Post by Jack of Blades on Mar 12, 2009 21:38:43 GMT -5
"Fate. The final frontier. These are the voyages of evolved spillage, Skyler Striker. Its continuing mission: to whine, cry and make enigmatic threats based on his rather miniscule knowledge of human experience/philosophy/history, to boldly go where no other women has been before."
The moment had come. Fate, future, past, present, karma and kismet had performed their duties and heralded its arrival. The mailman as well, he helped. It sits in my hands; the potential ramifications of it emanate outwards like an oscillating toothbrush in a blender. The moment had come.
From the stationary of Jack of Blades, esq.
An Open Letter to The Ace of Hearts/The Fury Crusader/The Freedom Fighter/The Fate Philanthropist/The Mystery Machine/The Platinum-Haired Pugilist/The Kevin Bacon/The Prince of Persia/The Opiate of the Masses/The Drone of Dysentery/The Dial-Tone Avenger/The "One And Only. No Body I’d Rather Be. Yeah!"/The UMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/The Yes Man/The "Peanut Better And Jelly In The Same Jar"/The ‘Belkin F3N401-06-ICE IEEE 1394 4-Pin/6-Pin 400 Mbps FireWire Cable (6 Feet)’/The "I Believe You Have My Stapler”/Skyler Striker
Dear Skyler Striker (or whatever ridiculous sobriquet you have appropriated this week),
What you are holding in your soft, well-manicured hands is a document of true historic value. This parchment, formed out of absinthe intoxication and scrawled in otter blood, will rival the accumulated renown of the Emancipation Proclamation, The Magna Carta and that autographed coaster on which an inebriated Russell Crowe drew a phallus enjoying the paroxysms of orgasmic climax. Simply put, this document will change everything.
I can guess what is running through your pretty little head at this point. You are thinking that is just another articulate jeremiad designed to elucidate and exploit your insecurities for my own gain. Just another 'Bastard Clown' harangue spewed onto page and print. But you are wrong. My intention is the exact opposite.
You see, I extend this letter in the hopes of effectuating some degree of amity between us. Think of this letter as an offer of peace. It is my greatest hope that this missive acts as the first step in burying the hatchet (and I don’t even mean in your neck).
I must admit that before this week, I would have thought such a reconciliation impossible. I was under the (absurd) delusion that you would be angry at me over taking your daughter and contorting her frail person into an unnatural angle. I know, I know. I am a silly goose! But, I'm also a worrier…
But my concerns were alleviated when I saw your promotional output released to WCF.com over the passing week. Here I was (once again, SILLY GOOSE) thinking that I would be watching you personally testify to ripping out my testicles through my mouth at XIII. The background was going to be the hue of midnight sable. With each word it would be increasingly difficult for you to fight back the tears. You would occasionally but frequently direct your glare off-screen hoping to find resolve and strength in its unknown plains…
But no! What I got was you and Logan chasing a trail of hotdogs across a hotel like some twisted take on Hansel & Gretel. It was very surprising yet at the same time infinitely refreshing. It is almost as if you care as little about your daughter as I do.
As I write this to you, my mind is drifting to all the potential activities we could engage in together once you accept my proposal of friendship. For example, Dysphoria is a sublime hostess and her weekly dinner-parties are the thing of legend. She and I would love for you to join us as our 'guest of honour.'
So, what do you say? Wanna be B.F.F.s?
-Jack of Blades
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Needless to say, the hotel foyer was shocked. The vacationing families, the lonely men of business, the high-class escorts that approach said lonely men of business, all wore the same expression. The mouth turned into a silent, yawning maw; blinking now made a uniform event amongst the party of onlookers.
The widened eyes gave it an air of ambivalence. It suggested a collective inability to comprehend the events that were unfolding in front of them. A kind of cognitive failure to penetrate the metaphysical secrets of this most cryptic of happenings. "Kind of like a dog who had just been shown a card trick," the assembled masses knew not what they were seeing, but they knew it was a moment of note, of signifiance far beyond their own 'sneeze-and-you’ll-miss-it' existences. They also knew that they should probably be disgusted by it. Very disgusted.
Of course, if one were not adherent to the decalogues of correct social etiquette, they might find this scene more risible than mysterious. As if he were a prize alligator just hauled from the marbled depths of the outdoor heated swimming pool, he acted as such, gnashing and snapping at any concierge foolish enough to place their hands near his mustard-caked lips.
Still saturated from his midday dip in the pool, this man had obviously committed an act so abhorrent, so loathsome, that men of the hotel’s colours were now attempting to rid their establishment of his salacious presence. What such an act could be is both a conundrum and future hot topic for discussion among fellow witnesses. Although it probably had something to do with the fact that he was naked bar the United States title-belt wrapped conveniently around his groinal region.
The men forcibly terminating his residency, their number had been six until the Assistant Catering Director had the temerity to order an underling to "dress the miniquette salad with a ketchup-mayonaise." Such an oversight now meant that he was now scrabbling along the tiled floor searching for his missing finger.
However, he did not mind this loss. "Merely part of the job," he chuckled. That or he was screaming frenzied expletives; it was difficult to tell. At the very least, he should have just laughed the incident off. That is what a good employee would do and at the ‘Chasterly Lodge Hotel’, all of the employees were good employees. And, that was why, Henry Nixon, faithful receptionist, giver of both welcomes and goodbyes, approached the commotion with something to give…
Logan (U.S. Champion): How was ‘I’ supposed to know she was a haemophiliac?
Henry Nixon (Receptionist): Mister Logan! Miiiissssteerrr Loooogan!
Like an eagle in a nuclear holocaust, the intrepid receptionist soars over the superficial destruction and devastation and heads for its epicentre. Both a hand and an envelope are extended to the hotel’s doughy captive.
Henry Nixon (Receptionist): Mister Logan, this was left behind the desk for you.
An uncomfortable silence. A moment in time; one of pure stillness. The envelope merely stays out in dead-air, stretched and waiting for receipt. Tense. With his arms restrained by busboy and security guard alike, the (former) hotel boarder merely responds to his mail with a bestial growl; spittle and hotdog roll are expelled with it. Wanting to fulfil his occupational duty and yet not wanting to lose his index finger in the process, Henry Nixon takes the initiative. And now, with the letter gently nestled between his potbelly, genitalia and the cold gaudy décor of his championship belt, the ejection of Logan could be completed.
Security Manager: Right. Let's get him out of here.
Logan (U.S. Champion): I'm not going anyway! Not until I get my complimentary bath towel!
Pulled kicking and screaming like a flamboyant man-mental, he is taken beyond the threshold.
Logan (U.S. Champion): MY COMPLIMENTARY BATH TOWEL!
From the stationary of Jack of Blades, esq.
An Open Letter to a Busy, Busy Bee (Addendum)
Dear Logan,
Before I move any further in this venomous tome of mine, there are two things that I would like to address. Firstly, I beg of you, please do not utilize the sheaf of paper as an impromptu napkin with which to wipe away the remnants of a thirty-two hour 'Oscar Mayer/Alyssa Lovelace' binge. Too many things of my belonging have been placed in close proximity to your mouth and I do not wish for a scribed account of my trenchant wit to suffer the same fate. By the way, the initiation process for 'The Team of Treachery' was not fun for me…
Secondly, I would like to know just which 'Logan' is reading this. Because that’s the belief isn’t it? That you are some kind of 'Janus' figure, a mythical entity but one that crosses two personas. Jekyll & Hyde. Tyler & Jack. Turner & Hooch…
So which one is it? Am I addressing the portly orca of new or the ferocious champion of old? Or, perhaps neither. You see, I have never been one to believe that the human psyche is by its very nature, dualistic. Jack of Blades is no different from Jack of Blaine. We are one and the same. I'm just the byproduct of a postmodern world and a heady dose of schadenfreude.
However, being the mediator of communication that you know I am, I'm willing to forgo my personal convictions for the sake of conjecture. Let's just pretend that for once, Skyler Striker is right. Now, I know if such an event ever were to happen, the sky would cry unicorn blood as the seventh seal broke. But, let's just pretend. Let's just pretend that the ‘Old Logan’ can indeed break through that ever-increasing paunch and back into the spotlight.
"I need the old Logan", he said, his lip quivering in homoerotic anticipation. "The multiple-time World Champion Logan. The Logan who epitomized WCF… I know you want to do it – I want Logan, the crowd want Logan – and I know you want to become Logan, not just a shell of your former self."
And with that impassioned plea, Skyler Striker believed that he set Logan on the road to recovery. And, that’s the problem. You see, I have said it before and I’ll say it again. Skyler Striker, he's an idiot. He thinks that with nine high-protean meals a day and the ritualising of a morning jog, you will be back to your Impact Stylin' self.
But I know that such things are trivial. Shedding that excess weight is secondary to what really needs to be done. You see, the physical laws that dominate this sick little playpen we can call 'The Universe' dictate that change, regardless of how minute it is, requires a catalyst. The Aristotelian 'Prime Mover', the Polyakov Action principle and Boolean Mathematics all dictate that for something to change states there needs to be an instigative force.
Look at all the great evils in the world. Look at the Yorkshire Ripper. Yes, Peter William Sutcliffe was always on the edge of psychopathy but it took just one junkie prostitute to steal five pounds from his bedside table, one small incident, to send him over the precipice and onto his little thirteen-woman jaunt. Look at this colossal midden of a planet. Sneezed into existence by either a chemical reaction or some omniscient gas attendant depending on your level of intelligence. Look at me. It took an oafish rugby player to repeatedly bash my skull into a set of steel stairs before meek and mild Johnny Mutation became Jack of Blades.
And, that's why I invited Shannan Lerch to come watch our little encounter on Friday. Zach Davis believes that Shannan and I are in cahoots together and knowing Skyler Striker, he will probably buy it without any suggestion of an argument. No, as open to the idea as Dysphoria is, I share no marriage of conniption with Shannan Lerch. No, I invited (read: forced) her to attend XIII because like Rick and I, she wants to see the change begin. She wants to see that single, solidarity galvanizing moment that will put everything in motion. Skyler Striker wants the return of The Face of Treachery. Give it to him.
A chair-shot connecting with the reflective blond of his scalp. An illicit foot to 'The Jade-Maker.' Remove yourself from the ring-apron as he stretches his digits towards you in desperation.
Become that beautiful, beautiful butterfly…
-Jack of Blades.
The moment had come. Fate, future, past, present, karma and kismet had performed their duties and heralded its arrival. The mailman as well, he helped. It sits in my hands; the potential ramifications of it emanate outwards like an oscillating toothbrush in a blender. The moment had come.
From the stationary of Jack of Blades, esq.
An Open Letter to The Ace of Hearts/The Fury Crusader/The Freedom Fighter/The Fate Philanthropist/The Mystery Machine/The Platinum-Haired Pugilist/The Kevin Bacon/The Prince of Persia/The Opiate of the Masses/The Drone of Dysentery/The Dial-Tone Avenger/The "One And Only. No Body I’d Rather Be. Yeah!"/The UMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/The Yes Man/The "Peanut Better And Jelly In The Same Jar"/The ‘Belkin F3N401-06-ICE IEEE 1394 4-Pin/6-Pin 400 Mbps FireWire Cable (6 Feet)’/The "I Believe You Have My Stapler”/Skyler Striker
Dear Skyler Striker (or whatever ridiculous sobriquet you have appropriated this week),
What you are holding in your soft, well-manicured hands is a document of true historic value. This parchment, formed out of absinthe intoxication and scrawled in otter blood, will rival the accumulated renown of the Emancipation Proclamation, The Magna Carta and that autographed coaster on which an inebriated Russell Crowe drew a phallus enjoying the paroxysms of orgasmic climax. Simply put, this document will change everything.
I can guess what is running through your pretty little head at this point. You are thinking that is just another articulate jeremiad designed to elucidate and exploit your insecurities for my own gain. Just another 'Bastard Clown' harangue spewed onto page and print. But you are wrong. My intention is the exact opposite.
You see, I extend this letter in the hopes of effectuating some degree of amity between us. Think of this letter as an offer of peace. It is my greatest hope that this missive acts as the first step in burying the hatchet (and I don’t even mean in your neck).
I must admit that before this week, I would have thought such a reconciliation impossible. I was under the (absurd) delusion that you would be angry at me over taking your daughter and contorting her frail person into an unnatural angle. I know, I know. I am a silly goose! But, I'm also a worrier…
But my concerns were alleviated when I saw your promotional output released to WCF.com over the passing week. Here I was (once again, SILLY GOOSE) thinking that I would be watching you personally testify to ripping out my testicles through my mouth at XIII. The background was going to be the hue of midnight sable. With each word it would be increasingly difficult for you to fight back the tears. You would occasionally but frequently direct your glare off-screen hoping to find resolve and strength in its unknown plains…
But no! What I got was you and Logan chasing a trail of hotdogs across a hotel like some twisted take on Hansel & Gretel. It was very surprising yet at the same time infinitely refreshing. It is almost as if you care as little about your daughter as I do.
As I write this to you, my mind is drifting to all the potential activities we could engage in together once you accept my proposal of friendship. For example, Dysphoria is a sublime hostess and her weekly dinner-parties are the thing of legend. She and I would love for you to join us as our 'guest of honour.'
So, what do you say? Wanna be B.F.F.s?
-Jack of Blades
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Needless to say, the hotel foyer was shocked. The vacationing families, the lonely men of business, the high-class escorts that approach said lonely men of business, all wore the same expression. The mouth turned into a silent, yawning maw; blinking now made a uniform event amongst the party of onlookers.
The widened eyes gave it an air of ambivalence. It suggested a collective inability to comprehend the events that were unfolding in front of them. A kind of cognitive failure to penetrate the metaphysical secrets of this most cryptic of happenings. "Kind of like a dog who had just been shown a card trick," the assembled masses knew not what they were seeing, but they knew it was a moment of note, of signifiance far beyond their own 'sneeze-and-you’ll-miss-it' existences. They also knew that they should probably be disgusted by it. Very disgusted.
Of course, if one were not adherent to the decalogues of correct social etiquette, they might find this scene more risible than mysterious. As if he were a prize alligator just hauled from the marbled depths of the outdoor heated swimming pool, he acted as such, gnashing and snapping at any concierge foolish enough to place their hands near his mustard-caked lips.
Still saturated from his midday dip in the pool, this man had obviously committed an act so abhorrent, so loathsome, that men of the hotel’s colours were now attempting to rid their establishment of his salacious presence. What such an act could be is both a conundrum and future hot topic for discussion among fellow witnesses. Although it probably had something to do with the fact that he was naked bar the United States title-belt wrapped conveniently around his groinal region.
The men forcibly terminating his residency, their number had been six until the Assistant Catering Director had the temerity to order an underling to "dress the miniquette salad with a ketchup-mayonaise." Such an oversight now meant that he was now scrabbling along the tiled floor searching for his missing finger.
However, he did not mind this loss. "Merely part of the job," he chuckled. That or he was screaming frenzied expletives; it was difficult to tell. At the very least, he should have just laughed the incident off. That is what a good employee would do and at the ‘Chasterly Lodge Hotel’, all of the employees were good employees. And, that was why, Henry Nixon, faithful receptionist, giver of both welcomes and goodbyes, approached the commotion with something to give…
Logan (U.S. Champion): How was ‘I’ supposed to know she was a haemophiliac?
Henry Nixon (Receptionist): Mister Logan! Miiiissssteerrr Loooogan!
Like an eagle in a nuclear holocaust, the intrepid receptionist soars over the superficial destruction and devastation and heads for its epicentre. Both a hand and an envelope are extended to the hotel’s doughy captive.
Henry Nixon (Receptionist): Mister Logan, this was left behind the desk for you.
An uncomfortable silence. A moment in time; one of pure stillness. The envelope merely stays out in dead-air, stretched and waiting for receipt. Tense. With his arms restrained by busboy and security guard alike, the (former) hotel boarder merely responds to his mail with a bestial growl; spittle and hotdog roll are expelled with it. Wanting to fulfil his occupational duty and yet not wanting to lose his index finger in the process, Henry Nixon takes the initiative. And now, with the letter gently nestled between his potbelly, genitalia and the cold gaudy décor of his championship belt, the ejection of Logan could be completed.
Security Manager: Right. Let's get him out of here.
Logan (U.S. Champion): I'm not going anyway! Not until I get my complimentary bath towel!
Pulled kicking and screaming like a flamboyant man-mental, he is taken beyond the threshold.
Logan (U.S. Champion): MY COMPLIMENTARY BATH TOWEL!
From the stationary of Jack of Blades, esq.
An Open Letter to a Busy, Busy Bee (Addendum)
Dear Logan,
Before I move any further in this venomous tome of mine, there are two things that I would like to address. Firstly, I beg of you, please do not utilize the sheaf of paper as an impromptu napkin with which to wipe away the remnants of a thirty-two hour 'Oscar Mayer/Alyssa Lovelace' binge. Too many things of my belonging have been placed in close proximity to your mouth and I do not wish for a scribed account of my trenchant wit to suffer the same fate. By the way, the initiation process for 'The Team of Treachery' was not fun for me…
Secondly, I would like to know just which 'Logan' is reading this. Because that’s the belief isn’t it? That you are some kind of 'Janus' figure, a mythical entity but one that crosses two personas. Jekyll & Hyde. Tyler & Jack. Turner & Hooch…
So which one is it? Am I addressing the portly orca of new or the ferocious champion of old? Or, perhaps neither. You see, I have never been one to believe that the human psyche is by its very nature, dualistic. Jack of Blades is no different from Jack of Blaine. We are one and the same. I'm just the byproduct of a postmodern world and a heady dose of schadenfreude.
However, being the mediator of communication that you know I am, I'm willing to forgo my personal convictions for the sake of conjecture. Let's just pretend that for once, Skyler Striker is right. Now, I know if such an event ever were to happen, the sky would cry unicorn blood as the seventh seal broke. But, let's just pretend. Let's just pretend that the ‘Old Logan’ can indeed break through that ever-increasing paunch and back into the spotlight.
"I need the old Logan", he said, his lip quivering in homoerotic anticipation. "The multiple-time World Champion Logan. The Logan who epitomized WCF… I know you want to do it – I want Logan, the crowd want Logan – and I know you want to become Logan, not just a shell of your former self."
And with that impassioned plea, Skyler Striker believed that he set Logan on the road to recovery. And, that’s the problem. You see, I have said it before and I’ll say it again. Skyler Striker, he's an idiot. He thinks that with nine high-protean meals a day and the ritualising of a morning jog, you will be back to your Impact Stylin' self.
But I know that such things are trivial. Shedding that excess weight is secondary to what really needs to be done. You see, the physical laws that dominate this sick little playpen we can call 'The Universe' dictate that change, regardless of how minute it is, requires a catalyst. The Aristotelian 'Prime Mover', the Polyakov Action principle and Boolean Mathematics all dictate that for something to change states there needs to be an instigative force.
Look at all the great evils in the world. Look at the Yorkshire Ripper. Yes, Peter William Sutcliffe was always on the edge of psychopathy but it took just one junkie prostitute to steal five pounds from his bedside table, one small incident, to send him over the precipice and onto his little thirteen-woman jaunt. Look at this colossal midden of a planet. Sneezed into existence by either a chemical reaction or some omniscient gas attendant depending on your level of intelligence. Look at me. It took an oafish rugby player to repeatedly bash my skull into a set of steel stairs before meek and mild Johnny Mutation became Jack of Blades.
And, that's why I invited Shannan Lerch to come watch our little encounter on Friday. Zach Davis believes that Shannan and I are in cahoots together and knowing Skyler Striker, he will probably buy it without any suggestion of an argument. No, as open to the idea as Dysphoria is, I share no marriage of conniption with Shannan Lerch. No, I invited (read: forced) her to attend XIII because like Rick and I, she wants to see the change begin. She wants to see that single, solidarity galvanizing moment that will put everything in motion. Skyler Striker wants the return of The Face of Treachery. Give it to him.
A chair-shot connecting with the reflective blond of his scalp. An illicit foot to 'The Jade-Maker.' Remove yourself from the ring-apron as he stretches his digits towards you in desperation.
Become that beautiful, beautiful butterfly…
-Jack of Blades.
