into the clouds. To rise higher than ever thought before. To plant our feet on the moon and call out to Earth. My role here is complete. I will loosen your shackles. Break your sensibilities, your flawed perceptions. But I cannot be your leader. Humanity makes me a crumple. With power in my hands, soon I will be like one of you. This mask is the only truth I can reveal. There can be no living Lester Parish, only the dedicated servant. However, I know whom can lead us into a new era. His phage will change us as people down to our basic DNA—even its coded exchange of RNA. He is Восход. He is your leader. I will never force you to bow, nor will he. But he deserves your respect. Now rise!”
[The broadcast cuts out.]
“Few things in life culminate like hard work. I remember my father coming home with a lifter’s hunch. He’d drink before and after dinner. But he never regretted being a mover. No, my father had it down to a science. He had more flaws than smooth surfaces, but I think that's what made him likable: jagged edges can be our most beautiful surface. We should come to love what’s imperfect because it makes us unique. A snowflake dancing from the clouds. Its dainty points its individuality. Each wrinkle for a year of knowledge and character. Signs of love or tribulation, locked into our concentrated brows. Human form: a beautifully ugly thing.”
[Paris retrieves the metal from the water. Its colors have returned to its natural gray, but ash and other blemishes stick to the surface. He runs steel wool down the blade’s length, then sets the product back on the anvil.]
“If we chip each coagulated filament from the steel, a wondrous surface awaits. Realize that to appreciate the ugliness of something one must first see its underlying worth. Like the steel, there many out there wondering if this reality will give them hope. They endure such great heat over time, but never submerge from that abyss. We diver from a darkened alley because we are afraid. We do not dig because we are afraid of our buried goods. Our past hidden in soil. No clever mind can convince the frightened to be brave. That requires leadership. I am but a specter of the mighty, a spectator to a rising throne. If each trodden soul could wail their names--at the same time--our earth would quake into submission. They look beyond those out of power and those currently seated. The weak look to rockets as means of escape. Восход, the eyes of Russian people praising the moment humanity breached the stars. Our species realized its dream of going into space. For new power to rise, it must shatter its own ceiling. Only then can it hope to break from constraining forces. I’ve reached the zenith, but my rise is no fluke. Each hour, each week that has passed since my debut happened through calculation. Each stage of the rocket fueled me into orbit under a tumult, a thunderous explosion. It punches through that atmosphere with a defiant roar of engineering. That is a mission. Others go stagnant, a failure to launch. Восход is no mere saying—it as belief in action. And now I’ve reached the Gods themselves.”
[Cut to a view of a masked Parish carving a piece of wood into a smooth cylinder.]
“From the science of rising, there had to be an underlying surface. A code as complexly basic as DNA. When the smallest fraction of who I am came to be. The fans wonder what made this flaccid homunculus return from the business he derides. They ask if I am a victim or victimizer. If all the prophecies of a coming son are a deflection. An incomplete tale. My own workings to justify being miserable. Well, we should realize that carving has its benefits. What jagged parts cut or prick can be smoothed over an afternoon of calm whittling. Perfection grown in the palm. This fragile thing can blossom. Germination from a farmer’s hand. We aim for smoothness, yet work towards perfection. Only one is obtainable. Each week I’ve whittled away at these two, Trevor more so than Gregory, yet both have come to understand my methods. How close I’ve come to perfection over the last month—this arduous start to the summer. And now I’m ready to show them my greatest work yet.”
[Parish sets the cylindrical wood down and replaces it with two pieces of steel. One curves upwards like a lunar crescent, detailed to appear as angel wings. The other item resembles a thick coin with an Ankh inlaid. Parish jingles them in his hand.]
“Make it three, Trevor. We meet for a third time. Our fists await this third bout. You’ve called me many things leading up to now: monster, lunatic—anything to prove that my mission is flawed. When you think of a rocket, Trevor, do you think fire or ascension? I warned you what happens when you try to build into sky, and you looked away. You went up yet came crashing down at Blast. I see you’ve recovered. Although a loss gathers impurities. Only a patient washing can clean dirty metal into perfect steel. I think you’ll find that your ram’s approach will only lead to more defeats. You rush into the race. Expend every ounce of energy before losing stride. Twice I’ve seen this in your work and it nearly cost you consecutive losses. Be on the lookout for you have two men in your crosshairs. However, we’ve each distinguished ourselves in these types of matches before. Our third crossing may be our last. You hate me as much I detest you, Trevor, and I know this one comes personal. Feed off that idea. Hate me more than you ever have. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a chance this time.
Gregory, let’s have a discussion. We worked as three against another team, now we’re pitted against one another. I left you fuming. But have you figured it out yet? I’m not here for glory, Gregory. I aim to teach a little about yourself. For starters, I admire your past. You loved this business and it made you whole. Loyalty is another respectable quality in a man that can be harder to find than you might think. However, your pursuit of redemption has derailed from the start. You might think of these past weeks as polishing, but really, you’re using the same, filthy rag. If you try to revive what’s bygone there’s only hurt instore. Stealing the pin last week was a message: look forward, avert from glory and be yourself. Everything I do is a teaching example. Here’s another important fact: anger makes you sloppy. Rage creates discord from your aimless quest. You think a title will define your time here; alas, you’ve been misguided. Without improvement, we’ve no need for title shots. Your temper is not tempering well. Your craft is ugly, banging the steel into brittle shapes. Temper yourself Gregory. Learn how to whittle away these tiny imperfections and you might receive proper reverie: your truest form as a competitor.”
*****
[Parish opens a Periscope video from the inside of a ’90s Chevy Tahoe. His face hides behind a hooded sweatshirt, revealing only his mouth and bristled chin.]
“Here is the moment that you’ve waited for WCF. A cataclysm has built to this epicenter. Pulsing from these grounds, a new kingdom shall arise. From this spot, I shall help lay a path for the future. It takes the gull of a warrior to plant a flag. I’ve seen Tamerlane rising from the horizon. Mongols racing across the Steppes into a new land. Many will try to stymy their onslaught—and they will fail. None can prepare for what has no weakness. A perfect style with no known counter. I’ve seen the raider elephants marching over the Alps to the gates of Rome. I realize that you might be wondering what unstoppable force could penetrate your beloved company. Do you, dearest fans, think there’s an answer for this converging horde? Many deeds have secured the ranks of notable gangs around the WCF. These are old players. Romans, Greeks, Egyptians—we’ve seen them fight and know their tactics. When a new player takes the field, the old game must renew if it hopes to survive. The plague I’ve spoken of is one facet. It ravishes without counters. Such leaves our weak in sorrow and the strong in pitiful heaps. Understand that a new, unstoppable strain is heading your way. You cannot quarantine it.”
[Rustling scrambles the audio when Parish moves the phone into his shirt pocket. He walks out of his car to an open door blinker before slamming it shut. Another car pulls up parallel to his SUV. The second car kills its lights in a deserted parking lot. A sign across the street advertises Temple University. He waits for the driver, a young man in nondescript clothes, to make a sheepish walk over.]
“Hello, I’m with—”
“No names. We aren’t even here, kid. I know whom you’re with and he knows of me. Only he doesn’t know what I have to bring. So please, come closer. I’m no danger to you.”
[The younger man walks over with a nervous smile. Darkness obscures most of his face from the broadcast.]
“If I don’t know your name, how can I let him know you called?”
“He suspects me by now. I’ve been clandestine, yes. But your leader needs allies. He’s not blind or deaf to the shaking underneath the WCF. My reverberations are one of many quakes.”
“Right, well why am I here?”
“I wanted someone new to carry my message. Someone untainted by a personal mission or glory. The longer you’re involved it builds self-worth. People full of their affiliation get their own destinies. I wanted the tabula rasa. A clean face with no predispositions. Does that work?”
“Yes… and you said there was an urgent message?”
[Parish goes back into his SUV and grabs an object wrapped in a leather sheath. He keeps the door open when handing it over to the skittish kid.]
“What is this? Some kind of weapon?”
“Tell your leader that if he wants to touch God, he’ll need a lightning rod.”
“Okay, anything else?”
“Since he’s not uninformed, the message will be clearer than you’re hearing it. Go back and hand this over to him. You’ve done well this evening. I hope to work with you more in the future.”
“Thanks, uh, sir. Have a good night.”
[Parish laughs as they part ways. The phone picks up him climbing intothe vehicle. Headlights blind the screen for a moment as the second car pulls away. Parish takes the phone from that shirt pocket and turns it towards his covered face.]
“A disciple is a great asset. Few can be so calm under pressure. Secure in the faith of brotherly order. I sense a tension is growing in our wake. Too many giants have come from Niflheim to destroy this company. We meet at a common ground between turnbuckles. Far too many soldiers are aligning for this Armageddon. The lackluster state from nukes and blockbusters. The fans sit along the hills of Bull Run as a clash of titans begins. These tremors are a warning: Our current state cannot hold this much energy. Cataclysm may be the only option, but I am prepping for the worst of humankind. An alliance will best suit a setting of the blood moon, when terror reaps from its cursed fields. Fjords of Styx curve around a gallery of wanton souls. They clap and clap hoping the end will sunder them all.
Many have confused me with an agent of chaos. Not at all—I am an eraser. There are many impurities bluing the WCF. We must have a cleaner vintage, and a clearer dream. Legends build our dreams. Blueprints exist because they crated them over a course of months, even years. I wonder how many truly follow a leader into the fray. Do you, WCF, see us in that light? Are we the ones destined to save you from all that has and will go awry? Let me be a beacon. Boo if you must, but the visionary must cleave a path through outdated paradigms. A dogma entrenched with hidebound voice barking over the horizon. I ask… are you ready to rise?”
[Parish turns the ignition. It turns over several times before starting.]
“My mission from the first day revolved around each of you. Don’t cling to the false kingdom of Trevor Browning. He dismisses you because he relishes in your hate. Demons love hatred, racism, and all the terrible idioms of humanity. Don’t feed him your lacking energy. He only serves on man: himself. Those working for themselves create a world worse than any dictator could. Their vision sees one in the mirror and one on the planet. I bid you rise from your seats. Rise from the shackles he creates. Let me do the hard work of slaying another falsehood.
In another fledging prophecy, we hear the words of Greg St. Matthews. Neither a saint nor savior. I have seen our salvation, and he sits upon a throne yet to be built. That said Gregory paints an emotional victory. A fresca under the Mecca dome. Shed his stories. Wear a gasmask whenever he crop-dusts your airwaves in noxious clouds. Flee from his nagging appeal: the bad boy and the daredevil. Such men will only lead us astray from a better world. This isn’t Footloose. I won’t try to stop you from choosing wrong from right. All I ask is your undivided attention. WCF… look to your left and then to your right. Whom did you see? Were they friends? Your best kith and kin? Are you sure that they are your friends at all? Well, if they are still here after I sign off—you’ll know the answer. St. Matthews is a splinter pretending to have your interest. Once his voice reaches you, it can never be plucked out. Be patient. Soak your finger in warm water. Let those impure thoughts wrinkle. See sedition in its insidious skin folds. Once in a vulnerable state, the wood will slip right out. He is a troublesome prophet. Treat yourself from his lies.
"
[Parish tunes his radio to an AM station. He catches Handel’s Messiah, Part II, at the famed fourth scene of God’s reveal to those at Pentecost.]
“As if the revelation of a godsend is not clear enough. This mask keeps me from being a known thing. Dark covers reap identity from my work. There’s no glory in anonymity. The killing blow to Bin Laden. Whoever pulled the trigger on JFK. It’s not whom we direct to, but the cataclysm at the end of their stone skipping—sending waves through the pond. Tsunami have no name. Their destruction leaves an awful wake, but the nameless, faceless evil hide amongst you. I am not one of them, yet my work is dirty. These hands drag through an abysmal soil! My deeds... seem troublesome at this moment. But from this masked persona I will do you all right. We first have to remove the impurities weighing the steel. Only I bevel your world into its lightest form. Cleanse it of ash and rubble so that you each may shine like angels.
Восход was not the fear that launched satellites. Nor the fervor to launch ICBMs. It represents the belief of touching God’s face. Our need to rise into the clouds. To rise higher than ever thought before. To plant our feet on the moon and call out to Earth. My role here is complete. I will loosen your shackles. Break your sensibilities, your flawed perceptions. But I cannot be your leader. Humanity makes me a crumple. With power in my hands, soon I will be like one of you. This mask is the only truth I can reveal. There can be no living Lester Parish, only the dedicated servant. However, I know whom can lead us into a new era. His phage will change us as people down to our basic DNA—even its coded exchange of RNA. He is Восход. He is your leader. I will never force you to bow, nor will he. But he deserves your respect. Now rise!”
[The broadcast cuts out.]