Post by hachiman0 on Sept 21, 2021 13:47:27 GMT -6
“This week is a fire sale—so don’t be shy! I implore you, adore your sight before these mortal eyes, and alas revise what makes The Pyramid mighty. Don’t believe me… that’s your choice as a free soul in these dark forsaken times. When the Great Eye is upon you, are you actually you?”
Hachiman pulls the camera into a makeshift museum he’s cobbled together in what appears to be a rundown Parisian inspired café. Where there used to be wallpaper frescas hangs macabre squirrelled from multiple Halloweens to date. Hachiman greets the viewer calmly with the forceful energy of Walken’s Continental character, beckoning them on a Tour de Renaissance.
“You see not one but two subjects of my adoration. “Rip Tide” Taylor was quite a force at the Casino Brawl. Possibly the hardest hitting of the entire warband. His spear sharp and wits deadly as he took the floor apart with sheer athleticism. This red wall represents all he’s offered for public consumption to date.”
Pictures of Taylor in his daily life hang on the walls with overviews of buildings, high places and even unobscured evidence of the shrubs that hid Hachiman and his camera. He presents every element with pride albeit these glaring mistakes no magazine editor would vet from their desk and into print. Still, his enthusiasm brings an eerie shrill expertly captured by that terrified camera operator.
“Taylor has the heart of a champion, or so the skaldic bard “Nelly” said of a fighter’s spirit. And while I’m not one to doubt the sage of thongs and booty clapping—it must be said that where Taylor excels he also drowns. Allow me to demonstrate by pointing out something that he will be QUITE familiar.”
He dives behind the counter and retrieves the menu slate that once hung by the café’s display window. Using discarded fragments of colored chalk, Hachiman diagrams several consummate albeit uneven lines by hand until what appears to be a football pitch. Next, he makes a series of X’s and O’s to demonstrate an otherwise classic American football play: The offense has made a pistol formation with a zone read option. Concurrent to this, now whipped into a hornet frenzy, the defense has assumed a zone blitz with one middle linebacker designed as a spy.
“The zone blitz! As fearsome a weapon as the painted Celts. Or even those lauded Geat of yore landing ashore onto Hrothgar hold. But where there’s intimidation from an oncoming blitzkrieg; be forewarned, as this over pursuit can lead to openings around the side and deep down your enemy’s throat!
While the technical nature of these lines might be lost of those unsaturated by American media, I assure you that Taylor’s mindset is the same bullrush from bell to finish. Serves well in opening minutes until a crafty bit of footwork kicks them in his padded butt. Observe mere mortal at this Herculean labor!”
Somewhere over the side, from what appears to have been part of either a banquet setup or possibly movie night that once operated at the café, a projector whirls until images of a football game appear. The game of his discernment: Dough Flutie’s hale Mary play-action throw that beat an aggressive Miami Hurricane pass rush in route to an upset victory for Boston College. Hachiman watches over the counter, his hands folded with fawn under his flabby, bearded chin.
“You see it now! All I have to be is like the swiftness of coursing rivers with confounding mystery like the dark side of the moon. Alas, my friend, Rip Taylor is but a dead man in red façade. His dirge a bungle call reserved for a cavalry charge. Although his brazen attack on myself and the talent Lazaro will be nothing a charging light brigade destined to be wiped out in full!”
He cachinnates.
“Now we move to the next phase of today’s dissertation on the effect of wrestling on the hearts and souls of commonly bonded soldiers. Those ring hoplites bonded by the very sport that kills them. How else can such disastrous games survive unless it passes onto the those of prestige. What I mean is your have to pass on genes—I know I have. Although I doubt that rabbit wore those Dockers I had sewn for him. Farewell, noble furball, for I knew you well… now about this Lazaro fellow. What a trip he is!
Of those that brought fear to the roster… none brought violence on par with Lazaro Vincente. He was on top of his game and focused on the sport. If you’ll see, from his life between family. Family is paramount to him. See look!”
He gestures towards photos taken from behind a garbage pail as Lazaro and his tio Salvador during some peaceful respite behind closed doors. A conversation only intended for familia proper.
“Pobrecito… esta enojado el camino real… where that heaviest burden falls on the noble son’s—or stifled nephew if we play it the Denmark way—learning shoulders. But all I witnessed in Las Vegas was a man on a mission with no more training required. His belief in the moment might be unparalleled. Look at how he and that scarred veteran Salvador look nearly impoverished despite great wealth. When you wake up be up in a van down by river just covered in mosquito repellent and deer urine—that’s a tragedy. But I assume his wounds are genetic too. Because the sins of a father must go somewhere, right?
So I’ve trapped the Golden Cat in this soul vessel so that we may hear his final wishes, and thus free poor Lazaro from all that holds him back. Only then can he ascend to the prime staircase of that Black Pyramid watching us now in our frantic, feeble existences. What say you, Paco de Gato? Are you with us?”
There’s silence. Hachiman nods while lighting what is clearly a Santa Maria candle he taped a grainy printed image of Lazaro’s father in his luchador best pose post-victory. Nothing happens except for that glazed, thousand-mile stare of Hachiman into a hidden void. He then snaps out of his trance.
“He says you need to man up and stop being a pussy. But, like, in Espanol because he was REALLY pissed off.”
The camera slowly backs away with Hachiman muttering to himself. Cut to a static image of Haciman in the lowering light of midday sun. He then turns to the background where a Jedi ghost of his Great Grandfather looks on disapprovingly.
“Hachiman!” the spirit says with a point. “You are a disgrace!”
“Shut up. I did my best. Howard Black was too fucking good for me.”
“You are no good for this name!”
“What am I supposed to do then, get my name changed legally?”
“Win and we shall see.”
“Okay. Good talk—and yeah, yeah just disappear why don’t you. And tell Oda Nobunaga he’s a tool that backstabbed by his best general.”
He waits with a satisfied grin. Suddenly, the lights flicker and blow out the circuit.
“Ha, jokes on you! I don’t even live here! It’s where I’ve been taking my shi—”
Water rolls from under a back door with sewage, making him flee the museum in a flurry of flashing lights and objects being tossed about by a violent poltergeist. Hachiman faces the camera.
“No one’s gonna believe that,” he says with a laugh. “But the only thing my laughable is a future in the big black pryamid’s shadow for Taylor and Vincente. Everyone knows they are destined to lose. So… Boo!”
He laughs.
“But yeah, see you boys Tuesday. Gonna be a fun one, fuckers!”
Hachiman walks off on that lonesome street from the sight of drone footage, a weary bindle slapped over his shoulder wandering a quiet street going like Bruce Banner. His thumb rises hoping to catch a ride to El Salvador. Moments later, and to his excited moments, a random box truck stops to pick him up. It speeds off down the southern stretch along a seemingly endless road.
Hachiman pulls the camera into a makeshift museum he’s cobbled together in what appears to be a rundown Parisian inspired café. Where there used to be wallpaper frescas hangs macabre squirrelled from multiple Halloweens to date. Hachiman greets the viewer calmly with the forceful energy of Walken’s Continental character, beckoning them on a Tour de Renaissance.
“You see not one but two subjects of my adoration. “Rip Tide” Taylor was quite a force at the Casino Brawl. Possibly the hardest hitting of the entire warband. His spear sharp and wits deadly as he took the floor apart with sheer athleticism. This red wall represents all he’s offered for public consumption to date.”
Pictures of Taylor in his daily life hang on the walls with overviews of buildings, high places and even unobscured evidence of the shrubs that hid Hachiman and his camera. He presents every element with pride albeit these glaring mistakes no magazine editor would vet from their desk and into print. Still, his enthusiasm brings an eerie shrill expertly captured by that terrified camera operator.
“Taylor has the heart of a champion, or so the skaldic bard “Nelly” said of a fighter’s spirit. And while I’m not one to doubt the sage of thongs and booty clapping—it must be said that where Taylor excels he also drowns. Allow me to demonstrate by pointing out something that he will be QUITE familiar.”
He dives behind the counter and retrieves the menu slate that once hung by the café’s display window. Using discarded fragments of colored chalk, Hachiman diagrams several consummate albeit uneven lines by hand until what appears to be a football pitch. Next, he makes a series of X’s and O’s to demonstrate an otherwise classic American football play: The offense has made a pistol formation with a zone read option. Concurrent to this, now whipped into a hornet frenzy, the defense has assumed a zone blitz with one middle linebacker designed as a spy.
“The zone blitz! As fearsome a weapon as the painted Celts. Or even those lauded Geat of yore landing ashore onto Hrothgar hold. But where there’s intimidation from an oncoming blitzkrieg; be forewarned, as this over pursuit can lead to openings around the side and deep down your enemy’s throat!
While the technical nature of these lines might be lost of those unsaturated by American media, I assure you that Taylor’s mindset is the same bullrush from bell to finish. Serves well in opening minutes until a crafty bit of footwork kicks them in his padded butt. Observe mere mortal at this Herculean labor!”
Somewhere over the side, from what appears to have been part of either a banquet setup or possibly movie night that once operated at the café, a projector whirls until images of a football game appear. The game of his discernment: Dough Flutie’s hale Mary play-action throw that beat an aggressive Miami Hurricane pass rush in route to an upset victory for Boston College. Hachiman watches over the counter, his hands folded with fawn under his flabby, bearded chin.
“You see it now! All I have to be is like the swiftness of coursing rivers with confounding mystery like the dark side of the moon. Alas, my friend, Rip Taylor is but a dead man in red façade. His dirge a bungle call reserved for a cavalry charge. Although his brazen attack on myself and the talent Lazaro will be nothing a charging light brigade destined to be wiped out in full!”
He cachinnates.
“Now we move to the next phase of today’s dissertation on the effect of wrestling on the hearts and souls of commonly bonded soldiers. Those ring hoplites bonded by the very sport that kills them. How else can such disastrous games survive unless it passes onto the those of prestige. What I mean is your have to pass on genes—I know I have. Although I doubt that rabbit wore those Dockers I had sewn for him. Farewell, noble furball, for I knew you well… now about this Lazaro fellow. What a trip he is!
Of those that brought fear to the roster… none brought violence on par with Lazaro Vincente. He was on top of his game and focused on the sport. If you’ll see, from his life between family. Family is paramount to him. See look!”
He gestures towards photos taken from behind a garbage pail as Lazaro and his tio Salvador during some peaceful respite behind closed doors. A conversation only intended for familia proper.
“Pobrecito… esta enojado el camino real… where that heaviest burden falls on the noble son’s—or stifled nephew if we play it the Denmark way—learning shoulders. But all I witnessed in Las Vegas was a man on a mission with no more training required. His belief in the moment might be unparalleled. Look at how he and that scarred veteran Salvador look nearly impoverished despite great wealth. When you wake up be up in a van down by river just covered in mosquito repellent and deer urine—that’s a tragedy. But I assume his wounds are genetic too. Because the sins of a father must go somewhere, right?
So I’ve trapped the Golden Cat in this soul vessel so that we may hear his final wishes, and thus free poor Lazaro from all that holds him back. Only then can he ascend to the prime staircase of that Black Pyramid watching us now in our frantic, feeble existences. What say you, Paco de Gato? Are you with us?”
There’s silence. Hachiman nods while lighting what is clearly a Santa Maria candle he taped a grainy printed image of Lazaro’s father in his luchador best pose post-victory. Nothing happens except for that glazed, thousand-mile stare of Hachiman into a hidden void. He then snaps out of his trance.
“He says you need to man up and stop being a pussy. But, like, in Espanol because he was REALLY pissed off.”
The camera slowly backs away with Hachiman muttering to himself. Cut to a static image of Haciman in the lowering light of midday sun. He then turns to the background where a Jedi ghost of his Great Grandfather looks on disapprovingly.
“Hachiman!” the spirit says with a point. “You are a disgrace!”
“Shut up. I did my best. Howard Black was too fucking good for me.”
“You are no good for this name!”
“What am I supposed to do then, get my name changed legally?”
“Win and we shall see.”
“Okay. Good talk—and yeah, yeah just disappear why don’t you. And tell Oda Nobunaga he’s a tool that backstabbed by his best general.”
He waits with a satisfied grin. Suddenly, the lights flicker and blow out the circuit.
“Ha, jokes on you! I don’t even live here! It’s where I’ve been taking my shi—”
Water rolls from under a back door with sewage, making him flee the museum in a flurry of flashing lights and objects being tossed about by a violent poltergeist. Hachiman faces the camera.
“No one’s gonna believe that,” he says with a laugh. “But the only thing my laughable is a future in the big black pryamid’s shadow for Taylor and Vincente. Everyone knows they are destined to lose. So… Boo!”
He laughs.
“But yeah, see you boys Tuesday. Gonna be a fun one, fuckers!”
Hachiman walks off on that lonesome street from the sight of drone footage, a weary bindle slapped over his shoulder wandering a quiet street going like Bruce Banner. His thumb rises hoping to catch a ride to El Salvador. Moments later, and to his excited moments, a random box truck stops to pick him up. It speeds off down the southern stretch along a seemingly endless road.
