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I'm throwing my towel into the ring! EDIT: Also, exactly how atrocious can we get here?
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Oct 23, 2012 03:12
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 01:49 |
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I hadn't originally intended for this to get a political bent, whoops. Personal Conspiracy Theory (965 words) "And what I'm saying is, there's absolutely nothing wrong with eating babies. Especially if they're black, or have some other horrible birth defect." "If anything, it's a service." What the gently caress? I don't get how anyone could talk like that and believe the words that are coming out of their mouth. That's not even a joke, or dead baby comedy. That's just bad taste on so many levels. I can't believe this guy was nominated to represent any kind of party in the national election. Yet here he is, right on the television screen. And the worst part? "I agree," says the guy next to me, taking an emphatic swig of his Coors. "He is so right." Thanks to assholes like him, he's up in the polls. "Excuse me?" I rap on the bar. "Another Guinness, also can we change the channel? Thanks." The bartender shakes his head. "No can do. Watching the speech." "Fellow citizens, let me be straight with you," drawls the candidate. "If we really want to solve the rising cost of health care we should terminate anyone too old to work. And those with chronic diseases." "Like the homosexuals, and the prostitutes with their STDs. All of them should go." I point at the screen. "What is there to watch? There's this horrible guy with horrible opinions I'm not going to vote for. I'd rather look at flaming airplane wrecks and car crashes than listen to any more of this. For the love of God, change the channel and get me my drat drink." Every head in the bar swivels to look at me. "You're not voting Parker?" "Nope." "Then you're not welcome here anymore." The bartender gestures at the door. "Pay up and get out." I laugh. Then I realize he's not kidding. "You can't be serious. I come here every week-" "Not anymore you don't." He shakes his head. "You know what, forget the tab. Throw him out, boys." "Wait!" I get tossed right out onto the pavement, hitting the concrete with a hard thud. I struggle to my feet, cursing under my breath, and start the long walk home. I thought the guys in there were better than that. I thought this city was better than that. Everywhere I go tonight, I have to see or hear that son of a bitch Parker. Every TV in every bar, drugstore and electronics shop has his face plastered on it. Those dumb kids who blitz by with their bass all the way up are blasting Parker instead. And it's being broadcast across every single station on my TV like one of those breaking weather broadcasts. The world's gone pear-shaped and I'm the one left holding the bag. I can't even get away from this poo poo in the privacy of my own home. I've had it. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen reads 'Live From General City Convention Center'. That's not that far. I throw my jacket back on and head out into the night. As I approach the convention center, I see something odd. There's no security outside. Even less than the usual one bored-looking security guard. It's more than a little ominous. I enter the building, following the cheap print-out signs with arrows pointing the way towards the auditorium. All the while, his drawling voice echoes out over the loudspeaker. I see some janitorial staff, guards and receptionists here and there, but they don't even acknowledge my presence. They just stand stock-still, listening. As if they were being- Suddenly, everything falls into place. I burst into the auditorium. "Parker!" I shout. "You let the people of this city go right now!" The man himself turns to look at me, a look of mild-mannered surprise on his face. "Why, I have no idea what you're talking about. Should I know you?" "All you should know about me is that I'm not falling for your tricks." I walk down the aisle. "What're you using, Parker? A pocket watch? Some kind of spinning device? Suggestion? What are you using to hypnotize all these people into listening to your bullshit?" He stares at me. Then he laughs. It's not the kind of laugh you'd expect from someone so horrible, oh no. It's a belly laugh, the kind of laugh Santa would have if he were real, a long, jolly belly laugh that turns into a boisterous guffaw. It sends chills down my spine more than anything else ever could. "What's your name, son?" "Jamal." He spreads his arms wide, beaming. "Jamal! What a ghetto name. Your momma must be one of them crack whores, no wonder you came all the way here." I grit my teeth. "My mother is a pediatr-" "A pedophile? I bet she is, with the way you turned out. How'd she touch you down there, boy?" I know what Parker's game here is. He's trying to make me too angry to string together a coherent sentence. It's working. He casually lights a cigar. "Anyways, let me tell you something, Jamal. You can't hypnotize anyone who doesn't want to throw their willpower away in the first place. That's not how it works." "Now, I could kill you here and now. I could say the word, any random word mind you, and these people, these fine stooges in the audience, they would tear you limb from limb. But you know, I think that would be too easy. I think I want to kick off this life-long term of mine by drilling something right into your brain, in a way even a little dipshit like you can understand." Parker whips out a .45 and points it right between my eyes, a smug, self-satisfied smile on his greasy face. Right on national television. No one moves a muscle. "You're outnumbered."
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Oct 27, 2012 00:37
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It was more tongue-in-cheek than an attempt at serious political commentary, but hey, if I squeak by I squeak by. Now I have a gauge on what
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Oct 29, 2012 21:24
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Haha, Creative Writing was my second choice of vague accusation, followed closely by Philosophy/obscure miscellaneous liberal arts major/went to college where you were free to make up your own major. I myself was Geology, for all the good it did me. I am more than a little relieved that the pedigree of THUNDERDOME is not purely literary, though. James Joyce I ain't.
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Oct 29, 2012 23:32
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As the crown of gizzards duly allotted to Thunderdome Loser was snatched from me by Jesus himself, I shall fight again.
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Oct 30, 2012 09:06
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