Cold. Minnesota. Poker. Some Other Stuff I Guess.
Jan 17, 2016 17:34:57 GMT -5
Stuart Slane and John Rabid like this
Post by Benjamin Atreyu on Jan 17, 2016 17:34:57 GMT -5
You know, it doesn't always snow in Minnesota, but it never really looks like Minnesota unless it does. The rest of the year, it seems like a carbon copy of anywhere else with a few recognizable landmarks, but when Winter finally does decide to hit, an air of familiarity takes hold. Much in the same sense of someone not looking like themselves shaved, but once they grow the beard back, then the mind begins to spark.
However, I'm not thinking that now. All I can do is curse the wintry death-land in silence as the crew scrambles to set themselves up against the howling she-bitch that is the ice winds. My ears are pricked with the bite of sub-zero temperatures. I pull the collar of my gray trench coat up to block what I can.
"The fuck-ar-we doin' out here?" One of the crew exclaims as he throws down a camera stand. His eyes, the eyes of a comfort-addled, dead-minded, overpaid camera jocky tries to pierce my shell. Returning the glare I approach him, each step crunching snow under my shoe with a careful and deliberate rhythm. I'm in no hurry to reach him, let him wait for my reply. As I reach him, it is made apparent to both of us that I am the more intimidating of the two.
"What was that?" I ask, knowing full well the truth, giving him the chance to change his tune.
"This-is bullshit," he fails to adjust his attitude, "You're made my crew and I drive inta the middle-a-nowhere, Minnesoda ta shoot who-knows-what for some dumb wrestlin' cumpny-"
"Indeed, I AM making your crew and you drive into the middle of fucking nowhere, Minnesota to shoot I-know-what for a certain dumb wrestling company, and you will be paid and sent on your way like a happy little worker. So stop complaining, it makes you look oafish."
"All I'm askin' is for some consideration for us!"
"You're complaint has been considered," I paused, keeping eye-contact with the defiant cog in the machine of my over plan, "...now get back to work."
"The fuck do ya mean 'get back-ta-work?"
"Exactly what it fucking sounds like."
"I'm not moving another goddamn thing-" Thats when my fist collided with his skull. He fell back in the snow, writhing in pain.
"Listen," I step over his body, towering over him, "I'm not a hard man to deal with. I've been known to compromise at times for the betterment of the group. On another day, I would have considered your suggestion, and chances are I would have heeded to it. Unfortunately, today...I'm a man with a vision, and when I become a man with a vision, only one thing matters. The vision."
The man groaned and grabbed his head as he looked up at me. A sorry sight, indeed. Ignoring his pain, I peer off into the distance at a city shining against the black backdrop of night.
"Do you know what city is over there?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"St Paul," I replied, not expecting him to know anyways, sitting in the cold like that, "Practically raised in that city. I looked at all those buildings, the people scurrying along, and I thought 'one day, that city will be mine'. I believed it too."
"The fuck are you talking ab-" I kicked snow in his face to shut him up.
"Let me finish," I sighed, "As I'm sure you can see. My life, thankfully, didn't go in the way of politics, which these days seems like the only way you can make a city yours. Its not like the days of Al Capone where the man with the capital controlled it all. So, what is a man to do when he refuses to let go of his dream, but can't afford to make it real?"
I looked back down and waited for an answer, knowing full well there wouldn't be one. I saw the man shivering me. He probably called me a good deal of things in his head, but as I stood over him with all the power in the conversation, he just stared.
"You take the next best thing you can get," I answered my own question, "See, if I can't make the city mine, I can at least make people think that city is mine. See, there is something in this world more powerful than money, because if you have it, money isn't all that necessary; an understanding of the human mind. If I can't take the city into the palm of my hand, I'll burn myself into it.
"Think any song that has become synonymous with a movie soundtrack, Stuck in the Middle With You' and Reservoir Dogs for example; one cannot think of the song without the movie, nor the movie without recalling the song. The two are forever locked together in the grand history that is the entertainment industry. That song no longer belongs to Stealer's Wheel. It is now Tarantino's, forever his, because no matter where you turned, one is followed by the other. Thus," I gestured over to the city, "...my vision.
"So, there are two things that can happen, tonight. One; you can get back on your feet, and do the job that I paid you to do. You'll be cold, damn cold, but you'll survive, you'll go home, and the next day it'll be like none of this ever happened. Over and done with, as one would say.
"Then there is option two; you continue to be defiant. You fight me every step of the way and question my decisions left and right. You hold up the production, you make the rest of your men that much colder. Then, at the end of the day, we wrap, you get paid, you go home, and the next day it'll be like none of this ever happened. Again, over and done with. Now, we may be men with differing opinions on how this should be handled, but from my end, its not any real choice at all."
I took a step back and gave the man room to pull himself back to his feet. He gave me a stare, augmented slightly from the first one. No hate in this one. This one was the kind of stare you reserved for awe and confusion, as if glaring at a man who appeared to be a layered puzzle of sorts that you couldn't begin to understand. I didn't break my stare. It was important that he knew I wasn't going to waver, and after a minute of nothing getting done, he looks away, assuring me the win as he gets back on his two feet, all that much colder for his struggles.
Without a word the set up continued. Not quite rid of my habits as Head of Talent Relations, I yelled words of encouragement, but got no response. The men kept their eyes to the ground or on their equipment as I rubbed my hands together to keep warm.
We were ready, everything in place, and I was ready to go. I stepped upon my marker. In the eye of the all-seeing camera the composition couldn't have worked any better. To the left of the screen was I, your hero and friend, Benjamin Atreyu, humorless gaze and all. To the right, in the background was the city that twinkled in the night like a diamond, if you'll pardon the cliche.
Now, I didn't really live in Minnesota anymore. I had a home there, but like any man with a respect for travelling and money to burn, I had homes in a variety of places; California, New York, Florida, and Europe. Three months a year - I'll let you take a guess at which three - was the maximum amount of time I stayed there. Of course, the media will never catch wind of this, because in the world of entertainment, branding was everything. To the world I was Benjamin Atreyu "The Minnesotan Warrior", and if there was anything I felt I could live up to, it was that.
So, let it begin. The red pin-prick of light jolted itself on and like that, we were rolling; not just footage, but straight into the future of my career. I would still this state from every other competitor who ever came from here. Minnesota was going to be mine, and when anyone would picture it in their head, they would inevitably put me alongside it, whether they wanted to or not. It would be a matter of instinct, and if there was anything in this world more powerful than instinct, I have yet to hear of it.
People ate on instinct, people shopped on instinct, and for a good majority of the population, they thought on instinct. Logic was a secondary, and often disregarded device, and if you could find a way into the subconscious of one of these animalistic wal-mart shopping drooling savages, then it was your game to lose. I was going to become not only a man on top of the world, but also part of the middle American household.
The wind whipped my jacket, and while the instant result was quite painful as I felt the cold swirl around my body, looking at the footage later on, I feel the video could not of done without it. My jacket being manipulated by the wind brought the idea of the cold home on the footage, which said wonders about me as I stood in it, while my mind was pleading me to find somewhere warm, the image screamed that I didn't care, and you tell me which one the people heard; it was a cinematic lie, a story in simple movements.
"This is Minnesota," I began, my hands in my pocket, my voice calm, suppressing the obvious shiver that wanted to come, "a cold wasteland of hate and ice. Even with the civilized nature of cars, heaters, houses, and technology, people still die in this cold. It consumes them, saps them of their warmth, and leaves them in a tundra-like landscape as their last breaths turn to vapor before them rising on high.
"It takes a special kind of breed to choose to live here, and an a tough breed to stick it out. Sure, we get breaks, but even though winter only goes for three months, the cold goes on long beyond that. Sometimes its six months between seeing grass and leaves. Seasonal depression, early night, and dead plants take up most of what we see here, but for one reason or another, we stay.
"Now, thats not to say that everyone here is some hunter-type who can stand in a blizzard as cars and lamp-posts freeze over. There are plenty of families here who are like any other, but when a fighter comes out of here, it should be understood that where they came from says a lot about them. Whether it be about how tough they are or how masochistic they are, it doesn't matter, you take a man like that lightly."
I pause for a moment and a sound close to a laugh - a sort of 'heh' - escapes my body, only I know it wasn't a laugh, it was my bodies attempt to defy my wishes by forcing muscles to constrict, pushing air out. Oh, the things we do to present ourselves as something other than ourselves. Despite what people might say if they knew the truth, this is a different kind of 'tough', I would love to see one of the yokels from one of their 'grand' southern states try and pull this off. They barely have enough self-control to keep from spewing some conservative, raised-like-a-farmers-kid, these-damn-millenials bullshit, let alone enough to be able t do all this for an image.
"So, with that fresh in mind, I would like to address my opponent, a fairly new face in this decrepit company of ours, Tiffany White, the Nevada raised blonde with a axe to grind for anything with a protruding member. Honestly, I can't blame you. No, really. Men are fucking awful, but in that same sense, so are women. See, I watched your interview with Hank back when you faced off with Jordan, Ronson, Brao and CVC. The thing is, you aren't wrong, but with all your talk about misogynists, you seem to step over a very glaring problem; everyone is awful. There are no dividers in that realm.
"Everyone, in a sense, is, as so many of you like to say a 'fuckboy'. Misogynists, wife-beaters, bigots, racists, feminists, you, me, the world in general. It isn't your assessment thats wrong really, but your means of arrive at that spot. See, you put up these dividers. They are set there in your sense of truth, and maybe some of it is true, but the problem is that it isn't in the divider because its true, its true to you, because its in the divider. Your mind works like this. 'he's a bad man, thus men are bad. Women aren't men, thus women aren't bad. This is a man, thus he is bad' so on and so forth. An over simplification, I admit, but dealing with people like you, describing things with their actual level of depth would prove pointless.
"Now, I can only go by what I've seen of you, and what I see is a person who probably already has me pegged as a mark in the win column for you, because of this divider I've been talking about. Not my history as a competitor/champion/career-ender, not as someone who has had the wherewithal to stick out countless winters in this state, but because you noticed a handful of pointless details that meet your criteria, and now I'm probably one of those many 'fuckboys' you think will break under you.
"See, I really enjoyed your poker analogy from last week, I found it quite fitting, but in a common display of broken logic, you've shown that your success in the ring is not connected to such tactics. While poker is not only about luring your opponent into a false sense of security, its also about being able to read them well enough to make your right move, but as I'm sure you know, if you don't know what to look for, you're up shits creek without a paddle, and boy, do you not know what to look for. In that ring, the eyes can only say so much, and that is where the translation from card table to ring ends.
"When I see an opponent, I can read their history in scars, in their record, in their title reign, in their vocal inflections when they try to intimidate me, and I can read it in the way they hold themselves. If you stay in this game long enough, what might look like courage on year, you'll realize is fear in reality. You begin to pick up patterns you can't learn in Vegas, and that is one of the many advantages I hold over you.
"In a sense, you can look at me like the dealer. I have the house advantage, I have all the information, and you're still trying to recognize your ass from a hole in the ground."
I can feel my cheeks sting as I try to smile. The cold is hell, I hate Minnesota, but I smile all the same. Funny fact, dear reader, when missionaries headed up to areas like Alaska, they had to change their description of hell from a fiery pit without cool breezes or reprieve from the heat, because the Inuits kept asking how they could get there. I'm proud to have lasted in this state as long as I have, but dear god do I hate it. I would burn it to the ground if I had the chance, but I have my own mission, and that supersedes any discomfort or hatred.
"Now, with that said, do I think I could beat you?" I shrug, "Why should I think otherwise? Of course there is always a chance that I'll wipe the floor with you, and on the flip side, I could royally fuck up and give you exactly what you need to destroy me, life is funny that way. I'm not so stupid as to say anything definite, but you should fear the possibility. Always fear it, it'll make you a better fighter. Destroy your archaic and broken dividers, it'll make you smarter. And if you want respect, grow a dick. That last one, of course, is optional, but it'll be hard to get it any other means.
"Though, it seems even with my swinging between my legs I can't summon any up, but that might be due to my refusal to always reference it due to my good sense of taste. See, I've picked the long road to success, much like I picked to stay in a state that offers the long months before beauty, because the results mean more, because it makes me better, because sometimes bromides ring true 'good things come to those who wait'.
"Long point made short; be more like me, learn from me, lose to me, and maybe you'll see the other end of this company, the end where the gold hangs. Don't be so silly has to hang onto thoughts that'll cost you the long game, because those dividers work a lot like gods do. People love their Gods, will kill you over their Gods, and leave themselves ravaged and shredded for their Gods, a little writer, one I can't seem to recall the name of, had a great quote for it.
"'Place God at one end of the spectrum and watch the world begin to shift itself to revolve around what was once an edge, dangling itself over oblivion to keep shape and form, the only kind it has ever known. One could imagine the result of taking the aforementioned God and throwing him over the cliff, what a tragedy that would become as the world would cease to dangle, but instead crash against the rocks.' So, answer me this, Tiffany, will you follow your broken logic, you 'god' as it were, over the edge?"
Cut. Print. Gold. Thank goodness. The cold is killing my fingers. I race back to the car, freeing my ass off, screaming obscenities at the top of my lungs. No one sees it, thus it never happened, I give them what information I want to, and that's all that matters.
However, I'm not thinking that now. All I can do is curse the wintry death-land in silence as the crew scrambles to set themselves up against the howling she-bitch that is the ice winds. My ears are pricked with the bite of sub-zero temperatures. I pull the collar of my gray trench coat up to block what I can.
"The fuck-ar-we doin' out here?" One of the crew exclaims as he throws down a camera stand. His eyes, the eyes of a comfort-addled, dead-minded, overpaid camera jocky tries to pierce my shell. Returning the glare I approach him, each step crunching snow under my shoe with a careful and deliberate rhythm. I'm in no hurry to reach him, let him wait for my reply. As I reach him, it is made apparent to both of us that I am the more intimidating of the two.
"What was that?" I ask, knowing full well the truth, giving him the chance to change his tune.
"This-is bullshit," he fails to adjust his attitude, "You're made my crew and I drive inta the middle-a-nowhere, Minnesoda ta shoot who-knows-what for some dumb wrestlin' cumpny-"
"Indeed, I AM making your crew and you drive into the middle of fucking nowhere, Minnesota to shoot I-know-what for a certain dumb wrestling company, and you will be paid and sent on your way like a happy little worker. So stop complaining, it makes you look oafish."
"All I'm askin' is for some consideration for us!"
"You're complaint has been considered," I paused, keeping eye-contact with the defiant cog in the machine of my over plan, "...now get back to work."
"The fuck do ya mean 'get back-ta-work?"
"Exactly what it fucking sounds like."
"I'm not moving another goddamn thing-" Thats when my fist collided with his skull. He fell back in the snow, writhing in pain.
"Listen," I step over his body, towering over him, "I'm not a hard man to deal with. I've been known to compromise at times for the betterment of the group. On another day, I would have considered your suggestion, and chances are I would have heeded to it. Unfortunately, today...I'm a man with a vision, and when I become a man with a vision, only one thing matters. The vision."
The man groaned and grabbed his head as he looked up at me. A sorry sight, indeed. Ignoring his pain, I peer off into the distance at a city shining against the black backdrop of night.
"Do you know what city is over there?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"St Paul," I replied, not expecting him to know anyways, sitting in the cold like that, "Practically raised in that city. I looked at all those buildings, the people scurrying along, and I thought 'one day, that city will be mine'. I believed it too."
"The fuck are you talking ab-" I kicked snow in his face to shut him up.
"Let me finish," I sighed, "As I'm sure you can see. My life, thankfully, didn't go in the way of politics, which these days seems like the only way you can make a city yours. Its not like the days of Al Capone where the man with the capital controlled it all. So, what is a man to do when he refuses to let go of his dream, but can't afford to make it real?"
I looked back down and waited for an answer, knowing full well there wouldn't be one. I saw the man shivering me. He probably called me a good deal of things in his head, but as I stood over him with all the power in the conversation, he just stared.
"You take the next best thing you can get," I answered my own question, "See, if I can't make the city mine, I can at least make people think that city is mine. See, there is something in this world more powerful than money, because if you have it, money isn't all that necessary; an understanding of the human mind. If I can't take the city into the palm of my hand, I'll burn myself into it.
"Think any song that has become synonymous with a movie soundtrack, Stuck in the Middle With You' and Reservoir Dogs for example; one cannot think of the song without the movie, nor the movie without recalling the song. The two are forever locked together in the grand history that is the entertainment industry. That song no longer belongs to Stealer's Wheel. It is now Tarantino's, forever his, because no matter where you turned, one is followed by the other. Thus," I gestured over to the city, "...my vision.
"So, there are two things that can happen, tonight. One; you can get back on your feet, and do the job that I paid you to do. You'll be cold, damn cold, but you'll survive, you'll go home, and the next day it'll be like none of this ever happened. Over and done with, as one would say.
"Then there is option two; you continue to be defiant. You fight me every step of the way and question my decisions left and right. You hold up the production, you make the rest of your men that much colder. Then, at the end of the day, we wrap, you get paid, you go home, and the next day it'll be like none of this ever happened. Again, over and done with. Now, we may be men with differing opinions on how this should be handled, but from my end, its not any real choice at all."
I took a step back and gave the man room to pull himself back to his feet. He gave me a stare, augmented slightly from the first one. No hate in this one. This one was the kind of stare you reserved for awe and confusion, as if glaring at a man who appeared to be a layered puzzle of sorts that you couldn't begin to understand. I didn't break my stare. It was important that he knew I wasn't going to waver, and after a minute of nothing getting done, he looks away, assuring me the win as he gets back on his two feet, all that much colder for his struggles.
Without a word the set up continued. Not quite rid of my habits as Head of Talent Relations, I yelled words of encouragement, but got no response. The men kept their eyes to the ground or on their equipment as I rubbed my hands together to keep warm.
We were ready, everything in place, and I was ready to go. I stepped upon my marker. In the eye of the all-seeing camera the composition couldn't have worked any better. To the left of the screen was I, your hero and friend, Benjamin Atreyu, humorless gaze and all. To the right, in the background was the city that twinkled in the night like a diamond, if you'll pardon the cliche.
Now, I didn't really live in Minnesota anymore. I had a home there, but like any man with a respect for travelling and money to burn, I had homes in a variety of places; California, New York, Florida, and Europe. Three months a year - I'll let you take a guess at which three - was the maximum amount of time I stayed there. Of course, the media will never catch wind of this, because in the world of entertainment, branding was everything. To the world I was Benjamin Atreyu "The Minnesotan Warrior", and if there was anything I felt I could live up to, it was that.
So, let it begin. The red pin-prick of light jolted itself on and like that, we were rolling; not just footage, but straight into the future of my career. I would still this state from every other competitor who ever came from here. Minnesota was going to be mine, and when anyone would picture it in their head, they would inevitably put me alongside it, whether they wanted to or not. It would be a matter of instinct, and if there was anything in this world more powerful than instinct, I have yet to hear of it.
People ate on instinct, people shopped on instinct, and for a good majority of the population, they thought on instinct. Logic was a secondary, and often disregarded device, and if you could find a way into the subconscious of one of these animalistic wal-mart shopping drooling savages, then it was your game to lose. I was going to become not only a man on top of the world, but also part of the middle American household.
The wind whipped my jacket, and while the instant result was quite painful as I felt the cold swirl around my body, looking at the footage later on, I feel the video could not of done without it. My jacket being manipulated by the wind brought the idea of the cold home on the footage, which said wonders about me as I stood in it, while my mind was pleading me to find somewhere warm, the image screamed that I didn't care, and you tell me which one the people heard; it was a cinematic lie, a story in simple movements.
"This is Minnesota," I began, my hands in my pocket, my voice calm, suppressing the obvious shiver that wanted to come, "a cold wasteland of hate and ice. Even with the civilized nature of cars, heaters, houses, and technology, people still die in this cold. It consumes them, saps them of their warmth, and leaves them in a tundra-like landscape as their last breaths turn to vapor before them rising on high.
"It takes a special kind of breed to choose to live here, and an a tough breed to stick it out. Sure, we get breaks, but even though winter only goes for three months, the cold goes on long beyond that. Sometimes its six months between seeing grass and leaves. Seasonal depression, early night, and dead plants take up most of what we see here, but for one reason or another, we stay.
"Now, thats not to say that everyone here is some hunter-type who can stand in a blizzard as cars and lamp-posts freeze over. There are plenty of families here who are like any other, but when a fighter comes out of here, it should be understood that where they came from says a lot about them. Whether it be about how tough they are or how masochistic they are, it doesn't matter, you take a man like that lightly."
I pause for a moment and a sound close to a laugh - a sort of 'heh' - escapes my body, only I know it wasn't a laugh, it was my bodies attempt to defy my wishes by forcing muscles to constrict, pushing air out. Oh, the things we do to present ourselves as something other than ourselves. Despite what people might say if they knew the truth, this is a different kind of 'tough', I would love to see one of the yokels from one of their 'grand' southern states try and pull this off. They barely have enough self-control to keep from spewing some conservative, raised-like-a-farmers-kid, these-damn-millenials bullshit, let alone enough to be able t do all this for an image.
"So, with that fresh in mind, I would like to address my opponent, a fairly new face in this decrepit company of ours, Tiffany White, the Nevada raised blonde with a axe to grind for anything with a protruding member. Honestly, I can't blame you. No, really. Men are fucking awful, but in that same sense, so are women. See, I watched your interview with Hank back when you faced off with Jordan, Ronson, Brao and CVC. The thing is, you aren't wrong, but with all your talk about misogynists, you seem to step over a very glaring problem; everyone is awful. There are no dividers in that realm.
"Everyone, in a sense, is, as so many of you like to say a 'fuckboy'. Misogynists, wife-beaters, bigots, racists, feminists, you, me, the world in general. It isn't your assessment thats wrong really, but your means of arrive at that spot. See, you put up these dividers. They are set there in your sense of truth, and maybe some of it is true, but the problem is that it isn't in the divider because its true, its true to you, because its in the divider. Your mind works like this. 'he's a bad man, thus men are bad. Women aren't men, thus women aren't bad. This is a man, thus he is bad' so on and so forth. An over simplification, I admit, but dealing with people like you, describing things with their actual level of depth would prove pointless.
"Now, I can only go by what I've seen of you, and what I see is a person who probably already has me pegged as a mark in the win column for you, because of this divider I've been talking about. Not my history as a competitor/champion/career-ender, not as someone who has had the wherewithal to stick out countless winters in this state, but because you noticed a handful of pointless details that meet your criteria, and now I'm probably one of those many 'fuckboys' you think will break under you.
"See, I really enjoyed your poker analogy from last week, I found it quite fitting, but in a common display of broken logic, you've shown that your success in the ring is not connected to such tactics. While poker is not only about luring your opponent into a false sense of security, its also about being able to read them well enough to make your right move, but as I'm sure you know, if you don't know what to look for, you're up shits creek without a paddle, and boy, do you not know what to look for. In that ring, the eyes can only say so much, and that is where the translation from card table to ring ends.
"When I see an opponent, I can read their history in scars, in their record, in their title reign, in their vocal inflections when they try to intimidate me, and I can read it in the way they hold themselves. If you stay in this game long enough, what might look like courage on year, you'll realize is fear in reality. You begin to pick up patterns you can't learn in Vegas, and that is one of the many advantages I hold over you.
"In a sense, you can look at me like the dealer. I have the house advantage, I have all the information, and you're still trying to recognize your ass from a hole in the ground."
I can feel my cheeks sting as I try to smile. The cold is hell, I hate Minnesota, but I smile all the same. Funny fact, dear reader, when missionaries headed up to areas like Alaska, they had to change their description of hell from a fiery pit without cool breezes or reprieve from the heat, because the Inuits kept asking how they could get there. I'm proud to have lasted in this state as long as I have, but dear god do I hate it. I would burn it to the ground if I had the chance, but I have my own mission, and that supersedes any discomfort or hatred.
"Now, with that said, do I think I could beat you?" I shrug, "Why should I think otherwise? Of course there is always a chance that I'll wipe the floor with you, and on the flip side, I could royally fuck up and give you exactly what you need to destroy me, life is funny that way. I'm not so stupid as to say anything definite, but you should fear the possibility. Always fear it, it'll make you a better fighter. Destroy your archaic and broken dividers, it'll make you smarter. And if you want respect, grow a dick. That last one, of course, is optional, but it'll be hard to get it any other means.
"Though, it seems even with my swinging between my legs I can't summon any up, but that might be due to my refusal to always reference it due to my good sense of taste. See, I've picked the long road to success, much like I picked to stay in a state that offers the long months before beauty, because the results mean more, because it makes me better, because sometimes bromides ring true 'good things come to those who wait'.
"Long point made short; be more like me, learn from me, lose to me, and maybe you'll see the other end of this company, the end where the gold hangs. Don't be so silly has to hang onto thoughts that'll cost you the long game, because those dividers work a lot like gods do. People love their Gods, will kill you over their Gods, and leave themselves ravaged and shredded for their Gods, a little writer, one I can't seem to recall the name of, had a great quote for it.
"'Place God at one end of the spectrum and watch the world begin to shift itself to revolve around what was once an edge, dangling itself over oblivion to keep shape and form, the only kind it has ever known. One could imagine the result of taking the aforementioned God and throwing him over the cliff, what a tragedy that would become as the world would cease to dangle, but instead crash against the rocks.' So, answer me this, Tiffany, will you follow your broken logic, you 'god' as it were, over the edge?"
Cut. Print. Gold. Thank goodness. The cold is killing my fingers. I race back to the car, freeing my ass off, screaming obscenities at the top of my lungs. No one sees it, thus it never happened, I give them what information I want to, and that's all that matters.
