...The One Eyed Man is King

...The One Eyed Man is King Feb 2, 2021 12:27:58 GMT -6 Conrad Dukes, Punished Von Brandt, and 2 more like this

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Post by Ransack Manson on Feb 2, 2021 12:27:58 GMT -6

The following is an excerpt from the transcripts of recordings found in the files of Dr. Reginald Royce

The nameless patient experiences prolonged fits of grandeur and delusion, and in a general population scenario, he should pose a threat unlike that of any other patient I’ve seen at Devil’s Gate. The potency of his connection to the others is… intimidating. His ability to rile up the most negative emotional states in the other inma… patients is certainly something to behold.

I don’t know if his psychological reach is limited to the, um, mentally impaired and infirmed or if--and this is certainly a thought of much concern should his unlikely release ever be ordered--he would find his effects on a broader, less vulnerable population to be as potent. Should he simply be uniquely capable to affect the suggestibility of any member of our broader society… well, that… that could be exceptionally dangerous, and this patient would certainly be a powder keg roasting on a spit above a campfire.

A victor. Ransack had stood with his hand raised in the first organized fight of his life. Up to that point, his fights had all been disorganized messes typical of a brawl for survival when baser instincts kick in and unbridled violence is the only strategy that might allow a man to escape the fray intact. His usual fights were the kind men engage in when food is scarce and safety is hard to come by. The fights organized by BPW? Sure, survival was an element of the game--after all, it was either this or COVID or the wastelands that seemed to expand in a way that could remind a casual observer of persistent sprawl of the universe itself--but success in BPW promised things Ransack simply didn’t need. He didn’t need the money. He didn’t need the accolades. He didn’t need to be a star in the dystopia that enveloped everything he’d ever known from the world prior to the first spark in this out-of-control viral-wildfire. He didn’t need any of it, yet… he sure wasn’t turning it down either.

Ransack sat comfortably--at least as comfortably as anyone could under the circumstances-- in a disintegrating lawn chair that had washed down into the Land of the Mole People during the last good rain. The chair’s supports sagged and the structure of the seat itself whined under the strain of Ransack’s considerable heft, but he sat confidently like a king on a dilapidated throne. His imagination took over and he saw himself welding a scepter crafted from the finest broken glass, wearing the fanciest of tattered fabrics one can find in a gutter, and basking in the ramshackle glory of lording over his kingdom of miscreants and societies’ disregarded children. His mask, a gift from an old friend he’d first encountered at Devil’s Gate, obscured the view of the overwhelming feeling of joy he was experiencing. When Ransack had first received the mask, it had been a safety blanket for Ransack, but these days, as the madman sat in his throne, the mask had begun to feel more like a crown.

“In the kingdom of the Mole People…” Ransack laughed to himself as his delusion faded back to the tunnels. The cacophony of voices surrounded him on all sides. The concrete reverberated the sounds of everyone who called his kingdom home; Ransack looked out into the darkness fondly.

“Home.” He grunted to himself and no one all the same. A shriek from just over his shoulder snatched Ransack’s attention away from the moment. He rose, bolt upright, to stare hopelessly into the darkness. The voice screamed out again, “MINE!” and the sound of metal clanging against metal and then falling to the concrete led Ransack to retrieve the flashlight he had attached to his wrist for true emergencies.

As he always did, Ransack hesitated to shine the bright light in the pitch black sewer. Batteries were too hard to come by in the tunnels and swiftly changing from the blackness to bright light always had the same effect as a flashbang that would blind not only the person target but Ransack himself as well, an unintended victim of the sudden burst of brightness in the dark.

The first flecks of light burned as they illuminated the spindly frame of the scant, dark skinned man whose eyes sparkled like cloudy diamonds.

“AHHHH! TURN IT OFF!”

Rage washed over Ransack the the bean-pole-of-a-man scrambled to grab the throne, and Ransack pounced and began to pummel him. The flashlight flailed about as Ransack landed blow after blow upon the man’s face and head with closed fists. As the fighting spirit of Ransack’s sudden adversary faded, the madman jammed his fingers into the gullet of the pitiful throne thief and escorted the broken man into unconsciousness with a mandible claw hold. The screaming faded into relative silence, and the thief was out. Calm returned, and Ransack secured the return of his throne before placing the seat in its proper position. Ransack sunk into it and again, it agonized against his weight. Despite the chair’s protestations, there he remained, ruler of his kingdom again.

Realizing the flashlight was still on, Ransack shined the light on his downed foe once more, relishing for a moment in the sight of battered, broken flesh before turning the light off. The tunnels returned to darkness, and all was right in the kingdom of the Mole People again.

The following is an excerpt from the files of Pete Harper:

I think we made a terrible mistake by allowing the patients to be forced from Devil’s Gate. Think of the destruction that may be wreaked upon any unfortunate soul who fails to comprehend the threat posed by the men in front of them… I shudder to think of what hell could could be wrought upon those who misread our patients as vulnerable or easy targets should resource scarcity continue to threaten our pandemic ridden world with such fury. Such a deep, profound concern overwhelms me that I have not slept a full night since we fulfilled the release orders.

To the matter at hand though, the knowledge that men such as Der Metzger or Ransack Manson are simply out in the world, living freely but without access to medicine or other therapies is a great terror, and I am keeping my ear to the ground in hopes that some rumblings will reveal something--anything really--about where these walking timebombs have gone. I will not be able to forgive myself if I do not do everything I can in order to ensure the weapons which we have so aptly honed and sharpened are not wielded carelessly by those who will offer little regard for who will pay the consequence.

Despite the fact that life in the tunnels meant residents would experience more temperate weather than those on the surface, the desert heat would still turn them into a dry sauna. When anything that could rot came to rest down there--animals looking for a private place to die, improperly disposed of trash, anything--it made the tunnels all but inhabitable for most of their residents. Yet, Ransack’s throne rested not but feet away from the lifeless remains of the thief that had long succumbed to his injuries, and he remained unaffected by the overwhelming stench of death.

He grunted to himself again, “Mine.” Ransack sat, deep in thought about that feeling he’d been so full of upon the first celebratory moment he could ever recall feeling in his life. He had been happy before, sure, but before his first victory in BPW, Ransack had never celebrated. His fights before had always led to the same end: an unconscious--or worse--former opponent down at his feet and little glory in the moment. But BPW? A fight in a ring?! Held under the auspice of legitimate competition?! Well, that was a different high entirely, and now that Ransack had had a taste, he knew that he would have to chase it again and again and again.

This nest he’d built himself in the midst of the kingdom sprawling before him was home, sure, but no one stays home every day. Ransack had a high to chase and a swiftly deteriorating opponent to dispose of. He recoiled at the thought and spoke out loud to himself, “Real king not taking out trash.” Ransack heard the sound of scurrying little claws against the concrete down the tunnel and he smiled to himself. “Real king has servants.”

The rats got more and more confident--desperate?--with time and got closer and closer to the body until they swarmed the fallen foe. Despite how badly he’d wanted to watch the show by the glow of the flashlight, Ransack could not bear to risk the rats scattering under the light and merely listened to the soundtrack of the nightmare as the rats tore flesh from bone and devoured everything they could of the man’s remains. Ransack muffled his laughter as he muttered to himself, “All hail the king, heh.”

Post by Ransack Manson on Feb 2, 2021 12:27:58 GMT -6

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