Scatter blasted thoughts tear through the marsh of his mind as he is bombarded with images.
(There's an old man standing near a tree, smoking a cob pipe, hollering at his sprog.)
(Hookers standing at attention, shaking their moneymakers as they rep their merchandise.)
(Crows and ravens dancing together in a wild flight of freefall as they drop from the sky.)
(A military encampment under seige, the slick sound of steel seperating blood from bone orchestrating a wonderful cacophony.)
(A lone figure---)
???: That's enough, No. 667.
(oh-god-we're dead and then we're alive, when-is>this
???: Oh, we haven't even begun yet.
The spotlight that had bathed us in a frightening shimmer of flickering light suddenly ticks off, the room illuminating as the lights are turned on.
(fuck me, what the fuck, girders...fuckmefuckhimfuckyoufucki....)
Sterile white walls. Tiles of enormous size fade in and out of one another along the walls, as the sparkling and immaculate room highlights the man in a black suit who stands before Cyren.
Cyren: Where the fuck am I?
The question is battled through, each breath coming in quick and evaporating in bursts.
The man simply glides over to Cyren, as if he was a phantom and not flesh, his cool breath blowing right down the back of his neck as he responds.
???: Oh, I believe by the time... oh yes... yes.. yes... in retrospect, you'll have wished to have asked a better question first...one not so trivial, one so meaningless...
Sweat down the quickeningly graying pallor of throat.
No response from Cyren as he awaits for the man to elaborate.
???: I am called... the Caretaker. Let's have introductions at last - after all, it's the polite thing, isn't it? Although, you require no introduction... perhaps to yourself but not to me. I... you see... am a Guardian of knowledge and advancement. A 'hand behind the curtain', if you will. And you...
The chair Cyren was latched into is spun around and he sees a darkened hallway to behind him.
The man seems to ruffle with something out of Cyren's view, a sound of crinkling paper and pocket spelunking.
The Caretaker: You are James Burroughs, 39 years old and shacked up with a beautiful Irish lass. You're a plumber by trade and an alcoholic by preference. A slovenly waste of flesh that has given nothing back to humanity since the day you were squeezed into it.
At this, something clicks in Cyren's mind as his breath hitches.
Cyren: My name is Andrew and that's all you're going to get from me. You're nothing but a poorly digested bit of food, possibly a rotten cock that Blair slipped me. You're ghouls and ghosts, tarts and sugar plums. This isn't reality and you're a poor incubus.
The restraints which have the 'Rogue' planted though, might disagree.
The Caretaker: No, quite true. You are correct in your assumption. To you, this would much resemble a 'dream.' And in a fashion, you are dreaming. You see, the room around you isn't a construct of sweat and mortar... it's built by what believe it could be. I appear, as you might wish me to. You're experiencing what's called a 'synaptic loop.'
Huh?
The Caretaker: You see, Mr. McGrier, in life you were a demonic entity which stole away the riches from those most deserving, were a proponent of chaos and mayhem and ultimately, an infection upon the industry in which you excelled in. Had you been a world leader, you would have rivaled Adolph Hitler. In Tennis, you might be John McEnroe. But no, you were 'C Y R E N', the 'Sickness', a 'Rogue.' But not of your own volition, no matter what you may have believed.
At this, a large symbol is splayed against the outerwall, outlined in red.
It's an easily recognizable beacon which causes Cyren to stir.
The Caretaker: You recognize it, yes? It's D-R-W, the Devil's Red Wings. They were... let's call it an 'orgnization' which facilitated the production and implementation of... 'WEAPONS.' WEAPON: ASHEN, WEAPON: GRIFFIN, etc. etc....
Cyren: I know about the god damn D-R-W, I've not had my head buried in the sand, you pompous nightfiend.
A quirk, I suppose.
The Caretaker: In essence, you are the mirror image... to WEAPON: ASHEN. A constructed being so powerful that it can defy the reality around us. We are of a different breed though - right along the same lines of research... but we took different methods and have different tenants...
A loud scoff.
Cyren: So what would you like to call your little 'group', cockbite?
A grin from the man and a response.
The Caretaker: We don't have a technical name in the traditional sense. We use a lot of 'dummy corporations', so we have a million names. However, to those closest to the 'Project', we refer to it in a bittersweet way as the 'Singularists.' We have strived for eons to propel forward the reach of science. You are a prime example of that effort.
At this point, Cyren has given up recognizing the man's lunatic words.
The Caretaker: About 50 years ago, we discovered we have the ability to mold a mind with that of a machine. However, our A.I. was something cold, callous and ultimately far too simplistic for our liking. So since we could craft machines able to interface with a human mind, yet not craft a mind ourselves, that's where you come in. We have recorded you, Cyren. All of your human experience from when you were a newborn to the day you 'died.' You were a week old when I first held you in my arms, looking at your suckling black baby lips. And yes, you were an African American... you're 'parents' were Tyrone and Jamiqua Riggs... but at the point we recieved you... we stripped that fragile baby flesh from your mind and placed you in a much sturdier frame. You had sickle cell anemia and we saved you from perdition, much as we have done so again. We constructed a bio-mechanical organism indistinguishable from a 'natural' human and placed your consciousness into this 'carrier.' This was your body, custom made to fit your mind. The body, the genitalia, the hands and fingers and toes, that you knew as your own, I designed for you.
Cyren just continues scratching his nuts.
The Caretaker: You see, your body was designed of stretchable fibers a thousand times sturdier then those of a mortal man. You were made to be an instrument of war. One to be called upon lest we need protection. That day has never come but the time for us to intervene and 'protect' you, has itself arrived. You were put into the body of James Burroughs by accident. We have instrument of scientific research, some into disease, some we designed for technology, etc. etc. We have many 'designs', but our most brutal and functional, was you. I am your true 'Father', Cyren. I dreamed you up in the depths of my mind and birthed you into life.I wept when your spinal cortex was dashed....
At this, the man leans forward and speaks in a whispered tone...
The Caretaker: ...hence, why I've brought you back against all of the 'Singularist' policies. I am the lone person who knows of your 'resurrection.' I even know about your 'time in Hell.' For you, it was torment and brutality but in reality, I had snagged you and put you into a state of technical 'limbo' until I could find a suitable 'carrier' for your mind... until I could find a lowly, disposable insect the 'Project' wouldn't care about to foster you. I am sorry for this 'limbo.' Imagine a human mind shoved in a lightless, soundless box and left to it's own devices. You have been in such a state for months. I can not express the depth of my sorrow...
Cyren: You know nothing of hell, lambchop.
The Caretaker: I know it's in the eye of the beholder, so I'll never argue that you toiled there. I do however... have a gift for you.
At this, Cyren's chair is turned around and he sees a giant glowing light emenating from a giant factory-like machine.
And slowly, oh so gently, Cyren's body... his face... everything about him that he's ever known... naked and plastine is slowly puked out of the machine on a roller belt.
The Caretaker lunges forward and grabs Cyren by the face, staring deeply into his eyes.
The Caretaker: Stay with me, son! Don't fall back into a loop! You MUST stay with me! I will connect you back to your body... I will bring you back to your home! Just stay with me! Do not stray your mind!
It's to no avail though, the lunacy of the 'nightmare' is beyond Cyren.
He blacks out.
I open my eyes.
I'm home.
I'm me.
I'm free of the longest nightmare of my life.
God, I need a drink..
.
It takes Cyren a few minutes to give himself a shave, to inspect his body and all it's parts to make sure it's the 'bonafide original', and once satisfied, he sits down with a 100 year old bottle of bourbon and begins to flip through the channels... chalking up his 'missing time' of two months, to a long bender.
After he's watched the goings on over the last two months and reviewed a lot of the faces, he has a lot on his mind, so he sets out to record himself from his couch his thoughts, eager to send them into XWF.com.
So after a long and fuzzy absence, I have returned. I can not recollect where I've been or in what kind of state for the last two months ever since I reformed the Black Circle with but I have to believe he slipped me some kind of absinthe/LSD tea because I can't make hide nor hair from the broadcasts where the fuck I've been or what has happened since my 'magic act decapitation.'
So in lieu of frying my brain trying to piece it all together, I'll just happily go ahead and do a rundown on current events and the roster and get myself caught back up to speed.
NAME: Sebastien Duke
HAILING FROM: His Mother's Asshole
TEMPERMENT: Candy Ass Carton of Milk. He believes he's a tool of 'darkness', urging others to buy the 'indimidation' he's selling but he's just like any other trussed up 'Gothic' wannabe. He makes me harken back to yesteryear and to quote a genius, his particular brand of personality makes me want to put 'straight razors' and 'death' on sale today. What a rampant tool who speaks forever but doesn't say a damn thing.
NAME: (Questionable? Your Angel? His Angel? My Bitch?)
HAILING FROM: The World of 'Take Your Pick.'
TEMPERMENT: An ambiguous, androgynous, omni-sexual being whose disconnected from any sturdy reality. Has aspirations of intellectualism but utterly fails and ends up mutating into a tool of destruction... to the English language. Seemingly can not make up his mind on whether or not do anything in life. Wants to leave up all his beliefs to a disembodied 'audience' whom are given 'options' on what he is to do or how he is to have done it. Blurs the lines of a 'whodunit?' with an RL Stine nightmare fit for the kind of cascading spiral you would see in an M.C. Escher painting. I like him... when I'm on acid.
On that subject though, I propose to to you a 'thought experiment.'
Whilst watching 'Your Angel's' promos, do you whack off .
Beat It?}
You selected :Whack It!: -->result? You have entered into a new form of virtual Europa. Whilst ensconced in your chair, entranced by the intrinsically whimsical 'Angel', you find yourself yearning for a bottle of lube and peppermint schnapps. Soon enough, you can't take it any longer. That silver hair, the long and unintelligible parables he spouts, that dribbling mess of mind and stem... that cock-tease. You erupt, sending hot and bubbling semen flying towards your television screen, coating the '.' in all that he deserves.
NAME:'The Mechanic'
HAILING FROM: Penis is currently lodged in Lexi Sheckler. Brain is MIA.
TEMPERMENT: A very versatile man with abilities rooted in the pragmatic world, Griffin is an opponent not to be taken lightly. He should be taken very heavily because he's completely bloated by eating his own bullshit and drinking his own Kool-Aid. He's a bottom-rung, lower-tier talent who has stolen himself to the top of the mountain, having the gull to think him deserving of it. He has tried and failed to cement a legacy in the XWF. He will get one this Saturday though. I'll purchase it for him with his own blood, his carcass as a deposit.
NAME: Do we really give a fuck?
HAILING FROM: Some place where he apparently was one hell of a big fish in a tiny puddle - 'cuz this jackass seems to think he actually matters around here. Nah-ah, my friend.
TEMPERMENT: Ominous and crass, he's a confusion between the creepy and the cocky. Can't seem to make up his mind on whether or not to actually call someone out directly or hope that they're listening to his endless rambling.
[quote]What; you're going to go choose John Black or Crimson Dong? Maybe that shitbag Cyren? [/quote}
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no stranger to insults. It's a fairly routine thing. In fact; it's a flattery. Some new young pup wants to wander into the XWF, looks around for the biggest, most storied dog he can find and of course my name is gonna catch 'em. I'm The Legend left in this place. I am all that remains after all the rest have left. The last remnant of a bygone era.
Not a dysfunctional one.
So, you want to make your mark, is it? You want to toss MY name around? You haven't ready the right to yet, buddy. You've gotta face me in the ring on a day I actually give a shit in order to do that.
You haven't beaten me.
You never will.
You are an afterthought.
Deal with it.
At the end of the day, I'm still the best this place has ever seen. [/align]
![[-]](https://xwf99.com/images/portal2/collapse.gif)
The following 1 user Likes C Y R E N's post:
but I have to believe he slipped me some kind of absinthe/LSD tea because I can't make hide nor hair from the broadcasts where the fuck I've been or what has happened since my 'magic act decapitation.'
