When The First Second Of Eternity's Passed. (999 words)
Mar 9, 2021 15:56:04 GMT -5
CJ Phoenix, Trey Bouchet, and 2 more like this
Post by Downfall on Mar 9, 2021 15:56:04 GMT -5
There's a small karate studio in a strip-mall, just a drive across the bridge from his Key to the mainland. After-hours, no other practitioners or white-belts kiai'ing. Just him, bare-chested-and-footed.
His fists are taped, around mangled, bloody hands.
Exhaustion leaks from his every pore. He'd dumped a lot of emotion out into the ether over the past week, and had a lot of his demons show their heads. Michelle was currently recuperating in detox. Serenity missing. Alec... god...
Just leaving him, by himself.
As he sits slumped, after-images rise, picking themselves up off the floor, lifting those fists back up.
"Story time, Twiztid."
Two inches away from the wall of the studio. The fist pistons out that short distance, smashing into the painted cinderblock. The hand pulls back as if being ratcheted... then it spears forth again.
And again.
The knuckles growing redder, blood leaking down the hand.
"Once upon a time, there's this shepherd boy whose fame spread far and wide, 'cause of the wise answers which he gave to every question."
"King of this country heard this; doesn't believe it at all. So he sends for this boy to come to his court, and asks him one simple metaphysical question: 'How many seconds of time are in eternity'?"
"And the shepherd answers;"
"In Lower Pomerania there's a diamond mountain, two miles high, two miles wide, two miles deep. Every hundred years this little bird comes, sharpens its beak on it."
"When the whole mountain is chipped away... then the first second of eternity will've passed."
The fist drives into the wall. Blood droplets fall to the floor. Again, the fist pulls back.
"So let me ask you this, my borderline brain-dead friend... What's that say about the bird?"
"Let me tell you what this bird's seen in it's time chipping away against that mountain:"
"People are gonna question why you even came out of retirement, thinking that this was an easy payday.
People are gonna sneer at some of the things you said when you were still trying to establish your mission statement, hold it against you seven months later.
People will see the stable that recruited you and endlessly call you a foot-soldier -"
The fist hits the wall. Again.
"Follower -"
The fist hits the wall. Again.
"That you're a bit-player in your own story and you take all of your direction from a figurehead with a weird medical background."
Back to him, sitting there, slumped against the wall. The tape come loose and is hanging in shreds, his hands are mangled, swollen and dripping. And he sighs.
The after-image rises back up, and stands in it's stance facing the wall just the same. Begins laying in to the obstacle, short, explosive, evocative bursts.
"Difference between us is... this bird was made for that. I'm in my prime when I build myself back up - and far, far from being a follower, an always-beta who's never been... I'm the only member of the Lost Breed that anyone gives a shit about... making something of themselves on their own merit. So when the institutions of this company say there's a ceiling over me, I'll retreat to the mentality of that bird whiling away eternity to chip off a diamond; It doesn't fucking matter how long it takes, I'll break through."
He holds his hands out in front of him palms-up. They're trembling, and the pain leaking from them looks excruciating; disintegrating tape, fingers askew.
He squeezes them into fists.
"But you, Charlie."
"You actually are everything I'm accused of being right down to the T, yet people don't call you on it because they're just gaping at the fact that you're still audacious enough to be an open Juggalo two decades past who gives a shit. And you don't even question your place in Devil's Gate, or wonder if there's anything better for you, you've accepted your place as just another inmate at the asylum. And why wouldn't you? According to you, Dr. Harper's tutelage has turned your life around, made you a success you never thought you could be."
He raises those trembling, unsightly hands.
"Another fun fact, Charlie. When bone is broken, it knits itself back together, ossifying the calcium until it's stronger than before. In theory, when you're broken, you come back stronger..."
"But you've never given yourself that mindset that says to heal the wound, to fix the fracture."
"By joining the crazy cast that is Devil's Gate, you've consigned yourself willingly to the part of cannon-fodder for anyone hunting Metzger's US title. Contrast that with me, who is[/i] the one in Lost Breed people are lining up to take shots at."
He rises from his slump, real-time.
Turning to the wall. Running his ruined fingers over the stone.
"And you claim, with this renewed motivation, that you're ready to take on the world, shoulder the burden of the weekly challenge."
He looks back, face a dreadful scowl.
"Charlie, not a damn thing has changed or grown about you since the last time I caved your head in."
"I've pushed boundaries, earned respect and fist-bumps of people who shit-talked me... had people count themselves lucky to scrape by a win over me. You've just gotten your ass kicked every week until it was time to come up against people more pathetic than you. Key difference."
"You, aren't like me because we aren't on comparable levels. You aren't even a bird taking wing to scrape it's beak on the diamond mountain, you're just a worm crawling along at it's base."
"So when people ask what I'm going to do with the Television title, or how I can call myself the best if I'm given these opportunities and get knocked down in the first round... how I can pick myself up from that and dish that out to the next chump to come to my doorstep... I'll just smile at them."
"And tell them I'm looking at the next second of eternity."
His fists are taped, around mangled, bloody hands.
Exhaustion leaks from his every pore. He'd dumped a lot of emotion out into the ether over the past week, and had a lot of his demons show their heads. Michelle was currently recuperating in detox. Serenity missing. Alec... god...
Just leaving him, by himself.
As he sits slumped, after-images rise, picking themselves up off the floor, lifting those fists back up.
"Story time, Twiztid."
Two inches away from the wall of the studio. The fist pistons out that short distance, smashing into the painted cinderblock. The hand pulls back as if being ratcheted... then it spears forth again.
And again.
The knuckles growing redder, blood leaking down the hand.
"Once upon a time, there's this shepherd boy whose fame spread far and wide, 'cause of the wise answers which he gave to every question."
"King of this country heard this; doesn't believe it at all. So he sends for this boy to come to his court, and asks him one simple metaphysical question: 'How many seconds of time are in eternity'?"
"And the shepherd answers;"
"In Lower Pomerania there's a diamond mountain, two miles high, two miles wide, two miles deep. Every hundred years this little bird comes, sharpens its beak on it."
"When the whole mountain is chipped away... then the first second of eternity will've passed."
The fist drives into the wall. Blood droplets fall to the floor. Again, the fist pulls back.
"So let me ask you this, my borderline brain-dead friend... What's that say about the bird?"
"Let me tell you what this bird's seen in it's time chipping away against that mountain:"
"People are gonna question why you even came out of retirement, thinking that this was an easy payday.
People are gonna sneer at some of the things you said when you were still trying to establish your mission statement, hold it against you seven months later.
People will see the stable that recruited you and endlessly call you a foot-soldier -"
The fist hits the wall. Again.
"Follower -"
The fist hits the wall. Again.
"That you're a bit-player in your own story and you take all of your direction from a figurehead with a weird medical background."
Back to him, sitting there, slumped against the wall. The tape come loose and is hanging in shreds, his hands are mangled, swollen and dripping. And he sighs.
The after-image rises back up, and stands in it's stance facing the wall just the same. Begins laying in to the obstacle, short, explosive, evocative bursts.
"Difference between us is... this bird was made for that. I'm in my prime when I build myself back up - and far, far from being a follower, an always-beta who's never been... I'm the only member of the Lost Breed that anyone gives a shit about... making something of themselves on their own merit. So when the institutions of this company say there's a ceiling over me, I'll retreat to the mentality of that bird whiling away eternity to chip off a diamond; It doesn't fucking matter how long it takes, I'll break through."
He holds his hands out in front of him palms-up. They're trembling, and the pain leaking from them looks excruciating; disintegrating tape, fingers askew.
He squeezes them into fists.
"But you, Charlie."
"You actually are everything I'm accused of being right down to the T, yet people don't call you on it because they're just gaping at the fact that you're still audacious enough to be an open Juggalo two decades past who gives a shit. And you don't even question your place in Devil's Gate, or wonder if there's anything better for you, you've accepted your place as just another inmate at the asylum. And why wouldn't you? According to you, Dr. Harper's tutelage has turned your life around, made you a success you never thought you could be."
He raises those trembling, unsightly hands.
"Another fun fact, Charlie. When bone is broken, it knits itself back together, ossifying the calcium until it's stronger than before. In theory, when you're broken, you come back stronger..."
"But you've never given yourself that mindset that says to heal the wound, to fix the fracture."
"By joining the crazy cast that is Devil's Gate, you've consigned yourself willingly to the part of cannon-fodder for anyone hunting Metzger's US title. Contrast that with me, who is[/i] the one in Lost Breed people are lining up to take shots at."
He rises from his slump, real-time.
Turning to the wall. Running his ruined fingers over the stone.
"And you claim, with this renewed motivation, that you're ready to take on the world, shoulder the burden of the weekly challenge."
He looks back, face a dreadful scowl.
"Charlie, not a damn thing has changed or grown about you since the last time I caved your head in."
"I've pushed boundaries, earned respect and fist-bumps of people who shit-talked me... had people count themselves lucky to scrape by a win over me. You've just gotten your ass kicked every week until it was time to come up against people more pathetic than you. Key difference."
"You, aren't like me because we aren't on comparable levels. You aren't even a bird taking wing to scrape it's beak on the diamond mountain, you're just a worm crawling along at it's base."
"So when people ask what I'm going to do with the Television title, or how I can call myself the best if I'm given these opportunities and get knocked down in the first round... how I can pick myself up from that and dish that out to the next chump to come to my doorstep... I'll just smile at them."
"And tell them I'm looking at the next second of eternity."