Masked Apotheosis and Facial Necrosis(697 Words)
Apr 18, 2021 22:36:13 GMT -5
Downfall, Soldado Fortuna, and 2 more like this
Post by Regan Voorhees on Apr 18, 2021 22:36:13 GMT -5
The scene opens on a bust of Hera, the ever vindictive queen of the gods, sitting on an ebony wood table. The bust is obscured, a replica of Soldado Fortuna’s mask is worn over it. Lifeless marble eyes peek through, judging the viewer. An arm, alabaster complexion only slightly less pale than the marble, reaches over to stroke the mask, blood red fingernails dancing gently across the fabric. Golden calligraphy appears.
The hand freezes atop the bust, fingernails digging into the mask. Their grip tightens, seizing the mask and pulling it free. With the magic of film editing, the bust of Hera becomes a skull as the mask is removed, an ominous portent of things to come. Or symbolism that is somehow both hack and pretentious at the same time. The camera pulls back to find Regan Voorhees, sitting in her high-backed vegan leather chair. Her blonde hair is in a neat bun, her egyptian cotton pajamas a sharp lavender. Even in loungewear, her makeup is flawless. She studies the Soldado Fortuna mask, like Hamlet studying the skull of Yorick.
“I could say that I don’t understand why anyone would wear a mask but in truth, Fortuna, I envy you. Why should the soldier of fortune show his face to the world? When his work is done, he can blend back into the crowd, snug in anonymity’s warm embrace. A tempting prospect, to be sure. A great many of my advantages come from my name, my heritage, my face. Not things I can hide, if I wish to enjoy those privileges. You are fortunate indeed, Fortuna. How apropos.”
The camera pulls back, framing a second table on the opposite side of Regan’s chair. Her Cruiserweight Title sits alongside a film projector, spinning reels of celluloid as it casts a black-and-white movie in front of her. French with subtitles, eerily soundtracked, the stuff of forced horror nerd cred and oh-you-haven’t-seen-it condescension. Franju’s Les Yeux sans Visage. Regan delicately takes a single piece of plain popcorn from a glass tray beside the projector, eating but not enjoying.
“Eyes Without a Face. Perhaps you can relate, Fortuna. I think about what could be hiding beneath that mask of yours and my imagination spins. Hideously deformed lucha libre Quasimodo? Unlikely. While you’ve already acquired an Esmeralda, your back appears to be notably lacking in hunches. Devastatingly handsome Casanova, veiling himself in public to avoid being torn apart by the innumerable broken hearted paramours left in his wake? Gentle soul disfigured in an accident, who’s surgeon father is now on the hunt for a new face? But wouldn’t you know it, every time you find a perfectly good replacement face, necrosis sets in and the damn thing just won’t take. Sorry, I love this part.”
![](https://i.gifer.com/9q4b.gif)
“No face for you, Fortuna. Back to the creepy mask.”
![](https://data.photofunky.net/output/image/0/d/0/4/0d04fb/photofunky.gif)
“Not yours. Christiane's from the film. Yours, well, I find somewhat tempting.”
The projector keeps spinning, as Regan examines the replica mask in her hands. She stares into the eye holes, the nothingness staring back into her.
“Oh, to hell with it.”
Regan pulls her hair bun free, shaking her blond tresses loose. A manic, desperate chuckle escapes her, and she fights to suppress any more. Taking a breath, she slips the mask over her face, exhaling sharply as she tugs it into place. From where there was once nothing, her eyes now peer. She motions to someone(or something) off screen, and a white-gloved hand passes her a silver hand mirror. The Duchess takes it and admires herself.
“Yes.. Quite chic, indeed. So this is how you see the world, Fortuna? Doesn’t do much for your peripheral vision, but I do appreciate the focus it allows you. A predator’s eyes must face forward, after all. Never leaving their prey, until teeth crush the throat or claws rend flesh to the bone. You may wonder, if I’m not a carnivore, how can I possibly be a predator?”
She smashes the hand mirror onto the skull bust beside her.
“Allow me to take off my mask, and I’ll show you.”
![](https://i.gifer.com/9q4O.gif)
Masked Apotheosis and Facial Necrosis(Best Paired with Thème Romantique by Maurice Jarre and an Angel Face Cocktail)
The hand freezes atop the bust, fingernails digging into the mask. Their grip tightens, seizing the mask and pulling it free. With the magic of film editing, the bust of Hera becomes a skull as the mask is removed, an ominous portent of things to come. Or symbolism that is somehow both hack and pretentious at the same time. The camera pulls back to find Regan Voorhees, sitting in her high-backed vegan leather chair. Her blonde hair is in a neat bun, her egyptian cotton pajamas a sharp lavender. Even in loungewear, her makeup is flawless. She studies the Soldado Fortuna mask, like Hamlet studying the skull of Yorick.
“I could say that I don’t understand why anyone would wear a mask but in truth, Fortuna, I envy you. Why should the soldier of fortune show his face to the world? When his work is done, he can blend back into the crowd, snug in anonymity’s warm embrace. A tempting prospect, to be sure. A great many of my advantages come from my name, my heritage, my face. Not things I can hide, if I wish to enjoy those privileges. You are fortunate indeed, Fortuna. How apropos.”
The camera pulls back, framing a second table on the opposite side of Regan’s chair. Her Cruiserweight Title sits alongside a film projector, spinning reels of celluloid as it casts a black-and-white movie in front of her. French with subtitles, eerily soundtracked, the stuff of forced horror nerd cred and oh-you-haven’t-seen-it condescension. Franju’s Les Yeux sans Visage. Regan delicately takes a single piece of plain popcorn from a glass tray beside the projector, eating but not enjoying.
“Eyes Without a Face. Perhaps you can relate, Fortuna. I think about what could be hiding beneath that mask of yours and my imagination spins. Hideously deformed lucha libre Quasimodo? Unlikely. While you’ve already acquired an Esmeralda, your back appears to be notably lacking in hunches. Devastatingly handsome Casanova, veiling himself in public to avoid being torn apart by the innumerable broken hearted paramours left in his wake? Gentle soul disfigured in an accident, who’s surgeon father is now on the hunt for a new face? But wouldn’t you know it, every time you find a perfectly good replacement face, necrosis sets in and the damn thing just won’t take. Sorry, I love this part.”
![](https://i.gifer.com/9q4b.gif)
“No face for you, Fortuna. Back to the creepy mask.”
![](https://data.photofunky.net/output/image/0/d/0/4/0d04fb/photofunky.gif)
“Not yours. Christiane's from the film. Yours, well, I find somewhat tempting.”
The projector keeps spinning, as Regan examines the replica mask in her hands. She stares into the eye holes, the nothingness staring back into her.
“Oh, to hell with it.”
Regan pulls her hair bun free, shaking her blond tresses loose. A manic, desperate chuckle escapes her, and she fights to suppress any more. Taking a breath, she slips the mask over her face, exhaling sharply as she tugs it into place. From where there was once nothing, her eyes now peer. She motions to someone(or something) off screen, and a white-gloved hand passes her a silver hand mirror. The Duchess takes it and admires herself.
“Yes.. Quite chic, indeed. So this is how you see the world, Fortuna? Doesn’t do much for your peripheral vision, but I do appreciate the focus it allows you. A predator’s eyes must face forward, after all. Never leaving their prey, until teeth crush the throat or claws rend flesh to the bone. You may wonder, if I’m not a carnivore, how can I possibly be a predator?”
She smashes the hand mirror onto the skull bust beside her.
“Allow me to take off my mask, and I’ll show you.”
![](https://i.gifer.com/9q4O.gif)