Post by Deleted on Jul 13, 2016 8:21:25 GMT -5
[CCTV footage of Steven the keyboardist in the middle of tune. He seems to be working on a song. The factory, home of Kevin Bishop and his brotherhood, looks somewhat empty despite it being midday of the midweek. Steven sets a Go Pro in front to record his session.]
“Plague, this one’s for you.”
I’m not scared of zombies…
I’m not scared of zombies…
When I look to the, setting sun
and I see them people, on the run,
tell myself it’s time to, get a gun
oh yeah… it’s time to get a gun.
it’s time to get a gun.
“Okay, a little more pop for the next one. Maybe more Randy Newman and less Elton John.”
[Steven pulls out a notepad and toys with his lyrics. He doesn’t notice a much larger man walk behind him. That figure somehow evaded their cameras, their lunchtime lax in security. His shadows makes Steven jump. He turns to the masked face Lester Parish.]
“Jesus man, don’t you knock?”
“I followed the music. Tis a sacred of art, and our smartest, along with architecture. You have the song in mind, and yet you recombine. Rework its very composition. Why are you scared to produce a song when you know it will kill?”
“It’s a parody piece. I think the Plague might want something funny after last week’s loss.”
[Parish take the notepad from Steven for a closer look.]
“You’ve overcomplicated the chord. Newman preferred a three-part progression: A to C then up to something sharp like E or F. You’ve trained a classical eye on something that’s supposed to be simple. Why rarify what’s meant to be ridiculous?”
“Well, I can’t help it sometimes. Music sounds better in my head than aloud.”
“Then you aren’t an artist. You’re a conscious pretender.”
[Steven takes his notepad back with a spurned look on his face.]
“I am the Plague’s musician and his comedian. I think I know a little about the art, Mr. Parish.”
“Move over.”
[Parish clears the stool and takes control of the Casio. He guides for the treble and then the bass. Steven stands back as the unassuming form of Parish performs a short rhapsody to warm up. He segues into the 4th Movement of Dvorak’s “New World Symphony”. He plays with maddened vibe, lilting and leaning into every note. Parish then calmly stands up to a surprised listener.]
“You know that whole thing by memory?”
“To know art, you must conjoin. Make it your own breath. Throb like your heartbeat. If you cannot become the music, then you regurgitate it. And all things regurgitated are not art.”
“But you memorized that song. How long did that take?”
“Isolation has its perks, my boy. Many talents to derive in those lonesome woods. I saw myself in a fractured form: one of genius, the other in instability. We rise from our seats to either applause or horror. Be sure your art is alive. There are no zombies in a perfect chord.”
[Steven jots something down in his book.]
“You’re wondering why I’ve come here. Well, I see great potential in the Brotherhood. For now, it’s top-heavy. Unsustainable outside its primus. Your balancing fulcrum. That is the Plague, his Karma, and the dedicated Craven. They tip the balance of those outliers standing on their scale.”
“What scale—what are you talking about?”
“The Brotherhood falls into two categories: those fearful of the world and those scared of themselves. Bishop balances these groups, but he hopes to one day have it regulate itself. He leads you forward knowing both sides cannot meld as one. At least not yet.”
“Are you here to help with that?”
“Steven, now we’re on the same page.”
[He instructs Steven to take his seat back. Parish listens through the song again. This time through, it sounds more like lounge music with its simple progression and slower energy. Steven stops for a breather with the figure of Parish still studying his form.]
“Why me. So many others need more help. You could set them on the right path.”
“If you want to spread a message, then you find a voice. You aren’t like the Plague. You follow but you also entertain. A showman has the right skills to be their voice before the pyramid’s peak. You think humor lessens your impact. Well, you’re wrong about that Steven. They hear you every day. Your brothers and sisters see greatness dormant in your vocal chords. Seize this moment, and they will follow towards the fulcrum. Towards their necessary balance. I can teach them to live as themselves or without fear. Only one from their ranks can cement it. You, my boy, are going to be my mouthpiece as we whip this group into shape.”
“What about your match this week? Aren’t you worried about fighting the Plague?”
“We’re professionals in that regard. I will come at him as any opponent, yet he deserves the title more than I ever will, Steven. Win or lose, our brotherhood will hang its banner from the rafters. In many ways, I hope to ignite anything hidden within him. Show the WCF that more awaits underneath the Plague. That he is far from his finished form. This week he will rise higher than ever before. We will steal that show, leaving them breathless. Then, we’ll supply our own airs.”
"Okay, well, nice talking to you. Hey wait, are you leaving now?"
"Yes, and don't dare to follow me. I'll know if someone tails me. And it won't end well from them."
"I understand."
[Parish walks away leaving a befuddled Steven at his keyboard.]
***
[Periscope video of an unmasked Lester Parish sitting in a dark room. Lighting obscures most of his face. A section of glass, shaped like a cross, lets some light into the room.]
“By the will of this great company, I’m let loose like some rabid dog. Two unique bugs, never poised as enemies, shaken up in a jar until they fight. Bishop has my offering. He knows that peace may never be a possible thing in this world, but we shall work harder towards it. A noble endeavor as the creation of stars. Cellular respiration at its simplest root. I wish for life that can breathe harmoniously, and I know you have similar dreams. I want to help you.
Your plague on this world will introduce us to a new phage. Yes, a mutating spark that can change this world. I’ve hinted for weeks that I admire your work. I really do. What brings us here is not dissent or anger; no, we’re being thrown like tinder for a quick burn. Our lives out of a red polka dot bindle, containing every worthwhile possession. Our live strapped on wherever we go. This is tale of two transient spirits that have finally found their home. Except this home has misguided leader. He wants us to disperse because he’s afraid. Afraid of what our collective minds can do against his sinking empire. These moves will let the ship surface, but it cannot contain our genius. It will not extinguish what great reveries we share, Kevin. How you’ve seen it ever since you laced up for the WCF. We’re both here to spark change. Now, after you?”
[Parish opens a bag of metal objects that sprawl over a wooden surface. His phone turns to show a gothic style kneeler with red cushioning. Although out of clear resolution, those trinkets appear to be different symbols of major religions. Parish faces the camera again.]
“Like marbles, the influences of this world spread out with a liquid’s hand. They grasp territory like a Mongol horde, yet sustain their gains with Romanesque bureaucracy. Our place hovers between land and the spreading seas. We have no exact placement because we see beyond the land. Land waits to be acted upon. We might be akin to but not truly the seas either, as we are not uniform. We represent a semipermeable state. Plasma, we are the highly energetic light that resists uniformity, extending beyond the influences of common matter. Our message should come across the same. It takes great forces, energy and perfect conditions to become plasma. I think you’ll agree that we aren’t common elements either. Some are like nitrogen: caustic hellkites incapable of working with anything but themselves. Others have a polarized personality like oxygen, looking to insert themselves in desperate ways. Bishop, you and I, we’re not common elements. We’re isotopes on the brink of decay. In our wake with be a fallout that will last for eons. Sunday will be a moment of clarity—the cataclysm! Our forces collide. A supernova beyond comprehension.
When I saw your society, I saw redemption. By then, my work consolidated to a subsistence farm. Evil pearled from its womb in the media. Every outlet of human dimorphism congealed into a twenty-two minute program. Life without borders or scripts—with latent strings dangling from above their puppets. Wires shaded or brushed from our liminal boundaries. I saw entropy and it smiled from E! and MTV. Going beyond the curmudgeon’s curse, or “Mr. Wilson syndrome,” I heard about this young man and his growing fellowship. Articles from almost a decade ago said this man, Kevin Bishop, was on a mission. Now he stands before me with an army to his back. One I joined with a sergeant’s stripes. You saw promise in my relentless vison. My perpetual journey for the truth. A teacher unmoved by evil. Immune to the demons—those reptiles hiding behind the ever-seeing eye. Any natant beast prowling the ocean—great Leviathan submerged in the accursed details. Those are the destinies destined for a collision.
My only hope is that I am wise enough to awaken the Plague, and not let the golden calf corrupt me. Unlike the Brotherhood as a unit, I’m not one to bow nor say “yes sir” to your face. Nor would do you dream of me having me do so. I am one of many horses riding at your side. Am I Pestilence, War, or even the paleness of Death? That will take time for us to parse from the mission. For now, I must do my part and illuminate your work, Bishop. Let our performance create a message they will ruminate for weeks to come. Set your course for war, yon nobl’st plague, for we have a date with destiny. Let’s not keep them waiting, Kevin.”
“Plague, this one’s for you.”
I’m not scared of zombies…
I’m not scared of zombies…
When I look to the, setting sun
and I see them people, on the run,
tell myself it’s time to, get a gun
oh yeah… it’s time to get a gun.
it’s time to get a gun.
“Okay, a little more pop for the next one. Maybe more Randy Newman and less Elton John.”
[Steven pulls out a notepad and toys with his lyrics. He doesn’t notice a much larger man walk behind him. That figure somehow evaded their cameras, their lunchtime lax in security. His shadows makes Steven jump. He turns to the masked face Lester Parish.]
“Jesus man, don’t you knock?”
“I followed the music. Tis a sacred of art, and our smartest, along with architecture. You have the song in mind, and yet you recombine. Rework its very composition. Why are you scared to produce a song when you know it will kill?”
“It’s a parody piece. I think the Plague might want something funny after last week’s loss.”
[Parish take the notepad from Steven for a closer look.]
“You’ve overcomplicated the chord. Newman preferred a three-part progression: A to C then up to something sharp like E or F. You’ve trained a classical eye on something that’s supposed to be simple. Why rarify what’s meant to be ridiculous?”
“Well, I can’t help it sometimes. Music sounds better in my head than aloud.”
“Then you aren’t an artist. You’re a conscious pretender.”
[Steven takes his notepad back with a spurned look on his face.]
“I am the Plague’s musician and his comedian. I think I know a little about the art, Mr. Parish.”
“Move over.”
[Parish clears the stool and takes control of the Casio. He guides for the treble and then the bass. Steven stands back as the unassuming form of Parish performs a short rhapsody to warm up. He segues into the 4th Movement of Dvorak’s “New World Symphony”. He plays with maddened vibe, lilting and leaning into every note. Parish then calmly stands up to a surprised listener.]
“You know that whole thing by memory?”
“To know art, you must conjoin. Make it your own breath. Throb like your heartbeat. If you cannot become the music, then you regurgitate it. And all things regurgitated are not art.”
“But you memorized that song. How long did that take?”
“Isolation has its perks, my boy. Many talents to derive in those lonesome woods. I saw myself in a fractured form: one of genius, the other in instability. We rise from our seats to either applause or horror. Be sure your art is alive. There are no zombies in a perfect chord.”
[Steven jots something down in his book.]
“You’re wondering why I’ve come here. Well, I see great potential in the Brotherhood. For now, it’s top-heavy. Unsustainable outside its primus. Your balancing fulcrum. That is the Plague, his Karma, and the dedicated Craven. They tip the balance of those outliers standing on their scale.”
“What scale—what are you talking about?”
“The Brotherhood falls into two categories: those fearful of the world and those scared of themselves. Bishop balances these groups, but he hopes to one day have it regulate itself. He leads you forward knowing both sides cannot meld as one. At least not yet.”
“Are you here to help with that?”
“Steven, now we’re on the same page.”
[He instructs Steven to take his seat back. Parish listens through the song again. This time through, it sounds more like lounge music with its simple progression and slower energy. Steven stops for a breather with the figure of Parish still studying his form.]
“Why me. So many others need more help. You could set them on the right path.”
“If you want to spread a message, then you find a voice. You aren’t like the Plague. You follow but you also entertain. A showman has the right skills to be their voice before the pyramid’s peak. You think humor lessens your impact. Well, you’re wrong about that Steven. They hear you every day. Your brothers and sisters see greatness dormant in your vocal chords. Seize this moment, and they will follow towards the fulcrum. Towards their necessary balance. I can teach them to live as themselves or without fear. Only one from their ranks can cement it. You, my boy, are going to be my mouthpiece as we whip this group into shape.”
“What about your match this week? Aren’t you worried about fighting the Plague?”
“We’re professionals in that regard. I will come at him as any opponent, yet he deserves the title more than I ever will, Steven. Win or lose, our brotherhood will hang its banner from the rafters. In many ways, I hope to ignite anything hidden within him. Show the WCF that more awaits underneath the Plague. That he is far from his finished form. This week he will rise higher than ever before. We will steal that show, leaving them breathless. Then, we’ll supply our own airs.”
"Okay, well, nice talking to you. Hey wait, are you leaving now?"
"Yes, and don't dare to follow me. I'll know if someone tails me. And it won't end well from them."
"I understand."
[Parish walks away leaving a befuddled Steven at his keyboard.]
***
[Periscope video of an unmasked Lester Parish sitting in a dark room. Lighting obscures most of his face. A section of glass, shaped like a cross, lets some light into the room.]
“By the will of this great company, I’m let loose like some rabid dog. Two unique bugs, never poised as enemies, shaken up in a jar until they fight. Bishop has my offering. He knows that peace may never be a possible thing in this world, but we shall work harder towards it. A noble endeavor as the creation of stars. Cellular respiration at its simplest root. I wish for life that can breathe harmoniously, and I know you have similar dreams. I want to help you.
Your plague on this world will introduce us to a new phage. Yes, a mutating spark that can change this world. I’ve hinted for weeks that I admire your work. I really do. What brings us here is not dissent or anger; no, we’re being thrown like tinder for a quick burn. Our lives out of a red polka dot bindle, containing every worthwhile possession. Our live strapped on wherever we go. This is tale of two transient spirits that have finally found their home. Except this home has misguided leader. He wants us to disperse because he’s afraid. Afraid of what our collective minds can do against his sinking empire. These moves will let the ship surface, but it cannot contain our genius. It will not extinguish what great reveries we share, Kevin. How you’ve seen it ever since you laced up for the WCF. We’re both here to spark change. Now, after you?”
[Parish opens a bag of metal objects that sprawl over a wooden surface. His phone turns to show a gothic style kneeler with red cushioning. Although out of clear resolution, those trinkets appear to be different symbols of major religions. Parish faces the camera again.]
“Like marbles, the influences of this world spread out with a liquid’s hand. They grasp territory like a Mongol horde, yet sustain their gains with Romanesque bureaucracy. Our place hovers between land and the spreading seas. We have no exact placement because we see beyond the land. Land waits to be acted upon. We might be akin to but not truly the seas either, as we are not uniform. We represent a semipermeable state. Plasma, we are the highly energetic light that resists uniformity, extending beyond the influences of common matter. Our message should come across the same. It takes great forces, energy and perfect conditions to become plasma. I think you’ll agree that we aren’t common elements either. Some are like nitrogen: caustic hellkites incapable of working with anything but themselves. Others have a polarized personality like oxygen, looking to insert themselves in desperate ways. Bishop, you and I, we’re not common elements. We’re isotopes on the brink of decay. In our wake with be a fallout that will last for eons. Sunday will be a moment of clarity—the cataclysm! Our forces collide. A supernova beyond comprehension.
When I saw your society, I saw redemption. By then, my work consolidated to a subsistence farm. Evil pearled from its womb in the media. Every outlet of human dimorphism congealed into a twenty-two minute program. Life without borders or scripts—with latent strings dangling from above their puppets. Wires shaded or brushed from our liminal boundaries. I saw entropy and it smiled from E! and MTV. Going beyond the curmudgeon’s curse, or “Mr. Wilson syndrome,” I heard about this young man and his growing fellowship. Articles from almost a decade ago said this man, Kevin Bishop, was on a mission. Now he stands before me with an army to his back. One I joined with a sergeant’s stripes. You saw promise in my relentless vison. My perpetual journey for the truth. A teacher unmoved by evil. Immune to the demons—those reptiles hiding behind the ever-seeing eye. Any natant beast prowling the ocean—great Leviathan submerged in the accursed details. Those are the destinies destined for a collision.
My only hope is that I am wise enough to awaken the Plague, and not let the golden calf corrupt me. Unlike the Brotherhood as a unit, I’m not one to bow nor say “yes sir” to your face. Nor would do you dream of me having me do so. I am one of many horses riding at your side. Am I Pestilence, War, or even the paleness of Death? That will take time for us to parse from the mission. For now, I must do my part and illuminate your work, Bishop. Let our performance create a message they will ruminate for weeks to come. Set your course for war, yon nobl’st plague, for we have a date with destiny. Let’s not keep them waiting, Kevin.”
