Post by Jack of Blades on Mar 29, 2006 13:05:59 GMT -5
Once again the stipulations are the same.
Jack of Blades: The heir returned to the 'palace' after the news of his parent's death and soon after his arrival, we, the family, received a letter inviting us to the funeral of parents. We accepted and I asked Maria to accompany me as if to give me support. I did not want to shame myself in the face of my wealthy friend even in this current scenario.
The service was the usual combination of hyperbole and lies claiming that they were philanthropists of the highest order. I still maintained my respect listening to every word even if I was somewhat apathetic. This was not the case for the heir. He fidgeted and modified his posture throughout the sermon often smiling at the people around him. I thought he was trying to put on a brave face but in reality it was the introductory act to his current sedate lifestyle. He didn't care.
At the reception if you can call it that, the heir approached Maria, my mother and I, and tried to be more of a host than a mourner. I was ashamed at the fact he made me laugh at his witticisms and somewhat threatened by his ability to make Maria, a stranger to him, smile. My mother received the best gift from him though. He told her that he was going to reside permanently at the mansion and was not going to return to his 'boys club.' He then went on to state that there would be a position open for her if she wanted it. She agreed on the spot.
He asked that she come to the 'palace' in one week so that she could arrange the necessary procedure to enroll him in my school. She did so and I was reunited with my best friend through his surrogate and my biological mother.
Maria and the heir hit it off quite drastically. He was also entranced by her ability and she was amazed at the subtleties of his home. His library was considered more impressive than my first issue of 'Private Eye.' His inbuilt cinema more impressive than my 'Three Colours Red' video boxset. His swimming pool greater than my impromptu soccer goal which was simply a chalk rectangle on a wall.
The heir used to call us the 'Three Musketeers' but I preferred to refer to us as Descartes' 'Inconsistent Triad.' You had myself, the intelligent wallflower, the heir, the inept charmer and Maria, a combination of the two.
However, the relationship was often tense as the heir suffered greater mood swings than a pregnant woman. I suspected something sinister invoked this change. This was confirmed at his sixteenth birthday.
Although the heir had spent many a birthday alone at his boarding school, he was reluctant to spend this one alone. He asked his chauffeur to take himself, Maria and I to 'Crackton', the armpit of the our hometown and leave until he called. We did this and the heir directed us to a cliched bar known as 'Triggers.' His natural aesthetic combined with his slush fund allowed him to convince the bartender into serving us. Maria and the heir both consumed copious amounts of alcohol whereas I would ask for ginger ale and a champagne glass to create the illusion of myself also partaking in such illegal activities.
After we had consumed our beverages of choice, the heir asked that the disabled toilets be cornered off and made it possible that only we three could enter. At first I thought he had wanted a mass defecation but his true intentions became clear once he revealed a polythene bag with what he called 'talc' (which did nothing to help my perception that we going to collectively excrete.) He then proceeded to tip the white powder onto the toilet seat and divide it using his 'lifeblood' (my pet name for his boundless credit card.) If the pen is mightier than the sword as if it were a gun then this card must have been some kind of nuclear weapon.
The heir brought out a small two-inch piece of metal tubing and used it to inhale two lines. He offered it to Maria who surprised me by snorting the third. The turn was passed to me who due to a lifetime of innocent bystandary did not wish to condemn his existence to being contingent on such a thing. Thankfully, I had watched 'Annie Hall' a few days before and with such a film prominent in my mind, I emulated Woody Allen's response to cocaine. After the sneeze dispersed it around the toilet I was met with two different reactions. Maria looked at me somewhat angrily as if I had sabotaged her chance to achieve normality whereas the heir just laughed saying that was 'Vintage Jack' and stating that he could get some more.
It is a hugely humourous thing to watch an inheritor of billions snort drugs off the seat on which people go to relieve themselves in various ways. That combined with 'Charlie snorting charlie' would have been too much for me. I would have had to have smiled.
We returned to our table and continued our drinking with the other two seemingly waiting for the cocaine's effect to be at its apex. It happened about half an hour later and they stumbled out in a haze with me the 'conscientious objector' following about two feet behind.
We trailed through the neon disaster of 'Crackton' until the two inebriates stopped outside of a shop window. It was a tattoo parlour. "We should get tats" suggested the heir completely contradicting all lessons of etiquette which undoubtedly he had had. Maria agreed placing the pressure directly on me. I had always been intrigued by the idea of having a tattoo. It was a designation of personal identity; something which I was severely lacking. At this point in time though, I was still reluctant to be as decisive and impulsive as my peers.
Thinking on my feet, I suggested that we should get 'card' tattoos. It was a good response. Not only would I not lose face but it also allowed me a way of getting through it with no ink on my torso or appendages.
The heir agreed. "Yeah, like playing cards? So like one of us is the King, another the Ace. Yeah. That's why I keep you around." Maria looked equally as impressed by my suggestion so now it was time to piss on their proverbial bonfire.
"Shit." I hated to swear but felt this added something. "We can't get the full set of the royals. There's only three of us but there are four face cards." I expected this to allow some delineation from getting a tattoo so was impressed by the impulsive request of the heir in response to my negativity.
"Ah, fuck it." He scanned the denizens of 'Crackton' and called to this nearest one. He was a vagrant that must have made the extra effort to be dirty. It looked as if he actually bathed in his own filth. "Yeah, you, wanna make a hundred pounds?"
The repugnant vagrant strolled over with a lame left leg. "You just gotta come and get a tattoo with us." The vagrant nodded in agreement as if this was a typical request. I felt impressed by the heir's impulse and instinct so I agreed to follow his manipulation and get tattooed.
After this, we debated who should get which value card. The heir claimed ownership over the Ace of Spades, as he was paying and thus felt he should have the higher card. Maria would obviously have the gender-specific Queen of Clubs. This just left the Jack of Hearts and the King of Diamonds. It was suggested that I have the latter but out of appreciation of irony I would have preferred for the vagrant to become the King of an item far transcending his universe.
We entered the parlour and were divided into four different curtained rooms. I heard nothing from the Ace, random yelps of pain from the Queen and snoring from the King. I decided to talk to 'Mad Dog', the person doing my tattoo about leather and Anthrax, the band although we did eventually come to the biological weapon.
I revealed my tattoo to my family at the dinnertable the following day. It permeated the silence but was met with neither punishment nor encouragement. They simply assimilated the fact that I had marked my body and returned to their microwavable roasts. The silence continued, all four of us attempting to chew silently. That was until the front door shaked as if the Grim Reaper was coming calling for one of us. No one went to move. I drew the short straw.
I opened the door to see a bruised Maria crying. Her father had learnt about her tattoo but was less or in fact more responsive than mine. He had hit her out of anger retaining the belief that her flesh was his. I decided not to take her into the cacophony of silence and instead signaled we talk in the car.
She retold the events of her day to me while I pretended to listen all the meanwhile watching the digital clock on the dashboard. While describing the incident, her head began to bleed again and stain her perfect brown hair. I found a tissue and began to wipe away the claret only to find myself drawn into an embrace she initiated. We began to fumble around in a fashion that gave the teenage years a bad reputation. She placed her brilliant hands and her coloured nails down the front of my jeans when a pain struck my chest. I flinched backwards unable to catch a breath let alone 'raise the Jackhammer.'
She seemed more shocked than I as if somehow she had punched me in the gut. I tried to reassure her otherwise but she stumbled out of the vehicle and ran into the darkness as well as my first opportunity to lose my virginity. A few pink tablets and I returned back to my eager state but left without a partner.
Due to shame and embarrassment, I refused to make an appearance at school and I also arranged an appointment with my Doctor to see if anything could be done about my breathing problems. My life had been determined by these difficulties before but never to this extent. I was a teenage heterosexual who had been screwed out of his first carnal encounter due to illness. I would have taken experimental medication that caused me to grow seven arms if I would have allowed me another shot at Maria.
The appointment was different than previous ones. I knew this because of the fact it was booked within the space of two days. I relayed the events of distress under the knowledge of patient-doctor confidentiality. He sighed, removed his glasses (if one were to study semiotics than this must have seemed a bad sign) and gave me a similar punch to the gut as Maria did.
He told me that my condition was psychosomatic and had been since about the age of 12. My lungs had healed and was capable of average oxygen intake. For the past few months, with my parents consent, he had been prescribing placebos which evidenced the nature of my illness. He concluded that these 'attacks of breathlessness' were established as a result of stress. A clever reflex that allowed me to avoid stressful events. He said that therapy was available for such a problem. And that I 'had a very interesting mind, Mr Nolan.'
By this point I was hyperventilating. My eyes looked as if they were screaming. I would have done this vocally if not for my inability to take oxygen. He rushed to take out some sort of calming drug but it was too late. I stopped. Not breathing, I stopped hyperventilating. I regained my breath. What took most people a weekly visit to the psychiatrist and several doses of daily depressants had taken me or my mind, thirty seconds.
I still walked out with the therapists number but I knew that this Mensan had beaten his reflex illness. I wanted to confront Maria with the news so I waited for her outside the school, visited her house and even investigated 'Triggers' in my search. It was becoming twilight and I promised my social better of a friend I would attend an evening of Tarantino movies and video games.
I made one last attempt at finding Maria, stopping by a garage to pick up some faux roses on sale. I wanted better for her but I knew the proverb of 'its the thought that counts' well. I searched the aforementioned places once more in my pursuit before giving up and going to the mansion.
As I walked up the acre-long pathway, I observed the heir almost swallowing Maria in the same embrace as mine three days ago. A pain struck my hand as if something was trying to break through my skin. It was the plastic thorn of my imitation roses. I was squeezing them as if I was completely dependant on them but at the same time loathed them.
I interrupted them and they relayed their confession of attractions to me and Maria questioned my state of health. I gave a non-committal answer saying a mixture of truth and lie before we all entered the heir's home for a night of electric dialogue and Sonic The Hedgehog.
The following year involved me playing confidante and friend to both Maria and her partner. Instead of becoming a third wheel I became more of a kick start. Something to ground the relationship in. They had both come to knew each other through me and thus used me as common ground. For instance, on one occasion we were in the heir's private cinema when he asked me if I still watched 'that wrestling crap.' I said that I did and they both went on to chuckle in ridicule.
This sort of triangular relationship continued until the heir's 17th birthday where a party had been arranged by greedy board members and vampiric sycophants. He tapped his champagne glass before revealing that he had just asked for Maria's perfect hand in marriage. She had agreed.
Jack of Blades: The heir returned to the 'palace' after the news of his parent's death and soon after his arrival, we, the family, received a letter inviting us to the funeral of parents. We accepted and I asked Maria to accompany me as if to give me support. I did not want to shame myself in the face of my wealthy friend even in this current scenario.
The service was the usual combination of hyperbole and lies claiming that they were philanthropists of the highest order. I still maintained my respect listening to every word even if I was somewhat apathetic. This was not the case for the heir. He fidgeted and modified his posture throughout the sermon often smiling at the people around him. I thought he was trying to put on a brave face but in reality it was the introductory act to his current sedate lifestyle. He didn't care.
At the reception if you can call it that, the heir approached Maria, my mother and I, and tried to be more of a host than a mourner. I was ashamed at the fact he made me laugh at his witticisms and somewhat threatened by his ability to make Maria, a stranger to him, smile. My mother received the best gift from him though. He told her that he was going to reside permanently at the mansion and was not going to return to his 'boys club.' He then went on to state that there would be a position open for her if she wanted it. She agreed on the spot.
He asked that she come to the 'palace' in one week so that she could arrange the necessary procedure to enroll him in my school. She did so and I was reunited with my best friend through his surrogate and my biological mother.
Maria and the heir hit it off quite drastically. He was also entranced by her ability and she was amazed at the subtleties of his home. His library was considered more impressive than my first issue of 'Private Eye.' His inbuilt cinema more impressive than my 'Three Colours Red' video boxset. His swimming pool greater than my impromptu soccer goal which was simply a chalk rectangle on a wall.
The heir used to call us the 'Three Musketeers' but I preferred to refer to us as Descartes' 'Inconsistent Triad.' You had myself, the intelligent wallflower, the heir, the inept charmer and Maria, a combination of the two.
However, the relationship was often tense as the heir suffered greater mood swings than a pregnant woman. I suspected something sinister invoked this change. This was confirmed at his sixteenth birthday.
Although the heir had spent many a birthday alone at his boarding school, he was reluctant to spend this one alone. He asked his chauffeur to take himself, Maria and I to 'Crackton', the armpit of the our hometown and leave until he called. We did this and the heir directed us to a cliched bar known as 'Triggers.' His natural aesthetic combined with his slush fund allowed him to convince the bartender into serving us. Maria and the heir both consumed copious amounts of alcohol whereas I would ask for ginger ale and a champagne glass to create the illusion of myself also partaking in such illegal activities.
After we had consumed our beverages of choice, the heir asked that the disabled toilets be cornered off and made it possible that only we three could enter. At first I thought he had wanted a mass defecation but his true intentions became clear once he revealed a polythene bag with what he called 'talc' (which did nothing to help my perception that we going to collectively excrete.) He then proceeded to tip the white powder onto the toilet seat and divide it using his 'lifeblood' (my pet name for his boundless credit card.) If the pen is mightier than the sword as if it were a gun then this card must have been some kind of nuclear weapon.
The heir brought out a small two-inch piece of metal tubing and used it to inhale two lines. He offered it to Maria who surprised me by snorting the third. The turn was passed to me who due to a lifetime of innocent bystandary did not wish to condemn his existence to being contingent on such a thing. Thankfully, I had watched 'Annie Hall' a few days before and with such a film prominent in my mind, I emulated Woody Allen's response to cocaine. After the sneeze dispersed it around the toilet I was met with two different reactions. Maria looked at me somewhat angrily as if I had sabotaged her chance to achieve normality whereas the heir just laughed saying that was 'Vintage Jack' and stating that he could get some more.
It is a hugely humourous thing to watch an inheritor of billions snort drugs off the seat on which people go to relieve themselves in various ways. That combined with 'Charlie snorting charlie' would have been too much for me. I would have had to have smiled.
We returned to our table and continued our drinking with the other two seemingly waiting for the cocaine's effect to be at its apex. It happened about half an hour later and they stumbled out in a haze with me the 'conscientious objector' following about two feet behind.
We trailed through the neon disaster of 'Crackton' until the two inebriates stopped outside of a shop window. It was a tattoo parlour. "We should get tats" suggested the heir completely contradicting all lessons of etiquette which undoubtedly he had had. Maria agreed placing the pressure directly on me. I had always been intrigued by the idea of having a tattoo. It was a designation of personal identity; something which I was severely lacking. At this point in time though, I was still reluctant to be as decisive and impulsive as my peers.
Thinking on my feet, I suggested that we should get 'card' tattoos. It was a good response. Not only would I not lose face but it also allowed me a way of getting through it with no ink on my torso or appendages.
The heir agreed. "Yeah, like playing cards? So like one of us is the King, another the Ace. Yeah. That's why I keep you around." Maria looked equally as impressed by my suggestion so now it was time to piss on their proverbial bonfire.
"Shit." I hated to swear but felt this added something. "We can't get the full set of the royals. There's only three of us but there are four face cards." I expected this to allow some delineation from getting a tattoo so was impressed by the impulsive request of the heir in response to my negativity.
"Ah, fuck it." He scanned the denizens of 'Crackton' and called to this nearest one. He was a vagrant that must have made the extra effort to be dirty. It looked as if he actually bathed in his own filth. "Yeah, you, wanna make a hundred pounds?"
The repugnant vagrant strolled over with a lame left leg. "You just gotta come and get a tattoo with us." The vagrant nodded in agreement as if this was a typical request. I felt impressed by the heir's impulse and instinct so I agreed to follow his manipulation and get tattooed.
After this, we debated who should get which value card. The heir claimed ownership over the Ace of Spades, as he was paying and thus felt he should have the higher card. Maria would obviously have the gender-specific Queen of Clubs. This just left the Jack of Hearts and the King of Diamonds. It was suggested that I have the latter but out of appreciation of irony I would have preferred for the vagrant to become the King of an item far transcending his universe.
We entered the parlour and were divided into four different curtained rooms. I heard nothing from the Ace, random yelps of pain from the Queen and snoring from the King. I decided to talk to 'Mad Dog', the person doing my tattoo about leather and Anthrax, the band although we did eventually come to the biological weapon.
I revealed my tattoo to my family at the dinnertable the following day. It permeated the silence but was met with neither punishment nor encouragement. They simply assimilated the fact that I had marked my body and returned to their microwavable roasts. The silence continued, all four of us attempting to chew silently. That was until the front door shaked as if the Grim Reaper was coming calling for one of us. No one went to move. I drew the short straw.
I opened the door to see a bruised Maria crying. Her father had learnt about her tattoo but was less or in fact more responsive than mine. He had hit her out of anger retaining the belief that her flesh was his. I decided not to take her into the cacophony of silence and instead signaled we talk in the car.
She retold the events of her day to me while I pretended to listen all the meanwhile watching the digital clock on the dashboard. While describing the incident, her head began to bleed again and stain her perfect brown hair. I found a tissue and began to wipe away the claret only to find myself drawn into an embrace she initiated. We began to fumble around in a fashion that gave the teenage years a bad reputation. She placed her brilliant hands and her coloured nails down the front of my jeans when a pain struck my chest. I flinched backwards unable to catch a breath let alone 'raise the Jackhammer.'
She seemed more shocked than I as if somehow she had punched me in the gut. I tried to reassure her otherwise but she stumbled out of the vehicle and ran into the darkness as well as my first opportunity to lose my virginity. A few pink tablets and I returned back to my eager state but left without a partner.
Due to shame and embarrassment, I refused to make an appearance at school and I also arranged an appointment with my Doctor to see if anything could be done about my breathing problems. My life had been determined by these difficulties before but never to this extent. I was a teenage heterosexual who had been screwed out of his first carnal encounter due to illness. I would have taken experimental medication that caused me to grow seven arms if I would have allowed me another shot at Maria.
The appointment was different than previous ones. I knew this because of the fact it was booked within the space of two days. I relayed the events of distress under the knowledge of patient-doctor confidentiality. He sighed, removed his glasses (if one were to study semiotics than this must have seemed a bad sign) and gave me a similar punch to the gut as Maria did.
He told me that my condition was psychosomatic and had been since about the age of 12. My lungs had healed and was capable of average oxygen intake. For the past few months, with my parents consent, he had been prescribing placebos which evidenced the nature of my illness. He concluded that these 'attacks of breathlessness' were established as a result of stress. A clever reflex that allowed me to avoid stressful events. He said that therapy was available for such a problem. And that I 'had a very interesting mind, Mr Nolan.'
By this point I was hyperventilating. My eyes looked as if they were screaming. I would have done this vocally if not for my inability to take oxygen. He rushed to take out some sort of calming drug but it was too late. I stopped. Not breathing, I stopped hyperventilating. I regained my breath. What took most people a weekly visit to the psychiatrist and several doses of daily depressants had taken me or my mind, thirty seconds.
I still walked out with the therapists number but I knew that this Mensan had beaten his reflex illness. I wanted to confront Maria with the news so I waited for her outside the school, visited her house and even investigated 'Triggers' in my search. It was becoming twilight and I promised my social better of a friend I would attend an evening of Tarantino movies and video games.
I made one last attempt at finding Maria, stopping by a garage to pick up some faux roses on sale. I wanted better for her but I knew the proverb of 'its the thought that counts' well. I searched the aforementioned places once more in my pursuit before giving up and going to the mansion.
As I walked up the acre-long pathway, I observed the heir almost swallowing Maria in the same embrace as mine three days ago. A pain struck my hand as if something was trying to break through my skin. It was the plastic thorn of my imitation roses. I was squeezing them as if I was completely dependant on them but at the same time loathed them.
I interrupted them and they relayed their confession of attractions to me and Maria questioned my state of health. I gave a non-committal answer saying a mixture of truth and lie before we all entered the heir's home for a night of electric dialogue and Sonic The Hedgehog.
The following year involved me playing confidante and friend to both Maria and her partner. Instead of becoming a third wheel I became more of a kick start. Something to ground the relationship in. They had both come to knew each other through me and thus used me as common ground. For instance, on one occasion we were in the heir's private cinema when he asked me if I still watched 'that wrestling crap.' I said that I did and they both went on to chuckle in ridicule.
This sort of triangular relationship continued until the heir's 17th birthday where a party had been arranged by greedy board members and vampiric sycophants. He tapped his champagne glass before revealing that he had just asked for Maria's perfect hand in marriage. She had agreed.
