Post by The S.K. on Apr 26, 2021 18:48:02 GMT -5
There’s a knock on the door of the hotel room, knuckles rapping against wood with the same rhythm as Lissie Hope dribbling Downfall's skull off a canvas mat.
“Oop!” oop’s the man inside the room, jolting upright on the bed as quickly as if he had just learned the source of the stains on his comforter, “COOOOMING!”
His voice is disguised in a high-pitched falsetto, cartoonier than anything Johnny Bacchus has ever conjured up. He had to be careful about who was listening, after all. He swings his feet over the mattress's edge, the lush shag of the carpeting squeezing between his toes as he rushes to the peephole like he was running over heavens clouds or some other shit that’s really soft… John Blade, maybe?
“WHOOO IS IT?” he queries his visitor, his singsong voice carrying through the door and likely disturbing anyone else unfortunate enough to be sharing the same floor. A nervous stammer answers him from the outside, and the man in the room bounces excitedly at the response. Finally! He’d waited so long for this moment that, like the merciful ending of a Regan Voorhees rant, he thought it might never come.
“BEEEEE THERE IN A MOMENT, DEAR!” the man in the room screams through the rolled steel door.
“Um… well… could you just, like, open the door?” the voice from the other side whines, “I can hear you… like… right there.”
“OOOOHHHH IT'S NOT ME THAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR, YOU FRAIL FRAME OF SEX APPEAL!” the man inside the room deflects, his voice still artificially pitched to an octave higher than Darren Marsh probably gets when he’s off duty, “I’M BUT A LONELY RING RAT, ESCAPING BEFORE YOU CATCH ME IN MY SHAME!”
“Uh. Ok…” relents the unconvinced voice from the hallway.
The man inside the room darts away from the door, rushing towards the dresser and snatching a mask off the cheap IKEA pressboard. He lifts the mask to his face, red fabric stitched together tighter than The Gate Crashers in a pair of Chinese finger cuffs. He pulls it over his head, making himself fully visible to the home audience for the first time:
The S.K., or Killshot if you’re nasty.
Don’t act surprised. You know who’s shit you clicked on.
“Um… can you please, like, open the door?” the voice outside the room pleads.
“HE’LL BE RIGHT THERE, DEAR!” The S.K. assures, still scrambling inside the room, “I’m leaping out the window so as not to be seen AS! WE! SPEAK!”
… and people think Frank Lowe represents women poorly.
He glances back down at the desk, looking for any other accessories he may need to make the best impression possible. He picks up a brand new athletic cup, sliding it into the front of his spandex tights and turning to examine himself in the mirror.
“No, no,” he mutters to himself, quietly so as not to be heard through the door, “That’s just misrepresenting myself.”
He slides the athletic cup out of his spandex, tossing it to the floor before rushing over to a large duffel in the corner of the room. He rifles through it, triumphantly producing a cup at least four times larger. His body language dripping in confidence and satisfaction, he slides the enormous sack-shield into place and admires his own reflection. HA! And people think Dandy Devito is the biggest dick in AW!
There’s another loud knock at the hotel room door, the visitor outside clearly about as patient as Corey Bull is while waiting to be called “The Hatebringer” again.
“Mother fucker! I said I’d be there in a minute,” The S.K. screams, immediately realizing his voice was no longer disguised and falling back into the falsetto, “SOOOOON, DEAR! SOOOOOOOOOOOON!”
Finally, nearly prepared for his rendezvous, The S.K. dives for the bedside nightstand and yanks the drawer open as vigorously as most people yanked when Atara Themis showed up in this bitch.
“What the fu-” he mumbles to himself as he peers inside, looking for the voice modulator he had used to prank call Azurine Vebbins and mock her accent with just the night before. It was gone, nowhere to be seen, with only his backup currently laying accessible at his fingertips. With a casual shrug he picks up the device and slides it underneath his mask. Nobody will ever recognize the tone anyways. Taking one last look at himself in the mirror before deciding he’s as ready as he’ll ever be and heading to the hotel room door. With gusto, he pulls it open and smiles to his visitor… though, of course, the mask obscures his warm greeting entirely. John Black can relate.
“Welcome, my friend!” The S.K. practically shouts at his guest.
“Oh, uhm… hey,” responds Jay Mack, flinching noticeably at the unexpected opening of the door, “Why do you, like, sound like… uhm… Darth Vader?”
GODDAMN IT! HE WASN’T SUPPOSED TO RECOGNIZE THE TONE! The S.K. shrugs casually, clearly in no rush to explain the voice modulator or where he got it to A.W.’s head recruiter. He simply steps aside, motioning for Jay to join him in the room. The young Mister Mack obliges with the uneasiness of Sonny Corleone approaching the toll booths or someone being told they’d have to read through Ash Blake’s first ten installments before Chapter 11 closes the book.
“So, like,” Jay begins tentatively, “Did you want to sign, uhm, a contract?”
The S.K. smiles excitedly.
Again, his face is obscured.
“So, like,” Jay presses on, “Is that a yes?”
“Your destiny lies with me, Skywalker,” The S.K. boasts through his Vader-esque modulator, “Obi Wan knew this to be true.”
Jay Mack has no response, just a panicked glance towards the door. The S.K. stands between him and his escape, and Jay realizes he won’t be leaving this room until the masked man is finished… a fact more disappointing than Max Daemon's win/loss record.
“Oh, uh…” Jay mumbles, “Oh geez...”
There’s a long pause. A split second longer and the pause would have realized it had expired and started up a YouTube channel like Randy Buster did. The S.K. motions towards a small table in the corner, two seats opposing each other, then rubs his forefinger and thumb together to signify it’s time to talk money. Jay Mack moans. He’s going to have to open the check book, not hand over chump change like FPV does every time he lands a Ganso Bomb.
The two men sit.
The clock on the wall turns slowly as they begin to discuss terms,
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
The S.K. smiles from underneath his mask.
“ArE wE hAvInG fUn YeT?!?!”
FIN.