Thesis 6: On the Ongoing Rabies Epidemic
Feb 21, 2021 13:22:38 GMT -5
CJ Phoenix, Downfall, and 1 more like this
Post by Deleted on Feb 21, 2021 13:22:38 GMT -5
...
- Matthew Arnold
The scene opens a shot panning down from the dark sunglasses of Abraham Resnik. His hands are folded while transfixed on interlocutor engaging with him. Reflections off those aviators shows the round, devilish shape of Byron Bathory seemingly lost in Abraham’s wisdom.
”So where should I begin, Mr. Bathory? It seems every week you come on TV there’s someone new to irk you. You make changes to the master plan. Redefine the “sinners” and what should be absolved from culture. Where do you get off on the moment those words leave your mouth? Please—in dear honesty, pray tell—because nobody on this side of Atlantic Ocean known what you’re talking about, my friend.
Now don’t get up. Don’t even ponder a moment longer on a retort because I can already sense it dribbled from your childlike nose. What you are going to do—and I am not overstepping our temporary alliance in saying so—what you must do is stop talking and listen to yourself.
Before you move down an illogical path, you need to remember what it felt like to have someone’s attention. Why you even preached to begin with, friend. We are but two profligates hiding plainly in our Sunday best while that darker than rhubarb pie side slips underneath. Call it snake charming or sorcery, it really does not matter what label we conceive of today.”
“I already get that. You though… you are another sinner like all of them: our fans, our followers and everyone determined to be on top in this business.”
Abraham laughs that off for a moment longer than his guest wants to listen.
”Pray tell—and I do mean right now—what is a sinner, Byron? I have to know because otherwise this world is going eat you alive!”
Bathory rises abruptly until a large hand forces him back into the seat. Everything moves out to a wide-angle shot of the two at what appears to be aboard the Great American Revival bus. Both men hold Bobby Fischer concentration, contemplating moves with a maestro’s control of the squares. Neither looking to budge when Mr. Abraham breaks their silence.
”You know… what makes a man is his virtue. You have something in your grasp with no idea how to use it. For the best tool in a neophyte’s hand is but mud in a master’s grip. Knowing what to do with the pieces you still have in play, dearest rival, requires you to learn the rest of your board. Without letting this become a TED talk—let us not dwell on what has not gone right for us. Truly, we are but two flawed yet striving souls. What makes us different is that I will always pursue the next best course of action until I have no pieces left to play. You, however, give us consternation.”
”Why?”
”It feels as if we are all watching a car make the same wrong turn at a two-way intersection. You diverge from the same fork time and time again only to emerge out of the other side covered in the same filth. Yet you return and spin thread from the same forsaken wheel.
I say this not as a critique. Nor do I warn you in the spirits of an ancient rime. No sir! I am here for the betterment of those willing to make the necessary steps towards their own… betterment.”
Bathory scoffs.
”Says the man yet to win in Action Wrestling. They see your face, old man. People are already chattering… speaking ill of this geriatric nightmare wishing to make an impact on a young athlete’s game. You also speak to me from a book no one wastes their time perusing for knowledge. There’s no tome, no speech nor parting benediction that will turn me in your corner. The same goes for Action Wrestling, old timer, they will forget you the very second your voice fades away… but you already know that, don’t you?”
He claps his hands together with raging enthusiasm.
”That’s it! You’re scared that no one is listening. And now you think because I’m new to this company that you can slime your way out of the shadows—for what? Because I have the mold of someone you probably French tickled back in the territories?”
Abraham’s smirk returns.
”You realize that trying to impress me is not good enough. This week is not the gentle Febreze of Trey Bouchet. Oh no sir… we are facing the teeth of the Lost Breed. They won’t just eat you alive—Mintzel and Nightingale will eat your goddamn bones! But please, tell us all—and the entire world if they care to hear the death thrall of a blubbering ghost—tell us how you thought this was supposed to go. Tell me. Just freaking tell me, old man, and leave your thesaurus behind!”
Abraham looks over his shoulder and shouts for Agatha. She appears in winter best with a headset, preparing for another of his upcoming rallies.
”Agatha, please give my friend here a copy of the “Good Word” if you could.”
She nods and disappears into the back. Frustration melds into a nonverbal conniption that seems to painfully furrow Bathory’s entire face. That’s when Agatha returns with a book that seems subtle yet old enough to be long out of print. She passes it off onto Byron whose eyes lock upon its gilded title: My Brother’s Keeper by Kevin Bishop. His thumb lifts from a name but the shot cuts back to his tag partner for the week.
”Let me tell you, young man, that I am forcibly impressed. Oh by the lord am I taken back to the spirits of old. Oh mercy on us all… Mr. Bathory. Take this benison and heed the better words of a much better man than I. You might feel forsaken in the light of life! Cast it all away! Oh by the spirit in me—I pass it onto you! Now go—go into the light Sin Eater! Find your Eden! Be Redeemed this day!”
Mr. Abraham grabs both of his shoulders.
”If you jeopardize my mission… I will bury you alive. Read the book. Learn the precepts. Embrace the culture of a better world. That is the new Eden. That is the dream we both share. No get off my bus and seize the day already. There’s not much time left.”
Bathory exits the bus with the immediate punch of an anxious crowd spearing him with their needy eyes. Each one wearing desperation in their sunken cheekbones gaunt by the horrors of rural society. They come from all walks of life with shared addiction from the man plastered alongside that blue tour bus. Byron flees through them as Mr. Abraham exits to the edge of his bus door, where from its landing he conducts a rousing speech. Cold nips his nose pink with hints of aging blush from rosacea even the best cosmetics cannot contour. He then raises a solemn hand above them all.
”Oh my gracious flock! How are you this day. I know we are in a troubling week. From the icy grip of that terrible squall to this everlasting desperation wrought by an infrastructure cracking at its seams. I hear you. I feel you. And never forget that we all love you!
Yet I am here with renewed purpose. For you see… I have the chance this week to not only cleanse this roster of the people who’ve sought nothing more than your torment. The Lost Breed may not be anything more than outcast pariahs, yet we are the canvas of their descent far from the good people that watch Action Wrestling every week.
Led by a man worth every introduction to whatever room he might enter… everyone that knows this promotion knows the name James Nightingale. They also know for all the terrible things he propagates against the good people of Action Wrestling, he also incurs the wrath of forces even he cannot dream to overcome. His poisoning of Alice and hex upon the beloved Frank Venable has brought us to tears. Some even to the brink of annihilation with great fury while our blood boils.
Step aside, my brothers and sisters, for this is our first chance to strike a blow into the heart of Action Wrestling’s dark heart. I plead with you now, listen as the fight wages on against the best this Lost Breed has to offer.
And what of his attack dog? Matthias Mintzel was the first, and arguably remains, the only face of the Pure Championship. It has lilted between different suns as the dream itself withered to an oatmeal’less raisin. Another gladiator working for blood and almost no pay. I believe men like Sampson exist for a reason, and in the end of creation, it always seems to be at the benefit of stronger minds.
Was it not an ingenious stone which toppled the mighty Goliath—whose namesake now means but the greatest and most powerful yet destined to tumble? Was it not the death of the same gladiators before a Roman legion whose dreams meant nothing for the people that once called them demigods?
I ask you because what point is there to a dying breed of men leathered by bags of thumbtacks and bare-knuckle brawls when we, a better society, look for redemption? I ask because no one wants to stand up and put these mongrels in their place. But I can—and with my name friend, Byron Bathory—oh lord am I coming hotter than Michael’s flaming sword upon these dangerous men.”
He takes a moment, letting the crowd ramp up with his conviction.
”Now listen up! This is your mission today: Be a brother to those in need. Lend your sisterly souls to those in crisis. We are not drawn to the violence—we are the ones here to end it! No more senseless attacks on hardworking men like Frank Venable. No more fist-first politics. We are here to vanquish monster like the Lost Breed. But I cannot do this alone. I implore you—hear me children! Take my words and seize the day! Better yourselves and better this world!”
Abraham reenters the bus looking flushed. He pats Marv the driver’s shoulder before finding his seat once more. There, with the laptop open, he returns to watching highlights of his previous matches.
”Agatha, I’ll need another coffee. Because this week is going to take more… than guts.”
- Matthew Arnold
The scene opens a shot panning down from the dark sunglasses of Abraham Resnik. His hands are folded while transfixed on interlocutor engaging with him. Reflections off those aviators shows the round, devilish shape of Byron Bathory seemingly lost in Abraham’s wisdom.
”So where should I begin, Mr. Bathory? It seems every week you come on TV there’s someone new to irk you. You make changes to the master plan. Redefine the “sinners” and what should be absolved from culture. Where do you get off on the moment those words leave your mouth? Please—in dear honesty, pray tell—because nobody on this side of Atlantic Ocean known what you’re talking about, my friend.
Now don’t get up. Don’t even ponder a moment longer on a retort because I can already sense it dribbled from your childlike nose. What you are going to do—and I am not overstepping our temporary alliance in saying so—what you must do is stop talking and listen to yourself.
Before you move down an illogical path, you need to remember what it felt like to have someone’s attention. Why you even preached to begin with, friend. We are but two profligates hiding plainly in our Sunday best while that darker than rhubarb pie side slips underneath. Call it snake charming or sorcery, it really does not matter what label we conceive of today.”
“I already get that. You though… you are another sinner like all of them: our fans, our followers and everyone determined to be on top in this business.”
Abraham laughs that off for a moment longer than his guest wants to listen.
”Pray tell—and I do mean right now—what is a sinner, Byron? I have to know because otherwise this world is going eat you alive!”
Bathory rises abruptly until a large hand forces him back into the seat. Everything moves out to a wide-angle shot of the two at what appears to be aboard the Great American Revival bus. Both men hold Bobby Fischer concentration, contemplating moves with a maestro’s control of the squares. Neither looking to budge when Mr. Abraham breaks their silence.
”You know… what makes a man is his virtue. You have something in your grasp with no idea how to use it. For the best tool in a neophyte’s hand is but mud in a master’s grip. Knowing what to do with the pieces you still have in play, dearest rival, requires you to learn the rest of your board. Without letting this become a TED talk—let us not dwell on what has not gone right for us. Truly, we are but two flawed yet striving souls. What makes us different is that I will always pursue the next best course of action until I have no pieces left to play. You, however, give us consternation.”
”Why?”
”It feels as if we are all watching a car make the same wrong turn at a two-way intersection. You diverge from the same fork time and time again only to emerge out of the other side covered in the same filth. Yet you return and spin thread from the same forsaken wheel.
I say this not as a critique. Nor do I warn you in the spirits of an ancient rime. No sir! I am here for the betterment of those willing to make the necessary steps towards their own… betterment.”
Bathory scoffs.
”Says the man yet to win in Action Wrestling. They see your face, old man. People are already chattering… speaking ill of this geriatric nightmare wishing to make an impact on a young athlete’s game. You also speak to me from a book no one wastes their time perusing for knowledge. There’s no tome, no speech nor parting benediction that will turn me in your corner. The same goes for Action Wrestling, old timer, they will forget you the very second your voice fades away… but you already know that, don’t you?”
He claps his hands together with raging enthusiasm.
”That’s it! You’re scared that no one is listening. And now you think because I’m new to this company that you can slime your way out of the shadows—for what? Because I have the mold of someone you probably French tickled back in the territories?”
Abraham’s smirk returns.
”You realize that trying to impress me is not good enough. This week is not the gentle Febreze of Trey Bouchet. Oh no sir… we are facing the teeth of the Lost Breed. They won’t just eat you alive—Mintzel and Nightingale will eat your goddamn bones! But please, tell us all—and the entire world if they care to hear the death thrall of a blubbering ghost—tell us how you thought this was supposed to go. Tell me. Just freaking tell me, old man, and leave your thesaurus behind!”
Abraham looks over his shoulder and shouts for Agatha. She appears in winter best with a headset, preparing for another of his upcoming rallies.
”Agatha, please give my friend here a copy of the “Good Word” if you could.”
She nods and disappears into the back. Frustration melds into a nonverbal conniption that seems to painfully furrow Bathory’s entire face. That’s when Agatha returns with a book that seems subtle yet old enough to be long out of print. She passes it off onto Byron whose eyes lock upon its gilded title: My Brother’s Keeper by Kevin Bishop. His thumb lifts from a name but the shot cuts back to his tag partner for the week.
”Let me tell you, young man, that I am forcibly impressed. Oh by the lord am I taken back to the spirits of old. Oh mercy on us all… Mr. Bathory. Take this benison and heed the better words of a much better man than I. You might feel forsaken in the light of life! Cast it all away! Oh by the spirit in me—I pass it onto you! Now go—go into the light Sin Eater! Find your Eden! Be Redeemed this day!”
Mr. Abraham grabs both of his shoulders.
”If you jeopardize my mission… I will bury you alive. Read the book. Learn the precepts. Embrace the culture of a better world. That is the new Eden. That is the dream we both share. No get off my bus and seize the day already. There’s not much time left.”
Bathory exits the bus with the immediate punch of an anxious crowd spearing him with their needy eyes. Each one wearing desperation in their sunken cheekbones gaunt by the horrors of rural society. They come from all walks of life with shared addiction from the man plastered alongside that blue tour bus. Byron flees through them as Mr. Abraham exits to the edge of his bus door, where from its landing he conducts a rousing speech. Cold nips his nose pink with hints of aging blush from rosacea even the best cosmetics cannot contour. He then raises a solemn hand above them all.
”Oh my gracious flock! How are you this day. I know we are in a troubling week. From the icy grip of that terrible squall to this everlasting desperation wrought by an infrastructure cracking at its seams. I hear you. I feel you. And never forget that we all love you!
Yet I am here with renewed purpose. For you see… I have the chance this week to not only cleanse this roster of the people who’ve sought nothing more than your torment. The Lost Breed may not be anything more than outcast pariahs, yet we are the canvas of their descent far from the good people that watch Action Wrestling every week.
Led by a man worth every introduction to whatever room he might enter… everyone that knows this promotion knows the name James Nightingale. They also know for all the terrible things he propagates against the good people of Action Wrestling, he also incurs the wrath of forces even he cannot dream to overcome. His poisoning of Alice and hex upon the beloved Frank Venable has brought us to tears. Some even to the brink of annihilation with great fury while our blood boils.
Step aside, my brothers and sisters, for this is our first chance to strike a blow into the heart of Action Wrestling’s dark heart. I plead with you now, listen as the fight wages on against the best this Lost Breed has to offer.
And what of his attack dog? Matthias Mintzel was the first, and arguably remains, the only face of the Pure Championship. It has lilted between different suns as the dream itself withered to an oatmeal’less raisin. Another gladiator working for blood and almost no pay. I believe men like Sampson exist for a reason, and in the end of creation, it always seems to be at the benefit of stronger minds.
Was it not an ingenious stone which toppled the mighty Goliath—whose namesake now means but the greatest and most powerful yet destined to tumble? Was it not the death of the same gladiators before a Roman legion whose dreams meant nothing for the people that once called them demigods?
I ask you because what point is there to a dying breed of men leathered by bags of thumbtacks and bare-knuckle brawls when we, a better society, look for redemption? I ask because no one wants to stand up and put these mongrels in their place. But I can—and with my name friend, Byron Bathory—oh lord am I coming hotter than Michael’s flaming sword upon these dangerous men.”
He takes a moment, letting the crowd ramp up with his conviction.
”Now listen up! This is your mission today: Be a brother to those in need. Lend your sisterly souls to those in crisis. We are not drawn to the violence—we are the ones here to end it! No more senseless attacks on hardworking men like Frank Venable. No more fist-first politics. We are here to vanquish monster like the Lost Breed. But I cannot do this alone. I implore you—hear me children! Take my words and seize the day! Better yourselves and better this world!”
Abraham reenters the bus looking flushed. He pats Marv the driver’s shoulder before finding his seat once more. There, with the laptop open, he returns to watching highlights of his previous matches.
”Agatha, I’ll need another coffee. Because this week is going to take more… than guts.”