Post by Luminous Robin on Aug 20, 2009 18:36:32 GMT -5
"What's your name, kid?"
The lights are blinding, strobes shooting through the air erratically and tracing over dialated pupil after dialated pupil, as if the light itself is in as much of a frantic dance as the owners of the eyes who were capturing it. Each beat pulsates, drowning out the pleasantries and the chat-up lines and the sweet nothings of the club and beating all those in front of it like an incessant shove to the chest that the masses can't get enough of. The taps are flowing, the pills are popping where people don't see or care to look, and everybody's having a good time. A Night at Bluejay's, pride of the nightlife.
A young Jason Hearn, twenty three years of age and yet barely looking a day over eighteen, leans upon the bar in the same daze as everyone else, with the true colour of his clothes as blanked by the barrage of reds and greens and purples from all direction, and with dialated eyes taking in just as much as everyone else's to a mind in such a state that it comprehends so little. He laughs, and so does his company, and yet by the time they've stopped, all of them have forgotten what caused such an outburst, and so they return to the most basic of pleasantries. Such as names.
"It's Robin," he begins. He can't help but begin to smile. This was, after all, the very club that such a nickname had emerged within. Some girl he was trying to chat up was either too wasted or too deafened to comprehend the syllables 'Jay' and 'Son' combined and had just given in and started referring to him as 'her little robin draped in luminous light'.
'Luminous Robin' seemed like the most natural transition from there. Besides, he'd never had the heart to correct her, and it made for quite the appropriate cover story. A fake name was a good thing to have, in case of one night stands, although that was becoming risky, given his ever so slowly increasing exposure. It was a good job he was so humble...and underpaid. He'd only bought his own drinks all night. All the while, thankful for there being such little overlap between club goers and wrestling fans. He dreaded that one day when he wouldn't be able to run.
"Robin? Shit, ain't that a girl's name?" comes a reply. He was unsure who from, where from, and even then, he couldn't make out a face. He just laughed it off, nodding. The voice was female after all, couldn't be that hostile.
"Nah, you'd think so. I guess I just had hippy parents or something," he says with another self-reassuring chuckle. Even calling his father 'liberal' was stretching it, much less 'hippy'. "So what's your name, love?" He doesn't even hear the response. There's a feeling down south that people in his position are all too familiar with. He holds up his hand, interrupting her in the case that there were actually still sounds being emitted by her, and his usual empty grin is replaced by what can only be described as a grimace at best.
"Ah...hold that thought. Be back in a sec, love."
A bathroom break. Of all times.
_______________________
"Do you play videogames, Karl?"
"I have to admit, I'm not the biggest fan. I think there are a number of better ways of escaping and giving yourself a mental break, but you have to admit, it's an interesting medium, especially in terms of how things have evolved, how immersed you can find yourself, and how...realistic the experience is becoming. And naturally, with realism, the idea of influence has to come into the equation. After all, a lot of these videogames are becoming increasingly gory, and who's to say that it doesn't influence us to take a more morbid outlook on life? Do they really influence such sanguinary results from us?"
"Simply put? No. What does is the concept of, of all things, freedom."
"You see, no matter how immersive, how diverse, how much raw content there is, the ultimate objective of a videogame is to offer an escape. For a person to become emotionally invested in the character they are playing, so that it is their own experience for them to enjoy. Now, if someone is to truly escape, they can't have any limitations whatsoever, and the further you stretch the boundaries that they are allowed to cross, you're not assisting them in any way. You're just spacing the walls they're trapped between a little more at a time, and when they eventually hit those walls, you'll run into the same complaints. Or worse. They'll try to get around those walls."
"Look at videogames today, Karl. In a game where you are allowed to dismantle a corpse to the extent of severing each individual limb, the head, strip the corpse, and then choose a body part of your choice to drag along with you on your little adventure, people still aren't satisfied. Allow them all the arsenal you can possibly fit into the game in the timespan you're alloted, and it's not enough, because there are never enough ways in these people's minds to brutally murder another 'being'. And that got me thinking. Is it because they can get away with this, in this little universe without consequence that provides such an exit? No, that's only a small piece of the puzzle."
"It's the 'modders' that are the problem. In a game with more than gratitious methods of murder, people still want the option to, say, murder children, for no real reason other than they can. So despite the fact it was never the developer's intent, suddenly nudity mods, and murdering children mods, and all other sorts of things that lie 'behind the walls' suddenly begin working their way into the game. That is the problem. By rewarding such sick methods of gratification, the game developers are ultimately taking the fun out of it for the player. They wouldn't be doing such things unless they wanted to feel 'naughty', and by allowing it, it's cheapened. Once you start straying into the unintentional, and the things that aren't allowed...it's all fun again."
"A thief who enjoys stealing's worst nightmare is to wake up in a world where stealing is not only legal, but encouraged."
"That's me, Karl. I'm the thief."
______________________
Of all times for his bladder to give out on him, it had to be then. He'd finally found an ideal target. Someone suggestible who found his hazed ramblings amusing. Someone who he could only assume from what few words he could remember through his presently banging headache that liked his sense of style. Most importantly, she was more wasted than he was, and therefore less likely to remember any of the events the previous morning, if any, providing he was swift enough or at least in control of his own actions to a degree. But all these thoughts of strategy would have to wait, for now was the second most carnal of all man's traits; standing over a urinal and simply letting loose.
It was a shame that he was paid so little. After all, someone being called the 'most underrated in FCW', the 'one deserving an oppurtunity the most', and 'fan's most popular wrestler' three months in a row - not that he knew any of these things of course, he never went looking and nobody told him - his salary was remarkably low. As if paying for his own travel expenses and accomodation wasn't enough, but on top of medical bills, the amount that he had left for a night on the town was criminally low. He bit his lip, and a look of disappointment crept across his face when he realised that he still consciously felt it, and could still remember both the sensation and cause of the lingering pain thereafter. There was no excuse for him being this sober.
And then his head slams into the wall.
To think that no sooner than he'd been deliberating his tragic amount of consciousness that he'd find himself met with the ultimate sobering blow. A palm, from the size, force and textures, no doubt another man's pinning his head to the wall. Even from such a height, the smell of urine below would be enough to wake the dead, much less cure a hangover, but such a change was welcome. If only so he could hear the brutish grunts and heavy breathing that were currently finding their way into his ear lobe.
"Fuckin' pretty boy," the assaulter growls, "Bet you think the world of yourself don't you, you fucking vain prick?" Ah, the scent of vodka. Not so much a justification as much as it was an explanation. Not that one was needed for his intent. The sudden grinding against his back leg, almost pressing his cargos dangerously close into the stainless-but-not-quite-odourless steel made the man's intention more than clear. "Come in here dressed like a fucking queer. I'll give you what you want."
"What if it is what I want?"
A moment of stunned silence, on behalf of both Robin and the attacker. Clearly, he had some kind of subconscious reason for saying what he just said. There was some tidbit of knowledge lurking deep that he just had to dig up in order to explain himself, lest the situation become far more uncomfortable for him. Uncomfortable...but nonetheless unfamiliar. Perhaps that was where he was--yes, of course.
"You stupid bastard," Robin interjects, interrupting any attempt at proceeding or taking a blow at him his newest acquaintance could have possibly made, "You wouldn't be doing this unless you wanted the feeling of having power. Fuck knows you wouldn't have the courage to even consider this if you weren't pissed out of your skull." He teased the idea of looking behind him, knowing full well that if he could just force his own sobriety just a little more to make eye-contact, it would all be over, but nonetheless the pressure on his neck was still firm. Words would have to suffice for a few more moments. "If I enjoy this, you've lost all power. I get a good time and you can't do anything about it, because God knows you're not going to go out there and tell everyone you just fucked another man in the bathrooms."
Another moment of silence. Checkmate.
"Well? Get on with it."
A fist collides with his kidney. The wind escapes from his lungs from the impact and he drops to one knee, consciously making an effort to at the very least not land amongst his own waste. The sound of staggering. Ah, perhaps he wasn't in much condition for a fight, even after such a cheap shot. Such is the downfall of alcohol. Oh well, at least he was still conscious enough to get the last word in.
"You stay away from me, fuckin' faggot."
The door swings open, and then shut again. A twenty three year old, with his flies undone and his manhood exposed sits holding his kidney, laughing to himself under his breath.
______________________
"I'm stealing all of the agony that you don't want, that Raven didn't want, that every other person who watches wrestling cringes at, at the sight of it. People that shirk away from an entire spectrum of feelings, sensations, dubbing them 'unpleasant' in the nicest sense. The idea that everyone else doesn't know how to enjoy the things that I do, the way that I do...well, that makes me feel special, and naturally I want to savour every oppurtunity to feel special that I can. The key moments are whenever I step into the ring, not only because I get paid to do what I love, but because I get to show off what a unique innate ability it is to a diverse audience."
"What you managed to do, Karl, was you managed to cheapen it. I turned up in a weakened condition, and instead of trying to take advantage, as I expected that you and likely the vast majority of the roster would have, you showed concern. Others would want that, I didn't. You let your guard down for the briefest of moments and allowed me to make one move that ultimately cemented your downfall. I got my hand raised after an 'easy' victory. The vast majority would fall over themselves for such a privilege every week. It wasn't what I wanted at all. I told you what I wanted before the match began, Karl. I wanted you to hurt me."
"So I hope that this time, I've given you all the appropriate waking up that you needed to understand that you need to stop holding back, abandon all concern, all restraint, all rules and do all you can to join me, and all the others who truly understand that the concept of violence isn't violence itself. It's freedom. People fight and kill for their countries because they believe in freedom. People march in the streets and take the beatings from the defiant establishment because they believe in freedom. Raven holds the rules in absolute contempt and refuses to participate unless he's given complete creative control with which to absolutely dismantle whatever poor soul happens to have been placed in front of him...all in the name of freedom."
"Forget everything else. Forget championships, contenderships, rivalries, relationships, finances, anything else that's blocking your mind from whatever it takes for you to get into the ring tomorrow and have absolutely no reservations about tearing me limb from limb regardless of whatever condition I happen to turn up in tomorrow. How about revenge, will revenge do for motivation? Or honour? Yeah, a loss in such a short span of time isn't going to do anything for your honour, is it, eh? Come on, Karl. You're a creative man. You'll think of something. And I hope once you actually do hear that bell ring, you'll start putting that creativity to the test, for as long as it takes for us to ruin the other man in the most beautiful dance we can muster."
"Become a free man, Karl. Hurt me."
The lights are blinding, strobes shooting through the air erratically and tracing over dialated pupil after dialated pupil, as if the light itself is in as much of a frantic dance as the owners of the eyes who were capturing it. Each beat pulsates, drowning out the pleasantries and the chat-up lines and the sweet nothings of the club and beating all those in front of it like an incessant shove to the chest that the masses can't get enough of. The taps are flowing, the pills are popping where people don't see or care to look, and everybody's having a good time. A Night at Bluejay's, pride of the nightlife.
A young Jason Hearn, twenty three years of age and yet barely looking a day over eighteen, leans upon the bar in the same daze as everyone else, with the true colour of his clothes as blanked by the barrage of reds and greens and purples from all direction, and with dialated eyes taking in just as much as everyone else's to a mind in such a state that it comprehends so little. He laughs, and so does his company, and yet by the time they've stopped, all of them have forgotten what caused such an outburst, and so they return to the most basic of pleasantries. Such as names.
"It's Robin," he begins. He can't help but begin to smile. This was, after all, the very club that such a nickname had emerged within. Some girl he was trying to chat up was either too wasted or too deafened to comprehend the syllables 'Jay' and 'Son' combined and had just given in and started referring to him as 'her little robin draped in luminous light'.
'Luminous Robin' seemed like the most natural transition from there. Besides, he'd never had the heart to correct her, and it made for quite the appropriate cover story. A fake name was a good thing to have, in case of one night stands, although that was becoming risky, given his ever so slowly increasing exposure. It was a good job he was so humble...and underpaid. He'd only bought his own drinks all night. All the while, thankful for there being such little overlap between club goers and wrestling fans. He dreaded that one day when he wouldn't be able to run.
"Robin? Shit, ain't that a girl's name?" comes a reply. He was unsure who from, where from, and even then, he couldn't make out a face. He just laughed it off, nodding. The voice was female after all, couldn't be that hostile.
"Nah, you'd think so. I guess I just had hippy parents or something," he says with another self-reassuring chuckle. Even calling his father 'liberal' was stretching it, much less 'hippy'. "So what's your name, love?" He doesn't even hear the response. There's a feeling down south that people in his position are all too familiar with. He holds up his hand, interrupting her in the case that there were actually still sounds being emitted by her, and his usual empty grin is replaced by what can only be described as a grimace at best.
"Ah...hold that thought. Be back in a sec, love."
A bathroom break. Of all times.
_______________________
"Do you play videogames, Karl?"
"I have to admit, I'm not the biggest fan. I think there are a number of better ways of escaping and giving yourself a mental break, but you have to admit, it's an interesting medium, especially in terms of how things have evolved, how immersed you can find yourself, and how...realistic the experience is becoming. And naturally, with realism, the idea of influence has to come into the equation. After all, a lot of these videogames are becoming increasingly gory, and who's to say that it doesn't influence us to take a more morbid outlook on life? Do they really influence such sanguinary results from us?"
"Simply put? No. What does is the concept of, of all things, freedom."
"You see, no matter how immersive, how diverse, how much raw content there is, the ultimate objective of a videogame is to offer an escape. For a person to become emotionally invested in the character they are playing, so that it is their own experience for them to enjoy. Now, if someone is to truly escape, they can't have any limitations whatsoever, and the further you stretch the boundaries that they are allowed to cross, you're not assisting them in any way. You're just spacing the walls they're trapped between a little more at a time, and when they eventually hit those walls, you'll run into the same complaints. Or worse. They'll try to get around those walls."
"Look at videogames today, Karl. In a game where you are allowed to dismantle a corpse to the extent of severing each individual limb, the head, strip the corpse, and then choose a body part of your choice to drag along with you on your little adventure, people still aren't satisfied. Allow them all the arsenal you can possibly fit into the game in the timespan you're alloted, and it's not enough, because there are never enough ways in these people's minds to brutally murder another 'being'. And that got me thinking. Is it because they can get away with this, in this little universe without consequence that provides such an exit? No, that's only a small piece of the puzzle."
"It's the 'modders' that are the problem. In a game with more than gratitious methods of murder, people still want the option to, say, murder children, for no real reason other than they can. So despite the fact it was never the developer's intent, suddenly nudity mods, and murdering children mods, and all other sorts of things that lie 'behind the walls' suddenly begin working their way into the game. That is the problem. By rewarding such sick methods of gratification, the game developers are ultimately taking the fun out of it for the player. They wouldn't be doing such things unless they wanted to feel 'naughty', and by allowing it, it's cheapened. Once you start straying into the unintentional, and the things that aren't allowed...it's all fun again."
"A thief who enjoys stealing's worst nightmare is to wake up in a world where stealing is not only legal, but encouraged."
"That's me, Karl. I'm the thief."
______________________
Of all times for his bladder to give out on him, it had to be then. He'd finally found an ideal target. Someone suggestible who found his hazed ramblings amusing. Someone who he could only assume from what few words he could remember through his presently banging headache that liked his sense of style. Most importantly, she was more wasted than he was, and therefore less likely to remember any of the events the previous morning, if any, providing he was swift enough or at least in control of his own actions to a degree. But all these thoughts of strategy would have to wait, for now was the second most carnal of all man's traits; standing over a urinal and simply letting loose.
It was a shame that he was paid so little. After all, someone being called the 'most underrated in FCW', the 'one deserving an oppurtunity the most', and 'fan's most popular wrestler' three months in a row - not that he knew any of these things of course, he never went looking and nobody told him - his salary was remarkably low. As if paying for his own travel expenses and accomodation wasn't enough, but on top of medical bills, the amount that he had left for a night on the town was criminally low. He bit his lip, and a look of disappointment crept across his face when he realised that he still consciously felt it, and could still remember both the sensation and cause of the lingering pain thereafter. There was no excuse for him being this sober.
And then his head slams into the wall.
To think that no sooner than he'd been deliberating his tragic amount of consciousness that he'd find himself met with the ultimate sobering blow. A palm, from the size, force and textures, no doubt another man's pinning his head to the wall. Even from such a height, the smell of urine below would be enough to wake the dead, much less cure a hangover, but such a change was welcome. If only so he could hear the brutish grunts and heavy breathing that were currently finding their way into his ear lobe.
"Fuckin' pretty boy," the assaulter growls, "Bet you think the world of yourself don't you, you fucking vain prick?" Ah, the scent of vodka. Not so much a justification as much as it was an explanation. Not that one was needed for his intent. The sudden grinding against his back leg, almost pressing his cargos dangerously close into the stainless-but-not-quite-odourless steel made the man's intention more than clear. "Come in here dressed like a fucking queer. I'll give you what you want."
"What if it is what I want?"
A moment of stunned silence, on behalf of both Robin and the attacker. Clearly, he had some kind of subconscious reason for saying what he just said. There was some tidbit of knowledge lurking deep that he just had to dig up in order to explain himself, lest the situation become far more uncomfortable for him. Uncomfortable...but nonetheless unfamiliar. Perhaps that was where he was--yes, of course.
"You stupid bastard," Robin interjects, interrupting any attempt at proceeding or taking a blow at him his newest acquaintance could have possibly made, "You wouldn't be doing this unless you wanted the feeling of having power. Fuck knows you wouldn't have the courage to even consider this if you weren't pissed out of your skull." He teased the idea of looking behind him, knowing full well that if he could just force his own sobriety just a little more to make eye-contact, it would all be over, but nonetheless the pressure on his neck was still firm. Words would have to suffice for a few more moments. "If I enjoy this, you've lost all power. I get a good time and you can't do anything about it, because God knows you're not going to go out there and tell everyone you just fucked another man in the bathrooms."
Another moment of silence. Checkmate.
"Well? Get on with it."
A fist collides with his kidney. The wind escapes from his lungs from the impact and he drops to one knee, consciously making an effort to at the very least not land amongst his own waste. The sound of staggering. Ah, perhaps he wasn't in much condition for a fight, even after such a cheap shot. Such is the downfall of alcohol. Oh well, at least he was still conscious enough to get the last word in.
"You stay away from me, fuckin' faggot."
The door swings open, and then shut again. A twenty three year old, with his flies undone and his manhood exposed sits holding his kidney, laughing to himself under his breath.
______________________
"I'm stealing all of the agony that you don't want, that Raven didn't want, that every other person who watches wrestling cringes at, at the sight of it. People that shirk away from an entire spectrum of feelings, sensations, dubbing them 'unpleasant' in the nicest sense. The idea that everyone else doesn't know how to enjoy the things that I do, the way that I do...well, that makes me feel special, and naturally I want to savour every oppurtunity to feel special that I can. The key moments are whenever I step into the ring, not only because I get paid to do what I love, but because I get to show off what a unique innate ability it is to a diverse audience."
"What you managed to do, Karl, was you managed to cheapen it. I turned up in a weakened condition, and instead of trying to take advantage, as I expected that you and likely the vast majority of the roster would have, you showed concern. Others would want that, I didn't. You let your guard down for the briefest of moments and allowed me to make one move that ultimately cemented your downfall. I got my hand raised after an 'easy' victory. The vast majority would fall over themselves for such a privilege every week. It wasn't what I wanted at all. I told you what I wanted before the match began, Karl. I wanted you to hurt me."
"So I hope that this time, I've given you all the appropriate waking up that you needed to understand that you need to stop holding back, abandon all concern, all restraint, all rules and do all you can to join me, and all the others who truly understand that the concept of violence isn't violence itself. It's freedom. People fight and kill for their countries because they believe in freedom. People march in the streets and take the beatings from the defiant establishment because they believe in freedom. Raven holds the rules in absolute contempt and refuses to participate unless he's given complete creative control with which to absolutely dismantle whatever poor soul happens to have been placed in front of him...all in the name of freedom."
"Forget everything else. Forget championships, contenderships, rivalries, relationships, finances, anything else that's blocking your mind from whatever it takes for you to get into the ring tomorrow and have absolutely no reservations about tearing me limb from limb regardless of whatever condition I happen to turn up in tomorrow. How about revenge, will revenge do for motivation? Or honour? Yeah, a loss in such a short span of time isn't going to do anything for your honour, is it, eh? Come on, Karl. You're a creative man. You'll think of something. And I hope once you actually do hear that bell ring, you'll start putting that creativity to the test, for as long as it takes for us to ruin the other man in the most beautiful dance we can muster."
"Become a free man, Karl. Hurt me."