Post by Deleted on Jul 21, 2016 8:17:23 GMT -5
[Cut into a dark, secluded room lit only by a cross-shaped window. Lester Parish sits front center by his webcam. He looks mildly pleased but not euphoric.]
“Rarely have I come before this nameless and faceless audience in a languid state. Nor have I returned looking, perhaps, weakened. Is there weakness to defeat? Do I wear the sulk of Napoleon as he left the Russian front—spurned in exile? Then castigated by Waterloo. Many expect that of the defeated. For them to disappear into shadows of yesteryear. Well, I look around and see figures boldly seething and seemingly meek in darkness. They sit on their hands—not in passivity—as to keep them warm. Warmed for what shall come next. They say a fall is only as hard as getting up. I’ll never feel deterred because there’s more work left to do.
A red sun rises after defeat. Its intensity blares into weeping eyes. Meanwhile on the battlefield, emblazoned by nameless fallen, mist hovers. It is from that mist we see a defeated spirit rise. Be strong… for I am a soldier… and seen greater weights than this. If Homer saw that in graceless eyes, then he knew what sorts of men it takes to rise from defeat. A squalor sagging in your shadow. Biographed under “L” once chased from the winner’s field. Withdraw might be seen as withdrawal of your place. Curvatures seeping from your signature until the ink has faded into the sheepskin. Cleaned from right and destined to be wrong. Living opposite of the victor’s page creates goblins of our former selves. Flattened beneath their soles—referred to as insidious bugs with venomous stings and razor-sharp claws. Demonized by the details. What is a monster without some semblance of its original manhood? We don’t fear bees the same as we do dangerous souls. People stand aghast when the defeated return for vengeance. Defeat has this curse upon the trodden, the beaten and those without recourse. Will they perish before seeing redemption? Most think so and that doubt quells our warrior spirit. From hell I stab at thee! No coals can burn away what comprises me—there shall be a revival!
Prithee, dearest eyes, forever trapped in an unpassable valley, I want to your truest answer now. Do you see tomorrow? Well of course—oh, and you see the coming new? Yes my dearest optics, there will be changes coming from that farthest horizon. Where we shall stand at its epicenter. Open now for the coming light. Because truth shall prevail on this day.”
***
[Cut to a Periscope video of a subsistence farm. This simple villa looks abundant with corn, wheat and ripening vegetables. Heavy winds cough into his phone’s speaker. Lester Parish speaks opposite of its viewfinder.]
“Plague, welcome to my bunker. You searched the wilderness for me. I applaud your tools, your talented assets. Although I appreciate imagination, reality doesn’t allow for supposition. Steven and his friend had a vision of the sultry south: Podunk and riddled with shotgun holes. I didn’t play off your mind—you’re wiser than that. However, I’ve taught your mammoth a few lessons. Nice flip by the way. Seeing a dugong’s weight reverberate like a tsunami across the ocean—now that’s what I call a show. Zander was destined to be your bloodhound. I’m not physic or in control of military-grade satellites. You see, Steven left Facebook open on his laptop, unlocked and unguarded out in the open. I merely ready their conversations. Thereby giving me time to set a trap of triangulation. For the record, I had no idea you’d take on the offensive that way. Bravo for the fireworks. Everyone heard his sobbing from here to Turkey and back. Allow a gift for his infantile methods and enlarged heart. By diplomacy, a box will come Zander’s way—I think he’ll find its guts, intriguing. Funny how a few mason jars of potato “lighting” can sweeten an enemy’s defensive grid. Zander, I expect to see your robot rebuilt. It’ll have many purposes.”
[Parish flanks barbwire fencing, heading towards an Airstream trailer. Its silvered body glows with in the morning’s gold. Inside he shows a working still with piles of dirty potatoes awaiting the fermentation process. His setup takes up most the gutted trailer.]
“Few have seen past my graveled earth—this acreage for my own subsistence. However, one must have commodity to survive. I lack beef or mammary milk. I have little in way of eggs for making bread. My three chickens have been fattened on inert seeds, inert themselves, waiting for future slaughter. I watch them grow and learn each day, knowing one day that their heads will roll. Here is my liquid gold—currency sufficient for any means, transparent and unassuming. I keep to a level of purity, no milky runoff like those down by the creek’s bend. Those combing its edges for crawdads, or those gone out noodling. I don’t expect top dollar either; no, this is my cornerstone for bartering. Its potent edge has them wincing for more. Bishop, here’s a business, but not our home. Look beyond those imbibing—they’re like casual fans buying the t-shirts. Good numbers for a public rally, yet unwilling to join our ranks.”
[He reaches out to test liquids dripping into a copper vessel.]
“Fresh as fire—just what John Q Public ordered. Bishop, we’re both in the business for good, although many see us adversely. Why is that? Because we try to rail against the trodden path. Derail their placid locomotives. Because they don’t understand our goals. I told Steven to watch the flock similar fractures. Yes, many have come to your side, adopted the Brotherhood’s teachings and grown into valuable drones. These are your most precious of minds. We know their names from Nathan to Giant James to his flower-child lover Maureen. Love graces your fellowship. We aren’t evil. Yet the word of occult carries druidic signs. They suppose us as burners of wicker men, immolating poor souls for some stargazing ritual. No, we are just looking to improve young talent. Much like my stills dripping into a larger vat. Once reconstituted, their dilution forms a new product. Some batches take months—others several years. Time creates many wonders, Plague. What about our Grand Canyon or the Rockies. Terrain weathered from limestone or bedrock into a snaking fjord. Providence awaits those in learning. The results will be amazing. Now follow along—there’s much more for you to see.”
[Parish walks over to the side of a rotting country home with a screen door slamming against the winds. He goes inside to a landing: one may go upstairs or down towards a padlocked door. He makes the treacherous descent amidst an awful creaking. Once unlocked, the doors reveal his underground lair. A station for blowing glass and a kiln sit to his left. On his right appears more of a conventional workshop. Tools, hooked in labeled spots above a table saw and manual lathe. Parish focuses on a red toolbox that sits closed on the workbench. He opens its contents.]
“What makes a shelter work are the parts unseen by prying eyes. They want to know what makes it tick. Here is the heart of my bunker, Bishop. These tools are simpler than one may think. Wrenches for pipes, vises for seals, hammers for tacks and screwdrivers for any manner fastening. Duct tape and WD40 will fix whatever else breaks around this home. You see, Plague, we can find the simple solutions to our problems. Even as the skies open, dropping opponents like rain, all you need is a working umbrella. Searching for the bunker felt like zebra hunting on a horse ranch—one’s not going to neigh from their numbers. Go to Africa where plains thunder with their startled herds. Dare I say, ask and ye shall receive. GPS this point from Steven’s machines—I’ll be waiting here. Bring those yet to see the light: I have a sun storage.”
[He walks outside after locking the workshop. A graveled path leads from the farm up into some trees, although still fenced by barbwire. Under the cover of this grove unveils an outdated longhouse. This building, though ancient in style, seems constructed with modern tools and procedures. He then focuses on an adjacent pond that looks clean and shallow enough for wading. Back to the building, a doorway sign reads CAMP SUNNY LAKE boldly in red.]
“Here we’ll teach those bound to release. Baptize those into your precepts. Take the willing and make them willful. By a standard and stole, we’ll march them into reception. A noble inception of goodwill fostered by your insight. Bishop, if there can be a moment of clarity—it’s not before the dawn of the showdown. You have more to look after than a few limping from the herd. Here, they can be reborn and returned to function. There’s no kumbayas here, only intensive cleansing. Here they can be tempered for the new world order that shall arrive under your Valkyrie wings. Come and see this place for yourself. Take a dip into the pond. You’ll find that it holds great providence—not a simple promise waiting for the Brotherhood. I await your answer, Plague. Because my bunker isn’t going anywhere.”
***
[Cut to a webcam focused in that room and its cross of light, although night omits a weaker glow from moonlight. Parish sits masked in front of the camera in his working gear: a t-shirt and flannel with ragged jeans. His hands fold as if in prayer.]
“Ultimate Showdown looms for all those involved. We see the greatest stage ahead like the bustling nature of the gods bickering on Olympus. I may see that pedestal from the ignoble ground, but that’s where I thrive. I am no god, nor should I expect immunity. Human blows sunder me—not a point or arrow tipped in hind’s blood. My mortal coil was cut from a mortal womb out from a mortal mother. I am no more a man than each waving fan from behind the barricades. As such, I must do a mortal’s chore and shed blood. We’re animals in the pen set upon the each other. Very well, greater beings—now let this horrible work commence.
Of all my opponents to face, Tomohawk has the greatest pride of us all. He fights for a people, not only himself. I admire that. In fact, I think that’s the most inspiring thing to arise from this roster. However, pride is only a symbol. A people must see success for them to rise. We may detain someone for losing, but never scramble his or her image and purpose. Infallible nations force others into appeasement—that tarnish, that scar wails behind dearest Tom. His kicks spread legends. Such strength rallies him like an ancient spirit whipped into a frenzy. No, I was mistaken from the start. This man is a skinwalker. He took the mightiest energies of family and friend to pursue glory. He takes on the shape of a valiant competitor to deceive us into recognition. It’s black magic. His cauldron boils those elder traditions into a potion for glory. Now, I’ve come to see glory in awful ways. Striving upwards until the ceiling knocks you unconscious. Mysticism and magic flow through your veins, Tom, and you’ve perverted that blood. Tainted a great nation by churning their culture into a sausage. Your baseless and fractured like tourist attraction, a museum. Why aren’t you sickened? My dearest foe stepping on their heads to reach the next tier—how disgraceful. Forefathers and before fathers be praised while you’re living inside exhumed bones. Graves unearthed for a sinister purpose—a deed that besmirches them all. Be the unsightly crow. Caw from the raven’s murder. Do whatever sacred dance you must, but do it respect for your ancestors. They retch at your falsehood.
Next is one Severan King, the holy man who’s entangled many times with my newest ally, Kevin Bishop. He saw greatness in you before a string of unfortunate events. Let me be candid for you, my friend. Ab imo pectore, listen for my spilling guts, and frankly so from my very chest. Your wandering, pandering priesthood is an act. You’ve crossed Holy Scripture into your soul in an evil way. A prince from the novitae masquerading as an archbishop. Bloodthirsty as Urban hell-bent on a crusade. Your moves elude the simple bishop whose deeds subvert beneath both king and queen, such a piece has limited destiny. Acts of piety should be for God, never in the act of oneself. Actio de in rem verso: an enrichment without cause. Imbued with holiness as you siphon the Good Word and set people ablaze. Your presence in the ring has no cause nor foundation. You live on in wonderment as to our enthrallment. Few parts of your word even have a grip of our situation. Latin is not a secret code, Severan. How funny that it’s actually an international agreement. Invoking it for mysticism only prolongs your church’s program that wants to control knowledge. They did this by reviving texts by their Roman root and imposed that upon the people. We suffer their deeds today with a scourge of Latin with an intention to blind and gag those questioning power. Your purpose ranges like their hidden archives where many gospels contradict the chain of command you should follow, but really don’t. You show us the stole and cassock vestment, but never a godly blessing. Justifications completed a posteriori—well after the fact. I will never hide my use of an ancient tongue to conceal my blessings, Severan. A language is an arbitrary tool for those unwittingly coaxed by a few words. You tangle with genius and you’ve sparked a debate—not the awe of an epic sentence. My opponents don’t care about phrasing, but I do good foe. Let me be clear about your place: omnia dici possunt Latinae; of all things derived, it doesn’t sound any better because all things can be said in Latin!”
[Cut to Parish outside his home. His Periscope video continues with a view of the land. Rattling trees sway from a coarse wind coming from the south. He bends down to look at weeds growing through a sidewalk’s crack. This purple flower bends over, begging for light.]
“Danny, aren’t you a little curious? We’ve walked the grounds of this company without a shared glance. Probably because I never stick around locker rooms. Others will indoctrinate you if you stay around them for too long. Of course, you understand that. Firstly, I applaud your efforts against the zombie—you did rather well. Here’s the unglorified part of our work: When this gardener takes an otherwise beautiful flower and reveals its falsity. I’m talking about weeds, Danny boy. When you discover what looks like a stunning piece of natural art, yet it’s nothing more than a show. I’ve battled what simpletons would call “craziness” because embracing lunacy is maddening. I challenge you to show me a believable instability. You desire any of our many titles. You also want to win matches. From there you see a plateau of snaking paths—each with noticeable traps engaged. You wonder if there’s any key to that kingdom, so to say. We all look up for ladder to Olympus. There’s no shame in admitting it. Except acknowledging the paths we all take makes you, well, it makes you normal, Danny. That’s why I dislike you. I hate everything about your presumed psychosis. How you think it is fun to be a crazy with a frothing mouth. Rabid and likely to bite someone. How you play psychotic for our amusement. What is there to be amused by? You’re no better than a weed and its colorful plumes. Get out of here!”
[Parish yanks that purple cluster from the walkway, squeezing until his hand turns red.]
“I am glad that my newest friend Kevin Bishop will compete at Ultimate Showdown for greatest prize. Because no one comes to the end of the road to learn. I accept that in stride. However, there’s still a place in the middle for education. A new rendition for a tarnished volume. I see before me a trio of liars—all of you. There’s no taint worse to this world than a falsehood. You try the old acid test, but that’s never as effective. We always question its efficacy because we’re stuck questioning ourselves more than what has deceived us before. We try to look intelligent, yet charlatans have persuaded us throughout our lives. It makes us question our very judgment—what constitutes our very presence on this planet. And you three are the root of this problem.
After our greatest show ends and the parties have settled. I do hope your next trip to the mirror isn’t horrifying. I will tear seals in your costumes. Rips in your flesh—what you thought was yourself is deeply sutured by lies. Lies are naturally occurring and they coagulate like platelets. They stack until becoming a dried scab. Peeling them away reveals the blood underneath that all of you wish this world would never see. I’m going to unveil that to the WCF. They’ll all see it as my work concludes this dirtiest of deeds. I hate putting ruin to an otherwise responsible lot, but the people deserve the truth. As their instructor, I realize that some truths come harshly. Be prepared for indignation. Be readied for what I shall bring because truth shall prevail.”
[The Video cuts off.]
www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqaBVED5wm4
“Rarely have I come before this nameless and faceless audience in a languid state. Nor have I returned looking, perhaps, weakened. Is there weakness to defeat? Do I wear the sulk of Napoleon as he left the Russian front—spurned in exile? Then castigated by Waterloo. Many expect that of the defeated. For them to disappear into shadows of yesteryear. Well, I look around and see figures boldly seething and seemingly meek in darkness. They sit on their hands—not in passivity—as to keep them warm. Warmed for what shall come next. They say a fall is only as hard as getting up. I’ll never feel deterred because there’s more work left to do.
A red sun rises after defeat. Its intensity blares into weeping eyes. Meanwhile on the battlefield, emblazoned by nameless fallen, mist hovers. It is from that mist we see a defeated spirit rise. Be strong… for I am a soldier… and seen greater weights than this. If Homer saw that in graceless eyes, then he knew what sorts of men it takes to rise from defeat. A squalor sagging in your shadow. Biographed under “L” once chased from the winner’s field. Withdraw might be seen as withdrawal of your place. Curvatures seeping from your signature until the ink has faded into the sheepskin. Cleaned from right and destined to be wrong. Living opposite of the victor’s page creates goblins of our former selves. Flattened beneath their soles—referred to as insidious bugs with venomous stings and razor-sharp claws. Demonized by the details. What is a monster without some semblance of its original manhood? We don’t fear bees the same as we do dangerous souls. People stand aghast when the defeated return for vengeance. Defeat has this curse upon the trodden, the beaten and those without recourse. Will they perish before seeing redemption? Most think so and that doubt quells our warrior spirit. From hell I stab at thee! No coals can burn away what comprises me—there shall be a revival!
Prithee, dearest eyes, forever trapped in an unpassable valley, I want to your truest answer now. Do you see tomorrow? Well of course—oh, and you see the coming new? Yes my dearest optics, there will be changes coming from that farthest horizon. Where we shall stand at its epicenter. Open now for the coming light. Because truth shall prevail on this day.”
***
[Cut to a Periscope video of a subsistence farm. This simple villa looks abundant with corn, wheat and ripening vegetables. Heavy winds cough into his phone’s speaker. Lester Parish speaks opposite of its viewfinder.]
“Plague, welcome to my bunker. You searched the wilderness for me. I applaud your tools, your talented assets. Although I appreciate imagination, reality doesn’t allow for supposition. Steven and his friend had a vision of the sultry south: Podunk and riddled with shotgun holes. I didn’t play off your mind—you’re wiser than that. However, I’ve taught your mammoth a few lessons. Nice flip by the way. Seeing a dugong’s weight reverberate like a tsunami across the ocean—now that’s what I call a show. Zander was destined to be your bloodhound. I’m not physic or in control of military-grade satellites. You see, Steven left Facebook open on his laptop, unlocked and unguarded out in the open. I merely ready their conversations. Thereby giving me time to set a trap of triangulation. For the record, I had no idea you’d take on the offensive that way. Bravo for the fireworks. Everyone heard his sobbing from here to Turkey and back. Allow a gift for his infantile methods and enlarged heart. By diplomacy, a box will come Zander’s way—I think he’ll find its guts, intriguing. Funny how a few mason jars of potato “lighting” can sweeten an enemy’s defensive grid. Zander, I expect to see your robot rebuilt. It’ll have many purposes.”
[Parish flanks barbwire fencing, heading towards an Airstream trailer. Its silvered body glows with in the morning’s gold. Inside he shows a working still with piles of dirty potatoes awaiting the fermentation process. His setup takes up most the gutted trailer.]
“Few have seen past my graveled earth—this acreage for my own subsistence. However, one must have commodity to survive. I lack beef or mammary milk. I have little in way of eggs for making bread. My three chickens have been fattened on inert seeds, inert themselves, waiting for future slaughter. I watch them grow and learn each day, knowing one day that their heads will roll. Here is my liquid gold—currency sufficient for any means, transparent and unassuming. I keep to a level of purity, no milky runoff like those down by the creek’s bend. Those combing its edges for crawdads, or those gone out noodling. I don’t expect top dollar either; no, this is my cornerstone for bartering. Its potent edge has them wincing for more. Bishop, here’s a business, but not our home. Look beyond those imbibing—they’re like casual fans buying the t-shirts. Good numbers for a public rally, yet unwilling to join our ranks.”
[He reaches out to test liquids dripping into a copper vessel.]
“Fresh as fire—just what John Q Public ordered. Bishop, we’re both in the business for good, although many see us adversely. Why is that? Because we try to rail against the trodden path. Derail their placid locomotives. Because they don’t understand our goals. I told Steven to watch the flock similar fractures. Yes, many have come to your side, adopted the Brotherhood’s teachings and grown into valuable drones. These are your most precious of minds. We know their names from Nathan to Giant James to his flower-child lover Maureen. Love graces your fellowship. We aren’t evil. Yet the word of occult carries druidic signs. They suppose us as burners of wicker men, immolating poor souls for some stargazing ritual. No, we are just looking to improve young talent. Much like my stills dripping into a larger vat. Once reconstituted, their dilution forms a new product. Some batches take months—others several years. Time creates many wonders, Plague. What about our Grand Canyon or the Rockies. Terrain weathered from limestone or bedrock into a snaking fjord. Providence awaits those in learning. The results will be amazing. Now follow along—there’s much more for you to see.”
[Parish walks over to the side of a rotting country home with a screen door slamming against the winds. He goes inside to a landing: one may go upstairs or down towards a padlocked door. He makes the treacherous descent amidst an awful creaking. Once unlocked, the doors reveal his underground lair. A station for blowing glass and a kiln sit to his left. On his right appears more of a conventional workshop. Tools, hooked in labeled spots above a table saw and manual lathe. Parish focuses on a red toolbox that sits closed on the workbench. He opens its contents.]
“What makes a shelter work are the parts unseen by prying eyes. They want to know what makes it tick. Here is the heart of my bunker, Bishop. These tools are simpler than one may think. Wrenches for pipes, vises for seals, hammers for tacks and screwdrivers for any manner fastening. Duct tape and WD40 will fix whatever else breaks around this home. You see, Plague, we can find the simple solutions to our problems. Even as the skies open, dropping opponents like rain, all you need is a working umbrella. Searching for the bunker felt like zebra hunting on a horse ranch—one’s not going to neigh from their numbers. Go to Africa where plains thunder with their startled herds. Dare I say, ask and ye shall receive. GPS this point from Steven’s machines—I’ll be waiting here. Bring those yet to see the light: I have a sun storage.”
[He walks outside after locking the workshop. A graveled path leads from the farm up into some trees, although still fenced by barbwire. Under the cover of this grove unveils an outdated longhouse. This building, though ancient in style, seems constructed with modern tools and procedures. He then focuses on an adjacent pond that looks clean and shallow enough for wading. Back to the building, a doorway sign reads CAMP SUNNY LAKE boldly in red.]
“Here we’ll teach those bound to release. Baptize those into your precepts. Take the willing and make them willful. By a standard and stole, we’ll march them into reception. A noble inception of goodwill fostered by your insight. Bishop, if there can be a moment of clarity—it’s not before the dawn of the showdown. You have more to look after than a few limping from the herd. Here, they can be reborn and returned to function. There’s no kumbayas here, only intensive cleansing. Here they can be tempered for the new world order that shall arrive under your Valkyrie wings. Come and see this place for yourself. Take a dip into the pond. You’ll find that it holds great providence—not a simple promise waiting for the Brotherhood. I await your answer, Plague. Because my bunker isn’t going anywhere.”
***
[Cut to a webcam focused in that room and its cross of light, although night omits a weaker glow from moonlight. Parish sits masked in front of the camera in his working gear: a t-shirt and flannel with ragged jeans. His hands fold as if in prayer.]
“Ultimate Showdown looms for all those involved. We see the greatest stage ahead like the bustling nature of the gods bickering on Olympus. I may see that pedestal from the ignoble ground, but that’s where I thrive. I am no god, nor should I expect immunity. Human blows sunder me—not a point or arrow tipped in hind’s blood. My mortal coil was cut from a mortal womb out from a mortal mother. I am no more a man than each waving fan from behind the barricades. As such, I must do a mortal’s chore and shed blood. We’re animals in the pen set upon the each other. Very well, greater beings—now let this horrible work commence.
Of all my opponents to face, Tomohawk has the greatest pride of us all. He fights for a people, not only himself. I admire that. In fact, I think that’s the most inspiring thing to arise from this roster. However, pride is only a symbol. A people must see success for them to rise. We may detain someone for losing, but never scramble his or her image and purpose. Infallible nations force others into appeasement—that tarnish, that scar wails behind dearest Tom. His kicks spread legends. Such strength rallies him like an ancient spirit whipped into a frenzy. No, I was mistaken from the start. This man is a skinwalker. He took the mightiest energies of family and friend to pursue glory. He takes on the shape of a valiant competitor to deceive us into recognition. It’s black magic. His cauldron boils those elder traditions into a potion for glory. Now, I’ve come to see glory in awful ways. Striving upwards until the ceiling knocks you unconscious. Mysticism and magic flow through your veins, Tom, and you’ve perverted that blood. Tainted a great nation by churning their culture into a sausage. Your baseless and fractured like tourist attraction, a museum. Why aren’t you sickened? My dearest foe stepping on their heads to reach the next tier—how disgraceful. Forefathers and before fathers be praised while you’re living inside exhumed bones. Graves unearthed for a sinister purpose—a deed that besmirches them all. Be the unsightly crow. Caw from the raven’s murder. Do whatever sacred dance you must, but do it respect for your ancestors. They retch at your falsehood.
Next is one Severan King, the holy man who’s entangled many times with my newest ally, Kevin Bishop. He saw greatness in you before a string of unfortunate events. Let me be candid for you, my friend. Ab imo pectore, listen for my spilling guts, and frankly so from my very chest. Your wandering, pandering priesthood is an act. You’ve crossed Holy Scripture into your soul in an evil way. A prince from the novitae masquerading as an archbishop. Bloodthirsty as Urban hell-bent on a crusade. Your moves elude the simple bishop whose deeds subvert beneath both king and queen, such a piece has limited destiny. Acts of piety should be for God, never in the act of oneself. Actio de in rem verso: an enrichment without cause. Imbued with holiness as you siphon the Good Word and set people ablaze. Your presence in the ring has no cause nor foundation. You live on in wonderment as to our enthrallment. Few parts of your word even have a grip of our situation. Latin is not a secret code, Severan. How funny that it’s actually an international agreement. Invoking it for mysticism only prolongs your church’s program that wants to control knowledge. They did this by reviving texts by their Roman root and imposed that upon the people. We suffer their deeds today with a scourge of Latin with an intention to blind and gag those questioning power. Your purpose ranges like their hidden archives where many gospels contradict the chain of command you should follow, but really don’t. You show us the stole and cassock vestment, but never a godly blessing. Justifications completed a posteriori—well after the fact. I will never hide my use of an ancient tongue to conceal my blessings, Severan. A language is an arbitrary tool for those unwittingly coaxed by a few words. You tangle with genius and you’ve sparked a debate—not the awe of an epic sentence. My opponents don’t care about phrasing, but I do good foe. Let me be clear about your place: omnia dici possunt Latinae; of all things derived, it doesn’t sound any better because all things can be said in Latin!”
[Cut to Parish outside his home. His Periscope video continues with a view of the land. Rattling trees sway from a coarse wind coming from the south. He bends down to look at weeds growing through a sidewalk’s crack. This purple flower bends over, begging for light.]
“Danny, aren’t you a little curious? We’ve walked the grounds of this company without a shared glance. Probably because I never stick around locker rooms. Others will indoctrinate you if you stay around them for too long. Of course, you understand that. Firstly, I applaud your efforts against the zombie—you did rather well. Here’s the unglorified part of our work: When this gardener takes an otherwise beautiful flower and reveals its falsity. I’m talking about weeds, Danny boy. When you discover what looks like a stunning piece of natural art, yet it’s nothing more than a show. I’ve battled what simpletons would call “craziness” because embracing lunacy is maddening. I challenge you to show me a believable instability. You desire any of our many titles. You also want to win matches. From there you see a plateau of snaking paths—each with noticeable traps engaged. You wonder if there’s any key to that kingdom, so to say. We all look up for ladder to Olympus. There’s no shame in admitting it. Except acknowledging the paths we all take makes you, well, it makes you normal, Danny. That’s why I dislike you. I hate everything about your presumed psychosis. How you think it is fun to be a crazy with a frothing mouth. Rabid and likely to bite someone. How you play psychotic for our amusement. What is there to be amused by? You’re no better than a weed and its colorful plumes. Get out of here!”
[Parish yanks that purple cluster from the walkway, squeezing until his hand turns red.]
“I am glad that my newest friend Kevin Bishop will compete at Ultimate Showdown for greatest prize. Because no one comes to the end of the road to learn. I accept that in stride. However, there’s still a place in the middle for education. A new rendition for a tarnished volume. I see before me a trio of liars—all of you. There’s no taint worse to this world than a falsehood. You try the old acid test, but that’s never as effective. We always question its efficacy because we’re stuck questioning ourselves more than what has deceived us before. We try to look intelligent, yet charlatans have persuaded us throughout our lives. It makes us question our very judgment—what constitutes our very presence on this planet. And you three are the root of this problem.
After our greatest show ends and the parties have settled. I do hope your next trip to the mirror isn’t horrifying. I will tear seals in your costumes. Rips in your flesh—what you thought was yourself is deeply sutured by lies. Lies are naturally occurring and they coagulate like platelets. They stack until becoming a dried scab. Peeling them away reveals the blood underneath that all of you wish this world would never see. I’m going to unveil that to the WCF. They’ll all see it as my work concludes this dirtiest of deeds. I hate putting ruin to an otherwise responsible lot, but the people deserve the truth. As their instructor, I realize that some truths come harshly. Be prepared for indignation. Be readied for what I shall bring because truth shall prevail.”
[The Video cuts off.]
www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqaBVED5wm4
