Post by occulo on Oct 3, 2015 15:46:43 GMT -5
A stone well comes into focus under bright moonlight. The ground around it is frosty and its crisp texture invites the tread of the mischievous. There’s a comfortable breeze circling the well that would bite into the skin of even the hardiest man. The well itself is about a metre in diameter, and the dry stone of its structure bore a coat that glistened under the lunar illumination. We hear the tread of feet, slowly approaching the well. The figure is blurred but comes into view after a few seconds. He has short dark hair and is wearing a thick white coat and dark pants. He is carrying a leather brown satchel over one shoulder. He stands at the side of the well and stares down into the chasm.
He reaches into his pocket and unbuckles the satchel, then flipping the lid over to gain access. The man reaches into the satchel and takes out a small, fluffy brown teddy bear. He stares at it for a few seconds, tilting his head and smiling slightly as he drops it down the well.
He then takes out a silver ring, which just for an instant reflects the moonlight, shining a beam of light into the camera lens. He flicks this into the well with his thumb and it clinks as it bounces off the interior of the stony tomb.
Finally he takes out an old photograph of John Mullins. He is smiling and is holding a baby in his arms. He nods and slowly scrunches the photograph in his hand until it is in a ball, which he lets slowly roll across his fingers and down into the well.
He then starts to sing slowly, and softly
I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream
I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam
And I know it's true that visions are seldom all they see
But if I know you, I know what you'll do
You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream
He stops and looks with a smile to the moon
It ends. It begins. A bond broken with the severance of memory. A war costs a million lives, but it can save only one. It will save mine, and cost yours. For now is the time for me to rise from the ashes that you have crumbled me down into. Now is the time for me to become the very thing you never came close to.
Now, Father, is the time for me to realise your nightmare.
Now, WCF, is the time for War.
The scene immediately shuts off with the sound of a large bang of a drum. We open up to a simple scene. Occulo is sat on a leather chair under a spotlight.
Occulo: It’s good to be back. It’s good to have that feeling where I’m looking forward to being back in the ring. But this time, this time I have this absolute goal in mind.
Absolute goal. Absolution. We all try so desperately to reach this state of existence. It differs between all of us, depending on our perceptions of the world and what makes us tick. But what happens when a battalion of men and women all gaze with infinite love at a mutual bastian of absolution like quill-wielding astronomers gazing at the moon? Well, there is immediate, unavoidable, maddening and destructive self-doubt; the awareness that those who stand brushing your shoulders are able, definitely able to push you out of contention before you’ve even reached out a hand to it.
The scene fades out and we now open to Occulo stood immaculate in a suit. Black blazer and trousers, white shirt, black tie. Hair slicked back. He is stood in the centre of an extremely busy street in New York. We hear nothing but the hustle and bustle, the horns of taxis and impatient commuters, a drill just around the block. Occulo speaks but we do not hear what he is saying. He then stops and the camera’s microphone seems to adjust and we hear the conversation of the pedestrians nearby
Pedestrian: …so it’s too fucking difficult you know? I mean it takes almost getting crushed to death, breathing in Bronx SARS, almost getting run over by a herd of stampeding taxis just to…
The camera pans slowly to a homeless man sat on a filthy, thin sheet. His eyes thinly staring out on to the street. He is mumbling to himself and the camera focuses on him and the microphone adjusts.
Homeless Man: Sie müssen nur schön zu bekommen, was Sie in diesen Tagen sein möchte. I ein Dutzend Sprachen sprechen können, aber sie wusste nicht, wie ich angezogen .
Subtitles: You just have to be beautiful to get what you want these days. I can speak a dozen languages but they didn't like the way I dressed.
A passer-by throws a quarter into his small tattered brown hat on the floor
Homeless Man: YA mogu dobavit' nomera i reshit' formuly bystreye, chem te vysokomernyye , pafosnyye studentov, kotoryye kormili grud'yu svoyego bogatstva ot svoikh materey teets
Subtitles: I can add numbers and solve formulas faster than those arrogant, pretentious college students who have suckled their wealth from their mother’s teets.
Homeless Man: Aru Ni~Tsu, watashi wa koko ni nokoshite okimasu. Aru Ni~Tsu, watashi wa ushinau mono wa nani mo nai to jitsugen shimasu..
Subtitles: One day I'll leave here. One day I'll realise I have nothing to lose and…
Another passer by stumbles over a dislodged paving slab and spills his entire soda over the homeless man. He drops his phone and locks eyes with the homeless man, but does not apologize. Instead he blows the dust off his phone and carries on down the street. He is a black man wearing a baseball jersey and expensive denim shorts. His high top Nike shoes are a brilliant white. The microphone picks up his conversation.
High Top: Nah bro I’m telling you, shit is real. Nah man come on, it’s a gen-uine porschaaa and it all mine haha! Ah fuck that man he’ll get his money next…
The microphone fades out and the camera again shows Occulo who starts speaking again, the microphone focuses in on him
Occulo: …and we all bleed the same thick, red blood that pumps to the same rhythm, a rhythm that will run out of we don’t keep writing the music of life. Well this is my fucking encore.
The scene fades out. Back to Occulo sat on the dark chair under the spotlight.
Occulo: It’s funny really. What we do. Week after week we put up a front and speak endlessly with criticism and impulsive, perhaps not even genuine malice about those who want the exact same thing and would do the exact same thing to get it. How do we dare criticise those who sit so close to each other in the same boat? We’re not all as different as we think. Oblivion is the insane monster and Joey is the troubled Mafioso but under the cracked, bruised skin and flowing over the splinted bones is the adrenalin that ties us all into the same family. We perceive each other’s movements and calculate each other’s weaknesses and when and how to strike. One’s strength is another’s weakness, one’s slip is another’s opportunity. There is a balance in the WCF. The balance is keeping this place together, with not one scale tipping even one degree in either direction.
Grab a microphone, is it switched on? Yeah. Testing. One. Two. Three. The paying audience are sat with weighted expectation, all they want to hear is pure but toxic hatred. They want to see a man voice their opinion and vent their poison about another man. They thrive on this and yearn for this because they know its getting the other guy pumped up and when the time comes, they’ll feel their fetish for flesh hitting flesh and the guttural screaming of pain. They love it because they are all wearing the tights in the ring. They all have that one guy either at work or on their suburb that they just wish they could grab that microphone and lay down that law right in their fucking face. But they can’t. They can’t and all they must do with is concentrated violence. Us wrestlers of the WCF are a masochistic realisation of a Freudian sexual fantasy where the audience with just one drop of our adrenalin and 1 second of opportunity would rip the heel in their life’s face off.
The scene slowly fades out. We open up to a college sports hall with a wrestling ring set up in the centre. There are a few teenage boys stood around the ring watching on as two others spar in the ring. Occulo is there in grey joggers and a black Adidas sports jacket. He walks up to one of the kids who smiles and shakes Occulo’s hand, looking rather starstruck. He is wearing dark shorts and a black vest top, his left eye is very faintly bruised, with his long dark fringe just failing to cover it up. He seems very socially awkward and shy, and laughs nervously after everything he says.
Occulo: Hey how’s it going, sorry what’s your name?
Ryan: Ryan, hey
Occulo: Hi Ryan. So how long have you been doing this for?
Ryan: Uhm about a year and a half now, you know
Occulo: Do you enjoy it?
Ryan: Yeah, yeah it’s great, you know
Occulo: That’s good, so do you have any favourite moves you like to use?
Ryan: Yeah, my favourite move is the lariat clothesline. That’s my finishing move, you know
Occulo: Ouch. Yeah it hurts that one, it hurts when it goes wrong too.
Ryan: Yeah, yeah that happened once. This kid who was new who came with his Mom. I went for the lariat clothesline and it nearly broke his neck cos he didn’t quite dodge it well enough.
Occulo: My God, I bet there was one hell of a scene. Did you stop the match?
Ryan: Stop it? No…no cos they carry on in real life you know? You know, the injured guy just sucks it up and takes a fall. The
entertainment comes first you know? I mean his Mom was screaming the house down but hell I just wanted to show what I can do.
Occulo: Don’t you think that was irresponsible Ryan?
Ryan: Uhm no not really cos I said you know, you want to make it as a wrestler you know, some make it and some don’t, you know.
Occulo: What happened to him?
Ryan: Oh he comes to school sometimes, you know
The two kids in the ring collide and both fall to the mat. The coach starts counting them both out. The camera zooms in to one of the kids faces, which shows he is visibly in pain with a tear rolling down his cheek. His scarlet face turns away and he slowly gets to his feet. The other kid is up already and lashes out with a brutal kick straight to his head. The coach pushes him away and yells his face blue at him.
Occulo: That was unnecessary. Your coach doesn’t seem to have much restraint drilled into your heads.
Ryan: No, well, you know he just says do the damage first and worry about the rest later, you know.
He scratches his wrist and has a thin smile on his face as Occulo looks on at the ring
Occulo: So what’s the plan Ryan?
Ryan: Uhm well, this and I dunno I’m not very... (shy laugh) I’m not that good at studying, you know. It’s hard.
Occulo: Is it frustrating for you?
Ryan: Yeah, yeah but, you know, I like wrestling.
The camera swings over to the coach
Coach: Alright! Ryan, Mark you’re up!
Occulo puts a hand on Ryan’s shoulder
Occulo: Good luck
Ryan thinly smiles again as he heads into the ring with Mark, a much bigger and considerably more muscular Mark, who also looks a few years older to boot.
Occulo: I know when people are enjoying their wrestling, it’s very clear to me, and it’s as clear as day that Ryan absolutely hates this. I don’t know if he’s just here out of frustration or what.
Mark lifts Ryan up and lands an extremely botched suplex on Ryan. Mark gestures to the kids around the ring and the coach applauds him.
Occulo: It’s worrying. These kids might have aspirations and that’s fair enough, that’s good, but none of these kids are going to get anywhere near even the first step. Nowhere near. That coach knows absolutely nothing about wrestling, but hell as long as these kids are getting left behind then he’s going to keep running…whatever this is. It scares me really. Is this what we’re inspiring? Is our living contributing to these…hopeful’s downfalls?
The camera pans back to the ring as Ryan runs directly into a punch by Mark, cutting off to black as soon as contact is made.
We open up back at the well. Occulo is staring down into it with his hands resting on the top.
Occulo: You are a faded substance. A forgotten, breathing manifestation of hate. A tank rolling into town after town, destroying everything it sees with no remorse. You leave people crying when they have not so much as looked at you. When I look down into this well, I see a cold, dank chasm of emptiness. Empty except for pure decay. You are empty except for pure decay. Everything you touch starts to rot away and become anything but human.
Except for me. I have become the phoenix that rose from your well of despair and seeks out only glory. You are irrelevant now. You don’t matter. I realised whilst I laid in agony in the deep waters of desolation that sometimes ignoring something does make it go away. You cannot stand me turning my back on you and rising above you. Stand above you I will. You’ll watch me fight at War and you will like it. Then soon, soon you will see me standing with the WCF World Heavyweight Championship and down, down down into the well you will go. The spirit of John Mullins will finally rest in the abyss from whence he came. Your armaggeddon is imminent, better get underground.
The scene fades out with a static fizz. We open up to Occulo stood outside an old book shop on a grey street in suburban Chicago.
Occulo: So I’m here at this rather quaint little bookshop where there’s going to be an autograph signing, a meet and greet so to speak with a long retired wrestler named Pollaski. The guy was very popular, almost a legend back then. He was known for his immense physicality and how he would just, throw his body on the line, anything on the line just to win. “The Great Pollaski” he was called. This event started at 1pm.
He looks at his watch
It’s now 1:30pm and there isn't a soul here.
He walks in and the place is empty. Pollaski is sat at a table looking extremely aged. He has what looks like his carer sat looking very awkward and bored next to him, tapping away on her phone. Pollaski adjusts himself on his chair, releasing a pained groan and a grimace as he does. His carer tuts as Occulo notices a dialysis machine humming away behind Pollaski. He walks up to him and smiles.
Occulo: Hello Pollaski
His carer looks up and speaks bluntly
Carer: What do you want signing?
Occulo: Oh…I’d like to speak to him if that’s okay?
Carer: To him? Sure, whatever. Good luck
She sighs and carries on with her phone
Occulo: Hello Pollaski, how are you?
Pollaski weakly smiles at Occulo and lethargically raises a hand
I want to tell you how much I admire what you’ve done in your career. You entertained a lot of people.
Pollaski: Thank you, are you, you’re…
He coughs and holds his chest with a grimace
Carer: Sorry just give him what you want him to sign and go.
Occulo grabs a chair and sits opposite Pollaski
Occulo: It’s okay sir.
Carer: I don’t know why you bothered coming. Nobody cares anymore. I lost my day off for this.
Pollaski looks into Occulo’s eyes. Occulo gently holds his hand.
Occulo smiles and gets up
Pollaski: Wait, come back. Please, I want to talk to you.
Occulo smiles and sits back down
Pollaski: You’re a wrestler aren’t you. My, my grandson watches it. You’re the one who has been injured aren’t you.
Occulo: Yes, that’s right.
Pollaski: Listen to a man that’s been through it my son, look after yourself. I, I went through what you have done and by god, by god it absolutely wrecked me. Look at me. I was once an absolutely statuesque young man who could lift the biggest guys in the world. I’m racked with pain every day. Every day.
Occulo slowly nods, hanging off his every word
Pollaski: I remember one match, it was with this man they called Ironbite. He was a mad man. It was the main event at Warzone, and he hurt me. He hurt me Occulo. I couldn’t walk or barely breathe. I said to the referee that I simply can’t go on. He tried to end the match but the boss was at ringside and he threatened to fire him if he did. The ref had no choice. He had a livelihood. A family to think of. The boss was thinking about the ratings and the fans. The boss and the fans were like the devil and his demons in their own personal hell. So it carried on. Well, he carried on. I somehow got to my feet and the rest is a blur. I was in the worst pain of my life after that match. I never recovered but still they made me wrestle. I put asses on seats. They used to offer the doctor a raise if he cleared me to wrestle even though I could barely walk up the stairs of the arena by myself. I never forgave them for that. But I wasn’t the only one.
Pollaski holds Occulo’s hand tightly
Listen my boy, I know you’ve recovered from your injury, but if you ever get to a point where you think that’s it, I’m calling this, I value my life over this ridiculous, barbaric form of entertainment then you walk and don’t look back. No matter how popular and irreplaceable you or any wrestler in the world thinks they are, trust me, you’re not. Please, put your own skin and bone before gold and leather. Please. Please don’t end up like me. Please.
Pollaski starts to sob and shake uncontrollably
Carer: Fuck sake, thanks man
Occulo: I didn’t mean to upset him, I-
Carer: Doesn’t matter. Come on Trevor, I think it’s time to get you back home and to bed so I can do the same.
Pollaski raises his voice, still sobbing
Pollaski: Nobody fucking cares. Occulo, nobody cares, you might be loved now but trust me, they don’t care about you.
Occulo slinks out of the bookstore with a sigh.
Occulo: That was real. That was so painfully real. I know often we can create horror and immense tragedy in theatre and on the
screen, but there is absolutely nothing more horrific and depressing than a man being destroyed…for no reason. Reality is often the darkness that swallows up the bright day of fame and fortune. It is too often that when a story is a legend, it dissolves into tragedy. Pollaski entertained tens of thousands, perhaps millions, covered in his own sweat, blood and tears and was destroyed by men covered in nothing but suit and tie. It’s a shame. It’s a real damn shame. This is wrestling.
The scene fades out as Occulo looks into the bookshop as the carer roughly puts Pollaski into his wheelchair.
The camera then shows the WCF audience cheering and clapping as two superstars beat each other senseless with steel chairs, their adrenalin pumping with each chair shot. One of them hits a thunderous finisher, cracking their head off the steel.
Crowd: One! Two! Three!! Yeeaaaaaaah!!!!
The music blasts through the speakers and the ref raises his hand as the announcer calls the winner.
Scene fades out again and opens up as an unknown wrestler is now sat in his dressing room covered in blood, his face numb and devoid of expression. The footage looks relatively old and grainy.
Voice: That was a fucking good show
Voice: Come on, you just won one of the biggest matches you’ve had here. What’s your problem?
Wrestler: …just…shut up for a few minutes…ah fuck…
Voice: Fuck that, it’s promo time. Come on. Sharpen up. Spread that blood over your face a bit more.
The wrestler snaps his neck and lets out a whimper of pain. He puts a his hand over a gash above his eyebrow and slicks the blood through his hair and down one side of his face.
Voice: That’s it. Okay, go.
He takes a deep breath and looks at another camera in the room
Wrestler: Fuck…what a match. Incredible. It’s amazing how much of a tonic the taste of your own blood is. It’s a catalyst that sparks you on and…
Fade out for a few seconds, and then back in. The wrestler is still sat on the chair with his face in his hands, crying in pain and desperation. We hear the voice over of Occulo as we sit and watch this man cry.
Occulo: A man wakes up to the electronic beep of an alarm clock. Stop. He is not yet bound by suit and tie or any conformity whatsoever. He is just that. A man in limbo and transition between a subconscious state of dreams and the conscious state of reality. He is completely and utterly alone. There isn’t a single thought in his head. He feels nothing. Then…bang. He knows the time, feels tired and he realises and remembers just who he is and what he has to do today. Suddenly his mind organises itself into a flowchart that is looking all too similar every day. His labels all attach to him and the responsibilities settle on to his shoulders. He may be surrounded by loved ones or he may be alone.
But his day to day life begins with that moment as he wakes. A numbness. But what of those who never escape the numbness. What of those whose day to day lives leaves them silently screaming for answers, for an escape, wanting to know why the flowchart in their minds led them down this path of self-destruction and why they made the choices to get there. What was so wrong with the way they looked at people that they suddenly had to wear this mask? This smile and adoration to people who only loved them when they got hurt and when they hurt others. A fucking twisted logic we all dance to. There is no love for the man, only for the robot controlled by how the machine in suit and tie calculates their reaction. The machine in suit and tie that operates purely on the fear that one day…one day they will stop reacting.
The wrestler gets up and screams. At this point the footage pauses
One day they will stop reacting and suddenly everything collapses. The machine is switched off and the robots…become obsolete, and after years of hard service…only the scrap heap beckons. The End.
Scene fades to black and we see what looks like a computer screen. A flickering cursor, then:
>>WCF SYSTEM STATUS CHECK
>>…SYSTEM FUNCTIONING AT 90% OPTIMISATION
>>SEARCHING FOR INCREASED OPTIMISATION
>>HARDWARE IDENTIFIED AS “OCCULO”
The screen remains as Occulo speaks
The machine is doing just this. A stock take. A system check. A calculation. The components are being proofed. Rats in a maze chasing the gold, leather cheese. The belt to the system means nothing. It is just the…state of absolution for the components.
War is coming, and the system is watching. It cares not for how damaged the components may get. It cares only for the ones that make the system tick. Those that don’t, time up. They are replaced. Nobody is irreplaceable. Nobody matters. But one component is being…re-installed. One component is going to flood new life into the system.
The screen flickers off and we then see a picture of a WCF wrestler, and then another next to it, and then another, each one halving in size as more are added, until we see a large mosaic of thousands of images of which the colourisation shows Occulo with his arms outstretched.
Occulo installed. Initiate War.