Post by Jack of Blades on May 8, 2009 13:42:25 GMT -5
A quote pertinent to current happenings:
"There is pleasure found in purgatory. For with each stone and chide, for every spit and surface wound, a salvation is secured. Silver nor slight is responsible for my crime. My defence is love. I did it out of love. Judas saves." - Taken from Stephen Adly Guirgus' 'The Last Days of Judas Iscariot.'
Or for those of you who fail to be engaged by any piece of prose that isn't littered with only the most contemporary and obvious of pop-culture references:
"You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. I can do those things because I'm not a hero, like Dent. I killed those people. That's what I can be..." "He's the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs right now. So we'll hunt him because he can take it. Because he's not our hero. He's a silent guardian, a watchful protector. A dark knight." - Taken from 'The Dark Knight'
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"Why did you do what you did?” A question common to all the environs and scenarios of human life. "Why did you hit your brother?" "He stole my ice cream." "Why did you sleep with the postman?" "He sees me! Not like you" "Why did you murder twelve prostitutes with a screwdriver?" "My mother never hugged me enough." Everything in this stinking dash from the hospital bed to another hospital bed is a question of motives and recently, my motives have been questioned.
"Why did you do what you did?" "Why did you enter into another marriage of convenience with Logan?" "Why did you bring back the Team of Treachery?"
Before I even bother to rebuff those questions with my truculent wit, let me pose a single solitary query to you. Quid pro quo and all that. My questions is thus:
"Just what was the nature of the accident that caused you to have acquired brain damage so severe that you failed to see this coming?"
Personally, I thought such a stunt would be obvious. I mean, the signs were there. No, they weren't just there. They were there in emboldened capitals evoked in intermittent neon blinking.
Even though I spent three months of my cough-and-you'll-miss-it existence marking the walls of every arena I travelled to with Logan-shaped dents, why wouldn't you perceive him to be the perfect fit for me? Why would you believe that any animosity between us, whether based in the realm of the verbal or of the physical, would forever dispel our mutual admiration?
I am the man who attempted to sell the aborted foetus-child of Reckless Jack to the highest bidder. I am the gentleman who after riddling a child's sandpit with used hypodermic syringes was gifted with a World Title opportunity. Simply put, I'm the mustard to his hotdog.
I assume those of you who are veterans of my vitriol, journeymen of my jeremiads, followers of my fulminations will expect this to be the bit where I tell you that there is no answer. That it was all for 'shits and giggles...'
But no! This time there was method in my madness. There is a reason why I did what I did: I want to see what the other side of the road treads like. I want to be a champion in nature and not just rank. I want to be a hero.
But how do I transmogrify ire into teat-sucking obsequiousness? On the topic of American sporting teams, my knowledge is minimal and my fandom neophyte. And, even when I partake in that concert most profound in idol-zealot relations, the imprinting of one's handle onto a glossy 10'' x 8'', the other party always seems to be repulsed by my choice to use my own bodily secretions as ink (Hey, if it's good enough for octopi, then it is good enough for our shit-snivelling, limb-disadvantaged breed of life.)
And so with all the usual methods of inducing fan support made redundant to me, I decided to search elsewhere for guidance: the canon. I explored my library, by every nook and by every cranny, reading of the deeds of all the great literary heroes. Erechtheus, Hamlet, Manfred, Dedalus and Dogbert. I absorbed all their escapades hoping to find some paradigmatic paragon to follow in my peregrination towards heroism. But alas, I found no such guiding light. These examples seem inherently incompatible with my favourite hobby of asphyxiating dolphins (You think they're a nice shade of blue now? Just stick your index finger in their blowholes and watch…)
And so I resigned myself to playing the villain, storming away from the assemblage of texts, both reference and fiction, that made up my library. However, my petulant tantrum was soon cut short as purposeful stride met doorstep. Newton’s theories were proved true as my face met lacquered floorboard in a show befitting someone much less gracious than I. Scuttling around the floor, I moved over to the offending obstacle hoping to scream some guilt into its inanimate dimensions.
However, before I could unleash my vitriol, I noticed that the makeshift door-closure prevention device had also suffered from the meeting with my boot. Its pages had fallen open and it was now spewing forth its scriptural load like a bee-stung frat boy. I lurched towards this doorstep, this 'Holy Bible,' with the intention of finding some exemplar of virtuosity to study. And there I found him, my bearded saviour…
"WWJD: What would Judas do?"
Jesus? He just understands the importance of marketability. No, its Judas that truly deserves deification. He was the catalyst; he put it all into motion. If Judas hadn’t had his little dalliance with Caiaphas, then Jesus wouldn’t have been able to impersonate the letter 'T' for a few days. Sure, while he was all strung up, Jesus probably suffered an itchy nose but at least he is sanctified. Judas? Judas never got that. The crown of thorns will never leave his head.
But why? He was just as instrumental to our salvation (well, your salvation at least) and his sacrifice was much bigger. Forever vilified, forever being masticated in Lucifer’s mandibles, his patronym will be eternally banded around with the likes of Quisling and Arnold. Meanwhile, Jesus gets called 'The King of Kings' and has acquired a fortune lending his visage to gaudy tat.
No, Judas didn’t commit his crime thirty silver coins; he did it because he was a hero. (Oh and Jesus, if it's any consolation, you're not the only person to be sold by a friend. I speak from personal experience. When the ToT took a weekend trip to Tijuana, Logan managed to sell Danny Vice for half a pack of cigarettes and a straw hat.)
…That’s the sort of hero I can be. I can make that sacrifice. I can be the villain so that someone else can be the hero. I can be the bastard that everyone hates. I can bring salvation to the WCF. Through my maleficence, I will break this mire of lethargy that has polluted this company for too long. I will turn inertia into action. I will turn apathy into seething hatred. I will be your motivation.
Of course, the majority, the plebian masses they will hate me. They will boo me. They will force upon my person a rain of chides and half-empty popcorn buckets. But there will be some, those of the greatest perceptibility, those of the sharpest insight, the educari elite, will know what I did for them. As will you…
…You, whoever you are, who finally realizes the inevitable.
…You, whoever you are, who finally vanquishes the twin evils of The Bastard Clown and The WCF Icon.
…You, whoever you are, who will one day find yourself standing tall, hands raised, over the broken bodies of Logan and Jack of Blades, you will know the full measure of not only my sacrifice but Logan’s as well.
…You, whoever you are, will know that from that moment on every cheer that is directed at you, every lush contract that comes your way, every title opportunity will all derive from what Logan and I did for you…
…And you will owe us a great debt; a debt that can only be repaid in hotdogs.
-Judas of Blades
"There is pleasure found in purgatory. For with each stone and chide, for every spit and surface wound, a salvation is secured. Silver nor slight is responsible for my crime. My defence is love. I did it out of love. Judas saves." - Taken from Stephen Adly Guirgus' 'The Last Days of Judas Iscariot.'
Or for those of you who fail to be engaged by any piece of prose that isn't littered with only the most contemporary and obvious of pop-culture references:
"You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. I can do those things because I'm not a hero, like Dent. I killed those people. That's what I can be..." "He's the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs right now. So we'll hunt him because he can take it. Because he's not our hero. He's a silent guardian, a watchful protector. A dark knight." - Taken from 'The Dark Knight'
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"Why did you do what you did?” A question common to all the environs and scenarios of human life. "Why did you hit your brother?" "He stole my ice cream." "Why did you sleep with the postman?" "He sees me! Not like you" "Why did you murder twelve prostitutes with a screwdriver?" "My mother never hugged me enough." Everything in this stinking dash from the hospital bed to another hospital bed is a question of motives and recently, my motives have been questioned.
"Why did you do what you did?" "Why did you enter into another marriage of convenience with Logan?" "Why did you bring back the Team of Treachery?"
Before I even bother to rebuff those questions with my truculent wit, let me pose a single solitary query to you. Quid pro quo and all that. My questions is thus:
"Just what was the nature of the accident that caused you to have acquired brain damage so severe that you failed to see this coming?"
Personally, I thought such a stunt would be obvious. I mean, the signs were there. No, they weren't just there. They were there in emboldened capitals evoked in intermittent neon blinking.
Even though I spent three months of my cough-and-you'll-miss-it existence marking the walls of every arena I travelled to with Logan-shaped dents, why wouldn't you perceive him to be the perfect fit for me? Why would you believe that any animosity between us, whether based in the realm of the verbal or of the physical, would forever dispel our mutual admiration?
I am the man who attempted to sell the aborted foetus-child of Reckless Jack to the highest bidder. I am the gentleman who after riddling a child's sandpit with used hypodermic syringes was gifted with a World Title opportunity. Simply put, I'm the mustard to his hotdog.
I assume those of you who are veterans of my vitriol, journeymen of my jeremiads, followers of my fulminations will expect this to be the bit where I tell you that there is no answer. That it was all for 'shits and giggles...'
But no! This time there was method in my madness. There is a reason why I did what I did: I want to see what the other side of the road treads like. I want to be a champion in nature and not just rank. I want to be a hero.
But how do I transmogrify ire into teat-sucking obsequiousness? On the topic of American sporting teams, my knowledge is minimal and my fandom neophyte. And, even when I partake in that concert most profound in idol-zealot relations, the imprinting of one's handle onto a glossy 10'' x 8'', the other party always seems to be repulsed by my choice to use my own bodily secretions as ink (Hey, if it's good enough for octopi, then it is good enough for our shit-snivelling, limb-disadvantaged breed of life.)
And so with all the usual methods of inducing fan support made redundant to me, I decided to search elsewhere for guidance: the canon. I explored my library, by every nook and by every cranny, reading of the deeds of all the great literary heroes. Erechtheus, Hamlet, Manfred, Dedalus and Dogbert. I absorbed all their escapades hoping to find some paradigmatic paragon to follow in my peregrination towards heroism. But alas, I found no such guiding light. These examples seem inherently incompatible with my favourite hobby of asphyxiating dolphins (You think they're a nice shade of blue now? Just stick your index finger in their blowholes and watch…)
And so I resigned myself to playing the villain, storming away from the assemblage of texts, both reference and fiction, that made up my library. However, my petulant tantrum was soon cut short as purposeful stride met doorstep. Newton’s theories were proved true as my face met lacquered floorboard in a show befitting someone much less gracious than I. Scuttling around the floor, I moved over to the offending obstacle hoping to scream some guilt into its inanimate dimensions.
However, before I could unleash my vitriol, I noticed that the makeshift door-closure prevention device had also suffered from the meeting with my boot. Its pages had fallen open and it was now spewing forth its scriptural load like a bee-stung frat boy. I lurched towards this doorstep, this 'Holy Bible,' with the intention of finding some exemplar of virtuosity to study. And there I found him, my bearded saviour…
"WWJD: What would Judas do?"
Jesus? He just understands the importance of marketability. No, its Judas that truly deserves deification. He was the catalyst; he put it all into motion. If Judas hadn’t had his little dalliance with Caiaphas, then Jesus wouldn’t have been able to impersonate the letter 'T' for a few days. Sure, while he was all strung up, Jesus probably suffered an itchy nose but at least he is sanctified. Judas? Judas never got that. The crown of thorns will never leave his head.
But why? He was just as instrumental to our salvation (well, your salvation at least) and his sacrifice was much bigger. Forever vilified, forever being masticated in Lucifer’s mandibles, his patronym will be eternally banded around with the likes of Quisling and Arnold. Meanwhile, Jesus gets called 'The King of Kings' and has acquired a fortune lending his visage to gaudy tat.
No, Judas didn’t commit his crime thirty silver coins; he did it because he was a hero. (Oh and Jesus, if it's any consolation, you're not the only person to be sold by a friend. I speak from personal experience. When the ToT took a weekend trip to Tijuana, Logan managed to sell Danny Vice for half a pack of cigarettes and a straw hat.)
…That’s the sort of hero I can be. I can make that sacrifice. I can be the villain so that someone else can be the hero. I can be the bastard that everyone hates. I can bring salvation to the WCF. Through my maleficence, I will break this mire of lethargy that has polluted this company for too long. I will turn inertia into action. I will turn apathy into seething hatred. I will be your motivation.
Of course, the majority, the plebian masses they will hate me. They will boo me. They will force upon my person a rain of chides and half-empty popcorn buckets. But there will be some, those of the greatest perceptibility, those of the sharpest insight, the educari elite, will know what I did for them. As will you…
…You, whoever you are, who finally realizes the inevitable.
…You, whoever you are, who finally vanquishes the twin evils of The Bastard Clown and The WCF Icon.
…You, whoever you are, who will one day find yourself standing tall, hands raised, over the broken bodies of Logan and Jack of Blades, you will know the full measure of not only my sacrifice but Logan’s as well.
…You, whoever you are, will know that from that moment on every cheer that is directed at you, every lush contract that comes your way, every title opportunity will all derive from what Logan and I did for you…
…And you will owe us a great debt; a debt that can only be repaid in hotdogs.
-Judas of Blades
