Post by Deleted on Aug 10, 2016 22:40:23 GMT -5
[Cut to Parish’s land somewhere in rural Pennsylvanian. Shaky hands carry around a video camera focused on a crowd about thirty in size. These young men and women wait in impatient stances. They look at an old lectern that someone refurbished and coated dark with polyurethane—even a Christian Cross still appears on the front giving that multi-tiered effect. A large man emerges from that white farmhouse. He’s wearing a trench coat with its collar popped and a black latex mask. Once in view, the masked man is Lester Parish upon the grandstand.]
“Please, be seated. I know it’s only grass right now; in time, we’ll have pews for everyone to be comfortable in. Now that you’re settled, let me be the first to welcome you to Camp Sunny Lake. You’re probably thinking, “What sort of adult goes to a place like this?” Well, a wise man imparted this nugget onto me: Your presence defines a home, not the building. Kevin Bishop led your exodus here. It looks foreign—just as the Mormons before settling the Utah. We’re taken from our comfort zones, your “safe places” because society dictates what we are to be from birth. I say you find nature and churn its butter.”
[The group laughs while Parish smirks from the lectern.]
“Humor aside, we have a mission here. This is our place of operation. We technically exist as a freedom space, a destination for both worship and improvement. We don’t pray to an obelisk of the People’s Champion—and we never pray to another soul. Our fellowship worships the bond and the believer—no pontiff or god. I embrace your faults, your forthcomings and all that makes you molecularly unique. No energies exist more important or special than those inside each of you at this very moment. The fact that your elements exist in this arrangement is a miracle—and don’t forget that. Your existence is paramount to something. Now we have to find that purpose.”
[His audience talks amongst themselves. Parish, sweating like a Baptist preacher, removes his mask before them. The cameraman pans closer to his bristled chin and iceberg eyes. Someone shouts out, “Damn this heat.” Parish points to a gingery girl dressed in a plaid skirt and a bit heavy on the eyeliner.]
“I second that sister. You children don’t know me, but you will soon enough. Aside from being our collective of support, our focus cannot exist solely on internal growth. Many of you might frown because there’s work to be done—hard work. I posted signups in your dormitories. Those with carpentry experience, or willingness to learn this skill, please seek me out in the workshop downstairs. I know work sounds tedious because in all ways it is. It won’t if you keep a song to heart and your brothers and sisters circulating as your blood. Chores maintain the standard of excellence your factory churned out every day. A seamless unit built on unity. Production lines that transferred tasks without hiccupping. That factory also had many flaws your teams worked around every day. We now have a chance to build a new temple—a better home. I own this land, but now, so do each of you. There’s no lease on a brotherhood, but there’s always work to keep this family running. I urge you, please, seek me out during this first week. My presence may look terrifying; however, my mind is not a demonic thing. I can help you—you only need to seek me out. That is all for now. Go find work to do while we plan for the next great phase.”
[A tall man asks if there’s a rule on banging. Parish wipes his brow.]
“You aren’t animals in a cage. I expect you to be humanly discreet about yourselves. Likewise, copulation has human boundaries. Be yourselves but get your chores done first. Then be yourselves in whatever ways you wish. But if your work is not compete—only then will there be problems, George. That goes to everyone: Don’t cross my hospitality. Get to work.”
[Parish picks up his mask and walks back towards the farmhouse. The cameraman follows him as they go towards the cellar door outside. From there they enter his downstairs workshop. A figure waits near the tool racks with his arms crossed. Fluorescent tubes strobe while Sean Craven stands under those humming lights. He pats a crescent wrench in one hand.]
“What did you tell them? That you’re a fraud. That you don’t understand anything you tell the WCF. That you’re here to break us apart member by member.”
“Sean, I don’t aim to dismember the Brotherhood. I’m watering it so that it may germinate.”
[Parish sets his mask and that Dick Tracy coat over an old loveseat. His cameraman backs up with both men now in view.]
“Are you going to strike me with that wrench?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Kevin thinks you’re the real deal. That you can help us out of the arena. You know wrestling only represents his drive and passion. He loves the game—but never more than his brothers and sisters here assembled. Wrestling is his platform. Then you showed up with prophecies and put out breadcrumbs for us to find you. Then you professed great knowledge—like you’re the alien from Kpax or something. Now Kevin lets you ride our belly like a lamprey, spewing your own doctrine. You aren’t our savior—Kevin Bishop is.”
“And Bishop knows that you need more help. The Brothehood reeks of late ’90s metal and carries a Nirvana cassette in its pocket. If you want to evolve, then you try something new. And if you have a better idea—then let us hear it right here and now.”
[Craven throws the wrench down, cracking the concrete floor.]
“Say into that camera that you didn’t start the fire.”
“I didn’t start the fire.”
“I said… into the camera!”
[Parish motions for a close-up. Resonating lights blink behind him.]
“I didn’t start the fire. It was always burning since the Plague’s returning.”
[Craven shoves Parish into the workbench. Lester laughs before the smaller man punches him in the mouth. He wipes the blood off a knuckle.]
“Mr. Craven, your hook hasn’t lost its bite. You want me to confess because that’s so much easier than answering the real mystery. You look to me because my help fell from the sky. You think this is all a game. That I’m some red herring trying to confuse your vision of the future. Sean, if you love the Brotherhood, then let me tell you the truth. I didn’t start that fire but someone did. I suspected it ever since Bishop entered the WCF. Now we’re sifting ashes for answers. Can you think like a detective for one moment? We must come together here and now.”
[Craven kicks over an empty oilcan. The camera pans out showing them both apart. Sean turns back with fiery eyes and his index pointed like a pistol.]
“I know it’s too convenient to blame you, Parish. But why are you here? Why now during my brother’s greatest success? Where were you when the times were tough?”
“The ruts, places in Europe that’ll will set off a Geiger counter. Louse-ridden beds in Japan. An old trailer while touring the south. I was wrestling because I was big and I loved it. And my cousin exponentially more than me. Now I’m here and he’s either bedridden in a treatment center or dead on some a Boston street. A Victorian ending to a Romantic tale about the show we loved while an abscess decomposed under our success. I was there; now I’m here for this collective.”
“But what does that have to do with Kev?”
“Bishop represents the macrocosm of this degenerating sport. I hung my tights up more than a decade ago. My cousin watched from a hospital bed as doctors tore a lone career from his gnarled hands. Then they pumped his veins with Vicodin and kicked him back into public circulation. Kevin Bishop brings this country—this world together on one basic principle: never leave another behind. My cousin Chet may be in rehab, but Bishop’s words lured him from Inferno to Purgatorio to now the gates of Paradiso. I saw my chance to help when wandering across this noble yet simple state. We live three miles from an Amish farm. This is as remote as America gets. I bought this land and turned it into a salvageable property. Everything I did came in appreciation for my former tag partner. I never mentioned family before because I wasn’t ready to look, human. With the Brotherhood on my land, we can rebuild Bishop’s legacy and reach a new audience. A new generation guided under his precepts of togetherness, love and empowerment that no authority can dream to squelch from us! Not unless they drive a stake through my heart, or bomb our houses to rubble with attack drones. That is my reason for being here. What’s yours?”
[Parish poked Craven in the chest, punctuating that last point. His lips curled.]
“We can salvage the Brotherhood and its notoriety. Bishop and Karma will do the same. If you’re committed to us as much as you are to these, farms. Maybe we’ll have chance to survive this setback. Understand that your entrance into our family has not at all final—not in my eyes, or those of my sister. Kev supports you, and that’s good enough for now.”
“So by my gracious deed, I’m probationary? How kind of you.”
“We aren’t some paddle spanking fraternity. This is a group of likeminded people. I hope you have the same mindset, or there’s going to be problems. Do you understand?”
“Mr. Craven—”
“Don’t get philosophic on me. I asked you a simple yes or no question. Do you understand?”
“We aren’t enemies, so you can put your fists down. I want you want Sean. Let me teach your brothers and sisters as I do. And don’t step in my way like this ever again!”
[Parish choke-tosses Craven backwards onto that old couch. He springs up from it for another haymaker. They brawl with each man getting good hits in. Lester throws him back and signals for a truce with a smile. Blood oozes from his nose.]
“Let’s call it a draw. I know you hate what I do; however, I’m going to be an essential fixture to our group. My aim is unity above all else. Getting this group together will be a challenge indeed. They’ve segregated into smaller cliques, and I know that youth and sex have a lot to do with it. We cannot be ourselves without acknowledging our ribald, lizard minds. I cannot stop them from being whom they are; likewise, I can’t convince you that I’m not a threat to the Brotherhood. A guard dog bites until you feed it. There’s no raw T-bone to throw over the fence at this moment, so I’m going ask that you trust me. Give me a chance albeit on a provisional basis. But never get in my face like that ever again. Forgiveness is ornately ingenious, but don’t mistake mercy for complacency. I dismantled our opponents last week, Sean, and there’s nothing to keep me from doing the same to you. By the way, when was the last time you suited up with the Plague?”
[Craven laughs while leaning against that rancid couch.]
“Years man, longer than I want to remember, if you know what I mean.”
“All too well. Hence why I held back this whole time. If this ever happens again, you’ll find yourself breathing from a tube. Sorry, let’s shake on it instead.”
“You’re a goddamn psycho.”
“And this has been a pleasure, Mr. Craven.”
[They shake hands with both men glaring through competing smirks. Parish points towards a white, 1970 style refrigerator. It rumbles off in a corner past a table saw and loose tools.]
“If you go over to that refrigerator, you’ll find my cache. Pop a cold one, on me.”
“This isn’t over.”
“I certainly hope not. I rather enjoyed this conversation.”
[Craven takes a whole six-pack of ginger ale from the fridge. He stares down then back to Parish with a disgusted look. He snaps one out of its ring and takes the other five upstairs. Lester motions the camera over to a nicer couch made from red leather.]
“WCF, we have a problem and it’s systemic. Injected from a hypodermic needle at the very top. Lerch poisons us with these matches. He wants us to crumble into servile dogs. Sees each of you as his future pets. But that stops here and now. I have at my side one of the most destructive forces in the WCF, and no, it’s not me. I’m talking to you, Oblivion. Who cares about Ciserano or the explosive Spearman? Their impact left craters in this company. You left a scar in the ring with a 50-megaton yield. Fallout hovers wherever you go. You see the old Oblivion in mirrors, water and anything foolish enough to revive the lasting vestige of a dangerous thing. It survives inside you, Oblivion. I know the sort of darkness you digest into a smile every moment, day, year—and the fans give you a shot in the arm to suppress it. Why let them be your deciding factor? A latent terror quakes in your veins, but it needs a catalyst. Thus a warlock appeared.”
[Parish slicks back his short, peppery hair, tilting his head to form brow line shadows.]
“Obi… Obi… you hear them roar. Obi… Obi… let IT be once more. Let IT live, be Oblivion. The humanity that was Jacob Lister died in a fire. You aren’t a phoenix—you’re a mummified lie. Spearman has the energy and Ciserano will fire the crowd up. I say we show them why this happy-go-lucky charm has no place in modern society. Lister is dead. Hear my voice and arise you wicked spirit. Tear this world asunder. Be poetic, be a disaster, be whatever you need to destroy these fraudulent fighters. I have a mortal coil, but yours is no more. You’ve no human spark left, only an oblivion. You aren’t alive—you’re a transient force of destruction. These fans adore you because you do what they want. Obi… Obi... it’s your obituary. Obi… Obi... be a killer, not their missionary. You have the greatest fury our company has ever seen. Yet you let it fester into a loveable scab. Ripe it off! Let Spearman and his partner remember what fear was like. Show them the monster. IT survives, but you must free it from bondage. Let them see the charred remains. Let this forsaken world know who rides the final horse. Show them Death!”
“Please, be seated. I know it’s only grass right now; in time, we’ll have pews for everyone to be comfortable in. Now that you’re settled, let me be the first to welcome you to Camp Sunny Lake. You’re probably thinking, “What sort of adult goes to a place like this?” Well, a wise man imparted this nugget onto me: Your presence defines a home, not the building. Kevin Bishop led your exodus here. It looks foreign—just as the Mormons before settling the Utah. We’re taken from our comfort zones, your “safe places” because society dictates what we are to be from birth. I say you find nature and churn its butter.”
[The group laughs while Parish smirks from the lectern.]
“Humor aside, we have a mission here. This is our place of operation. We technically exist as a freedom space, a destination for both worship and improvement. We don’t pray to an obelisk of the People’s Champion—and we never pray to another soul. Our fellowship worships the bond and the believer—no pontiff or god. I embrace your faults, your forthcomings and all that makes you molecularly unique. No energies exist more important or special than those inside each of you at this very moment. The fact that your elements exist in this arrangement is a miracle—and don’t forget that. Your existence is paramount to something. Now we have to find that purpose.”
[His audience talks amongst themselves. Parish, sweating like a Baptist preacher, removes his mask before them. The cameraman pans closer to his bristled chin and iceberg eyes. Someone shouts out, “Damn this heat.” Parish points to a gingery girl dressed in a plaid skirt and a bit heavy on the eyeliner.]
“I second that sister. You children don’t know me, but you will soon enough. Aside from being our collective of support, our focus cannot exist solely on internal growth. Many of you might frown because there’s work to be done—hard work. I posted signups in your dormitories. Those with carpentry experience, or willingness to learn this skill, please seek me out in the workshop downstairs. I know work sounds tedious because in all ways it is. It won’t if you keep a song to heart and your brothers and sisters circulating as your blood. Chores maintain the standard of excellence your factory churned out every day. A seamless unit built on unity. Production lines that transferred tasks without hiccupping. That factory also had many flaws your teams worked around every day. We now have a chance to build a new temple—a better home. I own this land, but now, so do each of you. There’s no lease on a brotherhood, but there’s always work to keep this family running. I urge you, please, seek me out during this first week. My presence may look terrifying; however, my mind is not a demonic thing. I can help you—you only need to seek me out. That is all for now. Go find work to do while we plan for the next great phase.”
[A tall man asks if there’s a rule on banging. Parish wipes his brow.]
“You aren’t animals in a cage. I expect you to be humanly discreet about yourselves. Likewise, copulation has human boundaries. Be yourselves but get your chores done first. Then be yourselves in whatever ways you wish. But if your work is not compete—only then will there be problems, George. That goes to everyone: Don’t cross my hospitality. Get to work.”
[Parish picks up his mask and walks back towards the farmhouse. The cameraman follows him as they go towards the cellar door outside. From there they enter his downstairs workshop. A figure waits near the tool racks with his arms crossed. Fluorescent tubes strobe while Sean Craven stands under those humming lights. He pats a crescent wrench in one hand.]
“What did you tell them? That you’re a fraud. That you don’t understand anything you tell the WCF. That you’re here to break us apart member by member.”
“Sean, I don’t aim to dismember the Brotherhood. I’m watering it so that it may germinate.”
[Parish sets his mask and that Dick Tracy coat over an old loveseat. His cameraman backs up with both men now in view.]
“Are you going to strike me with that wrench?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Kevin thinks you’re the real deal. That you can help us out of the arena. You know wrestling only represents his drive and passion. He loves the game—but never more than his brothers and sisters here assembled. Wrestling is his platform. Then you showed up with prophecies and put out breadcrumbs for us to find you. Then you professed great knowledge—like you’re the alien from Kpax or something. Now Kevin lets you ride our belly like a lamprey, spewing your own doctrine. You aren’t our savior—Kevin Bishop is.”
“And Bishop knows that you need more help. The Brothehood reeks of late ’90s metal and carries a Nirvana cassette in its pocket. If you want to evolve, then you try something new. And if you have a better idea—then let us hear it right here and now.”
[Craven throws the wrench down, cracking the concrete floor.]
“Say into that camera that you didn’t start the fire.”
“I didn’t start the fire.”
“I said… into the camera!”
[Parish motions for a close-up. Resonating lights blink behind him.]
“I didn’t start the fire. It was always burning since the Plague’s returning.”
[Craven shoves Parish into the workbench. Lester laughs before the smaller man punches him in the mouth. He wipes the blood off a knuckle.]
“Mr. Craven, your hook hasn’t lost its bite. You want me to confess because that’s so much easier than answering the real mystery. You look to me because my help fell from the sky. You think this is all a game. That I’m some red herring trying to confuse your vision of the future. Sean, if you love the Brotherhood, then let me tell you the truth. I didn’t start that fire but someone did. I suspected it ever since Bishop entered the WCF. Now we’re sifting ashes for answers. Can you think like a detective for one moment? We must come together here and now.”
[Craven kicks over an empty oilcan. The camera pans out showing them both apart. Sean turns back with fiery eyes and his index pointed like a pistol.]
“I know it’s too convenient to blame you, Parish. But why are you here? Why now during my brother’s greatest success? Where were you when the times were tough?”
“The ruts, places in Europe that’ll will set off a Geiger counter. Louse-ridden beds in Japan. An old trailer while touring the south. I was wrestling because I was big and I loved it. And my cousin exponentially more than me. Now I’m here and he’s either bedridden in a treatment center or dead on some a Boston street. A Victorian ending to a Romantic tale about the show we loved while an abscess decomposed under our success. I was there; now I’m here for this collective.”
“But what does that have to do with Kev?”
“Bishop represents the macrocosm of this degenerating sport. I hung my tights up more than a decade ago. My cousin watched from a hospital bed as doctors tore a lone career from his gnarled hands. Then they pumped his veins with Vicodin and kicked him back into public circulation. Kevin Bishop brings this country—this world together on one basic principle: never leave another behind. My cousin Chet may be in rehab, but Bishop’s words lured him from Inferno to Purgatorio to now the gates of Paradiso. I saw my chance to help when wandering across this noble yet simple state. We live three miles from an Amish farm. This is as remote as America gets. I bought this land and turned it into a salvageable property. Everything I did came in appreciation for my former tag partner. I never mentioned family before because I wasn’t ready to look, human. With the Brotherhood on my land, we can rebuild Bishop’s legacy and reach a new audience. A new generation guided under his precepts of togetherness, love and empowerment that no authority can dream to squelch from us! Not unless they drive a stake through my heart, or bomb our houses to rubble with attack drones. That is my reason for being here. What’s yours?”
[Parish poked Craven in the chest, punctuating that last point. His lips curled.]
“We can salvage the Brotherhood and its notoriety. Bishop and Karma will do the same. If you’re committed to us as much as you are to these, farms. Maybe we’ll have chance to survive this setback. Understand that your entrance into our family has not at all final—not in my eyes, or those of my sister. Kev supports you, and that’s good enough for now.”
“So by my gracious deed, I’m probationary? How kind of you.”
“We aren’t some paddle spanking fraternity. This is a group of likeminded people. I hope you have the same mindset, or there’s going to be problems. Do you understand?”
“Mr. Craven—”
“Don’t get philosophic on me. I asked you a simple yes or no question. Do you understand?”
“We aren’t enemies, so you can put your fists down. I want you want Sean. Let me teach your brothers and sisters as I do. And don’t step in my way like this ever again!”
[Parish choke-tosses Craven backwards onto that old couch. He springs up from it for another haymaker. They brawl with each man getting good hits in. Lester throws him back and signals for a truce with a smile. Blood oozes from his nose.]
“Let’s call it a draw. I know you hate what I do; however, I’m going to be an essential fixture to our group. My aim is unity above all else. Getting this group together will be a challenge indeed. They’ve segregated into smaller cliques, and I know that youth and sex have a lot to do with it. We cannot be ourselves without acknowledging our ribald, lizard minds. I cannot stop them from being whom they are; likewise, I can’t convince you that I’m not a threat to the Brotherhood. A guard dog bites until you feed it. There’s no raw T-bone to throw over the fence at this moment, so I’m going ask that you trust me. Give me a chance albeit on a provisional basis. But never get in my face like that ever again. Forgiveness is ornately ingenious, but don’t mistake mercy for complacency. I dismantled our opponents last week, Sean, and there’s nothing to keep me from doing the same to you. By the way, when was the last time you suited up with the Plague?”
[Craven laughs while leaning against that rancid couch.]
“Years man, longer than I want to remember, if you know what I mean.”
“All too well. Hence why I held back this whole time. If this ever happens again, you’ll find yourself breathing from a tube. Sorry, let’s shake on it instead.”
“You’re a goddamn psycho.”
“And this has been a pleasure, Mr. Craven.”
[They shake hands with both men glaring through competing smirks. Parish points towards a white, 1970 style refrigerator. It rumbles off in a corner past a table saw and loose tools.]
“If you go over to that refrigerator, you’ll find my cache. Pop a cold one, on me.”
“This isn’t over.”
“I certainly hope not. I rather enjoyed this conversation.”
[Craven takes a whole six-pack of ginger ale from the fridge. He stares down then back to Parish with a disgusted look. He snaps one out of its ring and takes the other five upstairs. Lester motions the camera over to a nicer couch made from red leather.]
“WCF, we have a problem and it’s systemic. Injected from a hypodermic needle at the very top. Lerch poisons us with these matches. He wants us to crumble into servile dogs. Sees each of you as his future pets. But that stops here and now. I have at my side one of the most destructive forces in the WCF, and no, it’s not me. I’m talking to you, Oblivion. Who cares about Ciserano or the explosive Spearman? Their impact left craters in this company. You left a scar in the ring with a 50-megaton yield. Fallout hovers wherever you go. You see the old Oblivion in mirrors, water and anything foolish enough to revive the lasting vestige of a dangerous thing. It survives inside you, Oblivion. I know the sort of darkness you digest into a smile every moment, day, year—and the fans give you a shot in the arm to suppress it. Why let them be your deciding factor? A latent terror quakes in your veins, but it needs a catalyst. Thus a warlock appeared.”
[Parish slicks back his short, peppery hair, tilting his head to form brow line shadows.]
“Obi… Obi… you hear them roar. Obi… Obi… let IT be once more. Let IT live, be Oblivion. The humanity that was Jacob Lister died in a fire. You aren’t a phoenix—you’re a mummified lie. Spearman has the energy and Ciserano will fire the crowd up. I say we show them why this happy-go-lucky charm has no place in modern society. Lister is dead. Hear my voice and arise you wicked spirit. Tear this world asunder. Be poetic, be a disaster, be whatever you need to destroy these fraudulent fighters. I have a mortal coil, but yours is no more. You’ve no human spark left, only an oblivion. You aren’t alive—you’re a transient force of destruction. These fans adore you because you do what they want. Obi… Obi... it’s your obituary. Obi… Obi... be a killer, not their missionary. You have the greatest fury our company has ever seen. Yet you let it fester into a loveable scab. Ripe it off! Let Spearman and his partner remember what fear was like. Show them the monster. IT survives, but you must free it from bondage. Let them see the charred remains. Let this forsaken world know who rides the final horse. Show them Death!”
