Post by Jahani al-Reb on Jun 7, 2014 12:16:09 GMT -5
BEGIN TRANSMISSON
Static gives way to an image. We see the inside of a room just large enough to accomodate a plain desk and a bank of CCTV monitors, all turned off at the moment. A pair of gloved hands holds a smartphone, busily typing out a series of messages.
[Unknown Sender]: Does IT fear the Oncoming Storm?
[Oblivion]: What??
[Unknown Sender]: Will IT be led like a lamb to the... Slaughter? ;-)
[Oblivion]: Who the fuck are you?
[Unknown Sender]: In due time...
[Oblivion]: The fuck do you want?
[Unknown Sender]: Come and see... 1138 S. JOHNSON Rd.
Those same hands quickly pop the cover off the phone and pull the battery.
ERROR: SERVICE INTERRUPTION
Our view is black for a few moments, and then the image again. This time, the monitors are on, all showing different scenes, all time stamped at precisely 18:12. The first monitor displays an overhead view of the entrance to a warehouse, clearly long abandoned. A sign next to the door reads: ACE Storage Solutions, under a coat of grime and the spray painted symbols of some forgotten street gang. The solitary figure of Oblivion approaches, wary but unafraid. As IT pushes the door open, our attention is drawn to the next monitor...
Faint light spills through the open door, the only illumination here. A corridor stretches into the black, doors spaced at regular intervals on either side. We observe as the Monster walks in, lifts ITS head as if scenting the air. We can imagine what IT detects: damp, fetid, musty smells; the old remains of fires set by the homeless over the winter; and pervading it all, death. At Oblivion's feet, a scrawny rat gnaws on the fresh corpse of another of its kind; either out of desperation, or madness.
Oblivion does not notice. ITS attention is fixed on the last visible door to his right. Duct-taped to it is a photograph depicting a vibrant, beautiful woman, her face lit by a smile that would shame most beauty pageant contestants. She isn't just any woman -- she is, in fact, one Mrs. Stephanie Johnson. It seems as if the God of Insanity is captivated, ITS hand reaching tentatively toward the photo... until ITS gaze falls on an arrow crudely drawn with chalk beneath the picture, urging IT to continue.
As Oblivion walks out of the shot, we hear a faint, satisfied chuckle...
The third camera picks up the Monster striding down the hall. If the CCTV cameras provided any sound, we would hear those bootsteps echoing through the emptiness; punctuated by the slow, irregular drip of water from a broken pipe. IT stops short beneath a single, exposed light when IT encounters the next display: a hastily constructed collage of photos depicting the same woman, arranged in a progression. Her belly expands just noticeably with each image. In the center of this circle is a sonogram printout, with the name JOHNSON prominent in one corner. IT cocks ITS head to one side, clearly puzzled. Once again, an arrow has been drawn in chalk, indicating Oblivion should round the corner. This time, there are words: DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE.
After a moment's hesitation, Oblivion once again disappears from one shot, and reappears on the fourth monitor. We observe this one through the brilliant green filter of night vision. More rats scurry at ITS feet, an honor guard of vermin to escort their guest along Memory Lane. The Monster stops at an open door and peers inside. Our camera angle is just right to glimpse what IT sees in full. The storage unit is packed full with baby items. A crib of moldering wood and flaking paint, a stroller swathed in cobwebs, innumberable toys in various states of decay, and a mobile hanging from the door frame -- the only item in pristine condition. Seemingly unable to control the impulse, IT reaches up and winds the mobile's key; stands transfixed, listening to whatever soothing tune is played while the plush shapes of jungle animals spin round and round.
Soothing, however, is not the effect it has on Oblivion. The Monster twitches, a slight involuntary motion; and then IT reaches up and yanks the mobile down, tosses it to the floor, and stomps on it with evident anger. ITS rage barely expended, Oblivion's head whips around, as if some noise has caught ITS attention, and IT storms off in that direction.
On the fifth monitor, Oblivion is still going strong, heedless of the rodents crushed beneath ITS boots. By the time IT reaches the area covered by the sixth, the Monster's patience is wearing thin. IT snatches a new photo from the wall -- this one showing entirely different subject matter. There are little tented plastic placards with numbers on them, next to red-brown stains and smashed glass; broken furniture and shattered picture frames. These photos continue on down the corridor, each more disturbing than the last. We watch -- feeling, by now, a little voyeuristic -- as Oblivion grows more agitated with each encounter.
The ninth (and final) monitor is pitch black. For several long moments, nothing happens. And then, we see the black-gloved hands reach for a keyboard and tap out a series of commands.
All at once, thousands of watts of illumination flood the room from Klieg lights set up in half a dozen places. Oblivion recoils from the sudden radiance, shielding ITS face with both arms until ITS eyes adjust. IT turns, then, to find ITSELF face-to-face with yet another crime scene photo -- only this one has been enlarged to poster size, to better capture every gruesome detail.
This image is what the police call "in situ": suspended from above is the woman from the earlier photos. Things that should have been on the inside are festooned like party decorations all around the room. Her infant son hangs from the umbilicus, like a parody of a skydiver tangled in his parachute. Most of us excuse ourselves at this moment to go and vomit. Even the owner of those gloved hands can't restrain a slight retching sound.
Oblivion is now so enraged he almost misses the fact that there is something written, in neat block letters, across the poster. It's a poem, and not a very good one:
Neglect the home, seeking fame;
Things would never be the same.
Johnson... Slaughter....Who's to blame?
It's Oblivion who plays my game.
Gloved hands reach for the keyboard again. Another command is typed, and one by one, the monitors go out. In the periphery of our vision, we can see sparks flying, presumeably from the equipment controlling this experience. A nonchalant whistling is heard, briefly, as static takes over once more.
END TRANSMISSION.
