Post by Deleted on Jun 21, 2007 1:09:45 GMT -5
The dark evil of an insane factory provides the location for Cairo's latest bout of carnage. This commercial landmass was once a proud home of industry, relegated now to the vigorous scheming of a madman. Shadows creep and collect before receding. Cairo shovels fish and combination vegetables into his mouth as he stares into space and ponders things. The figure of a young girl tied to a chair can be seen in the far corner of the room, her face shrouded by a veil forlorn. Cairo declines sympathy for the girl, ignoring her whines and struggles. Cairo finishes his meal, then wipes his mouth with a delicate cloth. Cairo glances about his domain, never relenting his conscious goal of utter domination. Cairo glares into the face of his enemy, an apparition from a place far away.
Bobby Cairo: How does it feel, Striker? How does it feel to be left dangling like a marionette? The cold sweat, the flushed face...every waking moment like a stab wound to your gut? You're a real boy now, Pinocchio! A varitable cornucopia of dread holds your hand and guides you down that desolate path to Explosion. Your prize is no prize, Striker. Bobby Cairo, the WCF Television Champion, is no slouch! I am the technical mastermind! I am the New American Terrorist Junkie! Can you feel it, shon?! I gage my success by the pain I see in others! Can you comprehend that, Striker? Do you know what it means to be a dead man on a Manhattan sidewalk? Do you know how it feels to be passed over time and time again while the vultures peck out your eyeballs? I know all about that shit, Skyler! I've lived it! I've survived it! What you're getting right now is a taste of the real world, Striker. You've lived a lily-white existence through rose colored shades for so damn long that it makes me sick. This is Cambodia, Striker. This is napalm death upside ya head! Ya smell me, cousin?! Are ya feelin' me, dawg?!
Cairo pounds the table with his fist, hooting and hollering for all the world like a redneck with an itchy trigger finger. The indentations of exasperation upon the oak conference table signify the former leanings of this suspicious, little ditty. How could Cairo be so self-serving as to take a good girl from her home, swaying away from light and all the while screaming about press clippings for corporate gains? Cairo shook his head...no, he must reconsider this notion.
Bobby Cairo: Riddle me this, Striker: What would you do if I gave you one chance to rectify your mistake? Would you look in the mirror or would you turn away? I can see you, Striker. I know what you think and feel. Last night at 11:34 you contemplated suicide. You wanted to exit the misery, but you had so many fears. Above all, you realized that you could not throw in the towel. You could not quit while your daughter's safety hung in the balance... at least you hope that her safety is still a question. Because without this question, there is no answer. Did you daughter go boom boom off the side of that cliff? Did Cairo end the skeptic mourning in one flick of the switch? "No, Cairo wouldn't do it. He couldn't." How do you know, Striker? Ask yourself this, Skyler... "Am I alive? Do I think and feel or have I been relegated to a perpetual dream state?" Eat a sandwich, Striker, you look like shit, for Christ’s sake.
Still, Cairo knew that the seeds once planted must be fertilized. This could not happen in a most unholy of twilights. The girl in the corner twitched and wept, but was this Striker's daughter? Why doesn't she have a face? Does she have a soul? Has she been erased? How many victims has Cairo compiled? The antidote for malice has never been pretty. Baby, we're just getting started...
Bobby Cairo: I poked and prodded her asshole for days. Not your daughter, Striker, I'm talking about a Russian woman who sells cakes on the corner. I walked with her and talked with her before I shoveled a spell beyond her horizons. Twigs were never the same upon that high. Where were we, Striker? Oh yes, I was talking and you were listening. You want a hint, Striker? I shall give you a gift. The first time that I went rafting in the rapids of Colorado, I injured my knee against a jagged rock. I required surgery that set me back 8 months along my training to become a wrestler. Everybody knows that story, but what they don't know is that I subconsciously planned the whole damn thing. I wanted it to happen because I needed that extra little incentive. Deep down inside, Striker, you made this happen and you already know the ending. You know better than I do where this winding road will end because it's your creation, Striker. We used your tax money to pave this highway, baby! Can you feel it?
There was still a missing ingredient. Cairo grabbed a halogen flashlight and started toward the exit. Once outside, Cairo battled the elements while slogging trough the mud. Cairo forged without relenting before he reached the point where the giant shovel lay. Cairo dug a hole in that moist soil until the all-important clinking sound. Cairo tossed the shovel aside and, with his hands, brushed the object of its debris. Cairo spoke to the object in hushed tones before holding it up to the dimming streetlights. It was a gorgeous crystal orb. The orb had been encouraged to grow by the toxic waste in the ground.
Bobby Cairo: This is what I have been searching for! This is my plurality, my communion and my ingenuity! Speak to me, beloved! Show me your form! I have never been so moved as in this moment! Do you know what you do to me, Aurora? Arisen, Aurora, arisen!
But Aurora would not heed Cairo's concern. Cairo shrugged off his disappointment. He punted the orb into next week and walked away, perhaps a more sullen man than before.
Bobby Cairo: How does it feel, Striker? How does it feel to be left dangling like a marionette? The cold sweat, the flushed face...every waking moment like a stab wound to your gut? You're a real boy now, Pinocchio! A varitable cornucopia of dread holds your hand and guides you down that desolate path to Explosion. Your prize is no prize, Striker. Bobby Cairo, the WCF Television Champion, is no slouch! I am the technical mastermind! I am the New American Terrorist Junkie! Can you feel it, shon?! I gage my success by the pain I see in others! Can you comprehend that, Striker? Do you know what it means to be a dead man on a Manhattan sidewalk? Do you know how it feels to be passed over time and time again while the vultures peck out your eyeballs? I know all about that shit, Skyler! I've lived it! I've survived it! What you're getting right now is a taste of the real world, Striker. You've lived a lily-white existence through rose colored shades for so damn long that it makes me sick. This is Cambodia, Striker. This is napalm death upside ya head! Ya smell me, cousin?! Are ya feelin' me, dawg?!
Cairo pounds the table with his fist, hooting and hollering for all the world like a redneck with an itchy trigger finger. The indentations of exasperation upon the oak conference table signify the former leanings of this suspicious, little ditty. How could Cairo be so self-serving as to take a good girl from her home, swaying away from light and all the while screaming about press clippings for corporate gains? Cairo shook his head...no, he must reconsider this notion.
Bobby Cairo: Riddle me this, Striker: What would you do if I gave you one chance to rectify your mistake? Would you look in the mirror or would you turn away? I can see you, Striker. I know what you think and feel. Last night at 11:34 you contemplated suicide. You wanted to exit the misery, but you had so many fears. Above all, you realized that you could not throw in the towel. You could not quit while your daughter's safety hung in the balance... at least you hope that her safety is still a question. Because without this question, there is no answer. Did you daughter go boom boom off the side of that cliff? Did Cairo end the skeptic mourning in one flick of the switch? "No, Cairo wouldn't do it. He couldn't." How do you know, Striker? Ask yourself this, Skyler... "Am I alive? Do I think and feel or have I been relegated to a perpetual dream state?" Eat a sandwich, Striker, you look like shit, for Christ’s sake.
Still, Cairo knew that the seeds once planted must be fertilized. This could not happen in a most unholy of twilights. The girl in the corner twitched and wept, but was this Striker's daughter? Why doesn't she have a face? Does she have a soul? Has she been erased? How many victims has Cairo compiled? The antidote for malice has never been pretty. Baby, we're just getting started...
Bobby Cairo: I poked and prodded her asshole for days. Not your daughter, Striker, I'm talking about a Russian woman who sells cakes on the corner. I walked with her and talked with her before I shoveled a spell beyond her horizons. Twigs were never the same upon that high. Where were we, Striker? Oh yes, I was talking and you were listening. You want a hint, Striker? I shall give you a gift. The first time that I went rafting in the rapids of Colorado, I injured my knee against a jagged rock. I required surgery that set me back 8 months along my training to become a wrestler. Everybody knows that story, but what they don't know is that I subconsciously planned the whole damn thing. I wanted it to happen because I needed that extra little incentive. Deep down inside, Striker, you made this happen and you already know the ending. You know better than I do where this winding road will end because it's your creation, Striker. We used your tax money to pave this highway, baby! Can you feel it?
There was still a missing ingredient. Cairo grabbed a halogen flashlight and started toward the exit. Once outside, Cairo battled the elements while slogging trough the mud. Cairo forged without relenting before he reached the point where the giant shovel lay. Cairo dug a hole in that moist soil until the all-important clinking sound. Cairo tossed the shovel aside and, with his hands, brushed the object of its debris. Cairo spoke to the object in hushed tones before holding it up to the dimming streetlights. It was a gorgeous crystal orb. The orb had been encouraged to grow by the toxic waste in the ground.
Bobby Cairo: This is what I have been searching for! This is my plurality, my communion and my ingenuity! Speak to me, beloved! Show me your form! I have never been so moved as in this moment! Do you know what you do to me, Aurora? Arisen, Aurora, arisen!
But Aurora would not heed Cairo's concern. Cairo shrugged off his disappointment. He punted the orb into next week and walked away, perhaps a more sullen man than before.
