Post by wblstudios on Apr 12, 2006 14:28:18 GMT -5
The opening strains of "Time Consumer", translated from a guitar into blaring techno strains and remixed over the beats of the night, drown out almost everything audible in "The Love Society", the hottest underground rave going on in Philadelphia, just a few mere blocks from the WCF arena... if you know where to go, that is. The floor is covered in drug addicts, dancers, posers, and everything in between as the lights flicker and flash... nobody familiar can be seen just yet, however, but there's a slight tension in the air that barely pierces the sexually charged atmosphere of youth.
Jack of Blades (Offscreen): Ah, the follies of youth. The unbridled passion fueling the ignorance of ageing. Let them enjoy this night. Before the realisation that morning will come sinks in.
The camera turns to face Jack, and the person must reaize that this man is a celebrity, possibly from the WCF, as the camera is trained on him for more than a second. An argument behind the camera is heard, and the carrier sets the camera on some sort of table, chair, or other still place as the shot stays perfectly still, focusing on Jack and the rave behind, the DJ booth seen in the far left corner as song meshed with song... a faint, soft, raspy coughing can be heard, normally one wouldn't think about it...
Jack: Is that the death rattle I hear behind me or just another crazed techno track?
Possibly both, as fate would have it, a smallish figure emerged from the crowd, having traded her usual attire for the rave standard of black leather, but from the scars all over flesh that seemed pale even in the flashing lights of this place, it was obvious who this was. Ellis stares up at Blades, eyes hidden by dull grey hair.
Ellis Island: I never pictured you as the underground type. Then again, neither was I, 'till recently...
Jack: Please. I doubt that you becoming 'underground' was a natural choice. You were more than likely forced into it by the standards of normalcy. I'm here out of a love of irony.
Jack pauses. He reveals a cigar from the intrinsic pocket of his trenchcoat. He lights it and takes a solitary drag before extinguishing it and throwing it casually behind him.
Jack: So, are you here out of force or free will?
Ellis: I'm here because this is one of the few places I can be alone. All the people, all too busy wrapped up in themselves, in the music, nobody cares about anyone else. At least... I thought I could be alone here... and it's pretty hard for me to picture you having a love of anything. For that matter...
Her slight, raspy cough cuts her off for a second, but nothing seems to be flowing out... yet.
Ellis: It's hard for me to believe that you're so interested in me just by fate.
Jack: As a self-proclaimed social pariah, you seem to have a great understanding of the universal nuances of conversation. Stop fishing for sympathy. You're above that. You're above these people and you're above the need for sympathy.
Ellis begins coughing again, slowly cricking her neck before craning it once again to keep focus on Jack
Ellis: I don't care about sympathy. I'd just appreciate it if people would shut up about me for a while. I've been teased ever since I was freed from my personal hell five years ago, so much so that it's hard to imagine what it'd be like for it to stop. If it's not you, then it's your idiot friend Ace, or that outcast Biggs, or that whore Josephine. You can't imagine what it's like having to share a locker room with her. And for your info... *cough cough, cough* information... it's not anorexia. It's malnutrition. It's a little hard to find food when you're stuck on the streets. Maybe if you knew...
The coughing becomes a bit more violent now, as Ellis is brought to her knees, hand over her mouth.
Jack: I suppose you want to argue with me about who detests the attention the most. Very well, I will indulge you. Ever since I was liberated from the Eulidean prison known as sanity, people in all forms, have discussed the topic of me as if I were some ephemeral wafer passing between definitions. The truly funny thing about this is: people are only talking about me since Jack Blaine Nolan died in some dilapidated wrestling ring four years back.
Jack breaks into a small laugh. Nothing like his usual outbursts.
Jack: If you're civil and coherent to social codes, you go unmentioned. You devise a series of psychopathic manipulations as if you were some cheesy self-help lecturer and you become talk of the town.
The coughing fit ends, and Ellis again stands up, facing Jack as she reaches in her hip pocket, palming something.
Ellis: You want to talk about death and media coverage, about sanity and insanity, you're talking to the wrong person. I'm still trying to work things out for myself. So you go along, and you have your fun, and you go enjoy yourself. Especially in that ring. You won't have to worry about me like your 'pal' Nolan. It's hard to kill something that's already...
Shots blare out over the music, the music and lights being cut almost immediately as the dim flourescent lights take over and the screaming shouts of "Police! This is a raid! Everyone stay where you are!" come out almost as loud as the music once was... apparently, the legend of the "Love Society" was going to be on hold for a while, as "the man" must have found everyone out. Ellis enjoyed the chaos in the club for a second, but realized that she was too young to drink, so she'd be doubly in trouble if the cops found her here. She sighed, glancing at Jack...
Ellis: Another time...
As the track lighting went of for a few seconds, in the confusion. When the came on, Ellis, along with half of the former ravers and the DJ, were gone... but the living dead girl had left a mark... a small, blood-stained handprint on the door of the DJ booth in the corner. Jack remains alone on the impromptu dance floor as the police enter. They manage to force a few ravers back into the club.
Jack: Ah, the police. The ultimate tool of the bourgeoise. Ha. What little respect they possess for this rave and all other raves. Why, to me, a rave is the ultimate comedy club. An underground sub-culture dedicated to being unique and individual. And yet, here they are forming a collective entity which each part moving in tune to some commercially-produced soundtrack. A neon 'ouroborus', if you will. A percentage of the populous dedicated to avoiding conventions unite in such a plight and do the exact opposite. But if only I could learn where the head of this entity began so I could kill it. But, nay. I can only see its imperfections. Me. Her. Maybe even the jerk-off partygoer recording these incidents who believes he has gone away unnoticed. Oh, bloody well. Time to dash.
The police approach Jack and attempt to surround him. They look to pounce until he puts his hand in his inner-coat pocket and brings out a deck of cards. He throws them in the air and all fifty two cards flutter down to the ground. The police distracted stare at the rain of playing cards allowing Jack to dash out and form his theatrical escape. The confusion finally seems to settle down, as all left in the area, now more visible and able to be made out as some sort of warehouse, are a few cops, a a few partygoers too drugged out to realize that the party's over. A large, heavyset cop makes his way over to the camera, looking intently at it for a few seconds before calling to his collegues that it's still on, possible evidence and all that bullshit before he reaches over, shutting it off. Fade out.
Jack of Blades (Offscreen): Ah, the follies of youth. The unbridled passion fueling the ignorance of ageing. Let them enjoy this night. Before the realisation that morning will come sinks in.
The camera turns to face Jack, and the person must reaize that this man is a celebrity, possibly from the WCF, as the camera is trained on him for more than a second. An argument behind the camera is heard, and the carrier sets the camera on some sort of table, chair, or other still place as the shot stays perfectly still, focusing on Jack and the rave behind, the DJ booth seen in the far left corner as song meshed with song... a faint, soft, raspy coughing can be heard, normally one wouldn't think about it...
Jack: Is that the death rattle I hear behind me or just another crazed techno track?
Possibly both, as fate would have it, a smallish figure emerged from the crowd, having traded her usual attire for the rave standard of black leather, but from the scars all over flesh that seemed pale even in the flashing lights of this place, it was obvious who this was. Ellis stares up at Blades, eyes hidden by dull grey hair.
Ellis Island: I never pictured you as the underground type. Then again, neither was I, 'till recently...
Jack: Please. I doubt that you becoming 'underground' was a natural choice. You were more than likely forced into it by the standards of normalcy. I'm here out of a love of irony.
Jack pauses. He reveals a cigar from the intrinsic pocket of his trenchcoat. He lights it and takes a solitary drag before extinguishing it and throwing it casually behind him.
Jack: So, are you here out of force or free will?
Ellis: I'm here because this is one of the few places I can be alone. All the people, all too busy wrapped up in themselves, in the music, nobody cares about anyone else. At least... I thought I could be alone here... and it's pretty hard for me to picture you having a love of anything. For that matter...
Her slight, raspy cough cuts her off for a second, but nothing seems to be flowing out... yet.
Ellis: It's hard for me to believe that you're so interested in me just by fate.
Jack: As a self-proclaimed social pariah, you seem to have a great understanding of the universal nuances of conversation. Stop fishing for sympathy. You're above that. You're above these people and you're above the need for sympathy.
Ellis begins coughing again, slowly cricking her neck before craning it once again to keep focus on Jack
Ellis: I don't care about sympathy. I'd just appreciate it if people would shut up about me for a while. I've been teased ever since I was freed from my personal hell five years ago, so much so that it's hard to imagine what it'd be like for it to stop. If it's not you, then it's your idiot friend Ace, or that outcast Biggs, or that whore Josephine. You can't imagine what it's like having to share a locker room with her. And for your info... *cough cough, cough* information... it's not anorexia. It's malnutrition. It's a little hard to find food when you're stuck on the streets. Maybe if you knew...
The coughing becomes a bit more violent now, as Ellis is brought to her knees, hand over her mouth.
Jack: I suppose you want to argue with me about who detests the attention the most. Very well, I will indulge you. Ever since I was liberated from the Eulidean prison known as sanity, people in all forms, have discussed the topic of me as if I were some ephemeral wafer passing between definitions. The truly funny thing about this is: people are only talking about me since Jack Blaine Nolan died in some dilapidated wrestling ring four years back.
Jack breaks into a small laugh. Nothing like his usual outbursts.
Jack: If you're civil and coherent to social codes, you go unmentioned. You devise a series of psychopathic manipulations as if you were some cheesy self-help lecturer and you become talk of the town.
The coughing fit ends, and Ellis again stands up, facing Jack as she reaches in her hip pocket, palming something.
Ellis: You want to talk about death and media coverage, about sanity and insanity, you're talking to the wrong person. I'm still trying to work things out for myself. So you go along, and you have your fun, and you go enjoy yourself. Especially in that ring. You won't have to worry about me like your 'pal' Nolan. It's hard to kill something that's already...
Shots blare out over the music, the music and lights being cut almost immediately as the dim flourescent lights take over and the screaming shouts of "Police! This is a raid! Everyone stay where you are!" come out almost as loud as the music once was... apparently, the legend of the "Love Society" was going to be on hold for a while, as "the man" must have found everyone out. Ellis enjoyed the chaos in the club for a second, but realized that she was too young to drink, so she'd be doubly in trouble if the cops found her here. She sighed, glancing at Jack...
Ellis: Another time...
As the track lighting went of for a few seconds, in the confusion. When the came on, Ellis, along with half of the former ravers and the DJ, were gone... but the living dead girl had left a mark... a small, blood-stained handprint on the door of the DJ booth in the corner. Jack remains alone on the impromptu dance floor as the police enter. They manage to force a few ravers back into the club.
Jack: Ah, the police. The ultimate tool of the bourgeoise. Ha. What little respect they possess for this rave and all other raves. Why, to me, a rave is the ultimate comedy club. An underground sub-culture dedicated to being unique and individual. And yet, here they are forming a collective entity which each part moving in tune to some commercially-produced soundtrack. A neon 'ouroborus', if you will. A percentage of the populous dedicated to avoiding conventions unite in such a plight and do the exact opposite. But if only I could learn where the head of this entity began so I could kill it. But, nay. I can only see its imperfections. Me. Her. Maybe even the jerk-off partygoer recording these incidents who believes he has gone away unnoticed. Oh, bloody well. Time to dash.
The police approach Jack and attempt to surround him. They look to pounce until he puts his hand in his inner-coat pocket and brings out a deck of cards. He throws them in the air and all fifty two cards flutter down to the ground. The police distracted stare at the rain of playing cards allowing Jack to dash out and form his theatrical escape. The confusion finally seems to settle down, as all left in the area, now more visible and able to be made out as some sort of warehouse, are a few cops, a a few partygoers too drugged out to realize that the party's over. A large, heavyset cop makes his way over to the camera, looking intently at it for a few seconds before calling to his collegues that it's still on, possible evidence and all that bullshit before he reaches over, shutting it off. Fade out.
