Post by Jack of Blades on May 16, 2009 18:39:25 GMT -5
A WCF.com exclusive:
TAKEN BACKSTAGE AT LAST WEEK’S SLAM!
As if it were the half-phoenix/half-boomerang/half-Keith Richards creature of Gregorian myth, the Team of Treachery had marked this week's Slam with their umpteenth comeback. And yet, what should have been a bang came out a whimper. What should have been a milestone came out a calamity. What should have been 'American Recordings' came out 'St. Anger.'
Addled by his mustardy addiction, suffering from the 'yellow haze', the organization’s venerable leader had placed all his faith in a capital enemy turning into a premier friend. He expected haughty antipathy to turn into cock-sucking obsequiousness; a trait he demands from all his subjects (See: Danny Vice).
Unsurprisingly, the plan did not go to plan. Embarrassment followed. See-Dee had refused to wear his leash and, living up to his physical resemblance to the actress Kathy Bates, had hobbled the Team of Treachery at the knees. And Logan…Logan does not like to wear calipers whether metaphorical or otherwise.
A few hours after the event, Logan was now turning his changing room into a forum for his vexation proceeding to tell everyone in close propinquity just how he felt about the matter. Of course, The Bastard Clown, Jack of Blades can probably already guess his feelings on the subject.
The mustard fiend's nostrils flare; the result of either burning outrage or the catching of the room’s pervasive crotch-sweat stench. Jack of Blades remains engrossed in his copy of 'The New York Times.'
Logan: I’ll kill him. I’ll rape him. I’ll eat him. I’ll eat the fucker. He can bathe in ketchup for many a’moon and I’ll still swallow the fucker whole.
The other parties show their support for Logan’s dietary plans through silence.
Logan: Nobody does this to me! Nobody does this to us!
(His eyes not leaving his newspaper) Jack of Blades: Well, actually, full-blown betrayal seems pretty befitting of a group known as the 'Team of Treachery.' Maybe we should get him an 'Employee of the Month' placard or something.
(Interrupting) Logan: CD! CD! C-D! Creeping Death? More like 'Certified Deadman!' When I get my hands on him, he'll have a 'Castrated Dick.' C-D! CD is…CD is…
(Eyes remain on the printed obituaries) Jack of Blades: 'Cuntingly Deceptive?'
(Anger rising) Logan: Yeah, yeah! That's a good one. Seven days is all I have to wait. And then I'll wrap my hands around his chickenshit neck and I'll—I'll keep tearing! I'll keep tearing till I see bone!
At this, Logan removes a paper notice about the dangers of illicit shower practices from the locker room wall. He makes confetti.
Logan: I'll tear! Tear! Tear!
Soon, Logan is ripping nothing but dead air; ribbons strewn at his feet. His anger mesmeric prevents him from realizing. The tearing restarts as pretentious broadsheet is handed over. Hand meets shoulder as Jack of Blades attempts to soothe the temper of his collaborationist.
Jack of Blades: "Behold on wrong Swift vengeance waits; and art subdues the strong."
Logan: Iliad?
Jack of Blades: Homer.
If Jack of Blades knows anything about his partner in perfidy, it is that the Greek epics have a calming, almost soporific effect upon him. The sedation allows their interlocution to travel in a new tangent.
Jack of Blades: Logan, Mr Black should be lauded. The wounds he bestowed upon us go beyond mere chair shot and headlock. The power of we have comes from our bastard cunning and mastermind smarts…and CD took that away from us. He tricked the tricksters. He proved himself smarter and that hurts a lot more than the effects of his blackout blitzkrieg. No, we can’t just staple his kneecaps to his chin. The reparations owed to him have to go beyond mere physical injury…
Logan: You've got something planned, don't you?
Silence doesn’t answer this time; a sick, rictus grin does. Blades waltzes from the camera’s frame, his smile inducing Logan to follow. They move off in a seductive tango. A plutonic tango. A plutonic heterosexual tango devoid of any unsavoury connotation. In fact, it’s not even really a tango. More like a friendly, genderless saunter.
TAKEN BACKSTAGE AT LAST WEEK’S SLAM!
As if it were the half-phoenix/half-boomerang/half-Keith Richards creature of Gregorian myth, the Team of Treachery had marked this week's Slam with their umpteenth comeback. And yet, what should have been a bang came out a whimper. What should have been a milestone came out a calamity. What should have been 'American Recordings' came out 'St. Anger.'
Addled by his mustardy addiction, suffering from the 'yellow haze', the organization’s venerable leader had placed all his faith in a capital enemy turning into a premier friend. He expected haughty antipathy to turn into cock-sucking obsequiousness; a trait he demands from all his subjects (See: Danny Vice).
Unsurprisingly, the plan did not go to plan. Embarrassment followed. See-Dee had refused to wear his leash and, living up to his physical resemblance to the actress Kathy Bates, had hobbled the Team of Treachery at the knees. And Logan…Logan does not like to wear calipers whether metaphorical or otherwise.
A few hours after the event, Logan was now turning his changing room into a forum for his vexation proceeding to tell everyone in close propinquity just how he felt about the matter. Of course, The Bastard Clown, Jack of Blades can probably already guess his feelings on the subject.
The mustard fiend's nostrils flare; the result of either burning outrage or the catching of the room’s pervasive crotch-sweat stench. Jack of Blades remains engrossed in his copy of 'The New York Times.'
Logan: I’ll kill him. I’ll rape him. I’ll eat him. I’ll eat the fucker. He can bathe in ketchup for many a’moon and I’ll still swallow the fucker whole.
The other parties show their support for Logan’s dietary plans through silence.
Logan: Nobody does this to me! Nobody does this to us!
(His eyes not leaving his newspaper) Jack of Blades: Well, actually, full-blown betrayal seems pretty befitting of a group known as the 'Team of Treachery.' Maybe we should get him an 'Employee of the Month' placard or something.
(Interrupting) Logan: CD! CD! C-D! Creeping Death? More like 'Certified Deadman!' When I get my hands on him, he'll have a 'Castrated Dick.' C-D! CD is…CD is…
(Eyes remain on the printed obituaries) Jack of Blades: 'Cuntingly Deceptive?'
(Anger rising) Logan: Yeah, yeah! That's a good one. Seven days is all I have to wait. And then I'll wrap my hands around his chickenshit neck and I'll—I'll keep tearing! I'll keep tearing till I see bone!
At this, Logan removes a paper notice about the dangers of illicit shower practices from the locker room wall. He makes confetti.
Logan: I'll tear! Tear! Tear!
Soon, Logan is ripping nothing but dead air; ribbons strewn at his feet. His anger mesmeric prevents him from realizing. The tearing restarts as pretentious broadsheet is handed over. Hand meets shoulder as Jack of Blades attempts to soothe the temper of his collaborationist.
Jack of Blades: "Behold on wrong Swift vengeance waits; and art subdues the strong."
Logan: Iliad?
Jack of Blades: Homer.
If Jack of Blades knows anything about his partner in perfidy, it is that the Greek epics have a calming, almost soporific effect upon him. The sedation allows their interlocution to travel in a new tangent.
Jack of Blades: Logan, Mr Black should be lauded. The wounds he bestowed upon us go beyond mere chair shot and headlock. The power of we have comes from our bastard cunning and mastermind smarts…and CD took that away from us. He tricked the tricksters. He proved himself smarter and that hurts a lot more than the effects of his blackout blitzkrieg. No, we can’t just staple his kneecaps to his chin. The reparations owed to him have to go beyond mere physical injury…
Logan: You've got something planned, don't you?
Silence doesn’t answer this time; a sick, rictus grin does. Blades waltzes from the camera’s frame, his smile inducing Logan to follow. They move off in a seductive tango. A plutonic tango. A plutonic heterosexual tango devoid of any unsavoury connotation. In fact, it’s not even really a tango. More like a friendly, genderless saunter.
