Views: 377 Sticking Your Finger in the Lion's Nose
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The cast was set and it was done in less than 5 minutes. The show? One seen millions of times by the same audience. My role? Well, I'm simply the supporting role. The real stars have been decided by a rambunctious bunch that took the spotlight from themselves. Regardless, I took up my fancy dress, applied my purple make-up and headed out onto the stage.
The minutes fly on like hours. I settle down in my little corner as I watch him bombard little midgets with a gun. Money scatters about across the floors, and yet, it never seems to be enough. I simply watch as he kills more and more of these midgets as I occasionally throw a plastic tube at a boy who needs no map. Of course, when the tube wraps around this blonde haired bloke, my VIP runs on out and shoots him like some sort of racial stereotype. Eventually the boy dies and we loot his corpse and the show goes on as intended. But with this abysmal script writing, the blonde haired boy is magically raised from the dead to challenge the black hero once again. I believe that his partner, who is some skull phantom of sorts, has the ability to resurrect the dead like some modern day Jesus. Whatever the case, it is clear to anyone by now that this play is being written by some 13 year old juvenile who has an obsession with Japanese animation.
So the play goes on. The same thing happens; Kid comes to lane, I throw a tube on him, boy dies, we get money. As much as I find this to be trite and repetitive, the crowds seem to love it. But then.... it happens..... I simply blink for a moment and realize that I released a flying snake towards the near-dead boy....
Purple Bimbo has Slain an Enemy
The crowd goes silent, for it seems that, in the commotion of it all, the supporting act has just now said a line only meant to be said by the star of the show. Surely, I thought that the crowd would be tired by now of seeing the same thing 3 times in a row, so a problem should not be created by my slip of the finger. But no, the star looks at me with disgust in his eyes. He grabbed me by the bra and let me have it. His saliva drenched my face as brutal vulgarities and many things of the sort came flowing out of his mouth. He pointed his finger at me and grunted "If I EVER see you do something like this again... just one... more... time.... I'm going to make you PAY for it."
His warning went upon deaf ears, for I have started to grow bored of this play. I decided to give into my inquisition as to what may result from my rebellious nature and punched a midget to collect his money. The star didn't seem to notice, so I did it again. With a snap of his neck, he turned towards me, frothing with rage and extreme disdain for my very being. What came out of his mouth was something undecipherable by anyone with half a brain (metaphorically speaking, that is). But,... I found a sick satisfaction bubbling beneath my nonchalant appearance. On the outside, I was concerned and understanding of his rage, but deep down, I took delight in seeing this anger, this rage, this.... reaction. I had to press on.
The boy without a map returned to my lane once more and I jumped on the first opportunity to murder him myself. Within seconds of appearing on stage, he was dead again. A wave of midgets flew on by and all of them fell before my feet; their riches pouring into my nest egg. It wasn't long now till the star came back and saw what was happening. From afar, he kept his eye on me, and displeasure filled his sights. He let out the wail of some savage beast as he drooped over, staring at me like a mad man who has just lost his last shred of sanity. He laughed as he slowly stumbled towards me, flicking his head back as he looked into my eyes with a sadistic glimmer shimmering in his pupils. "It's okay" he said, "This is my smurf! I DON'T CARE IF THIS WHOLE ACT IS SENT TO THE THRESHOLDS OF HELL, I'LL SEND YOU AND THE OTHERS WITH IT! HAHAHHAHAHAHA!"
The star clasped onto his pistols and fitted them into his mouth like some deranged Saturday morning cartoon. With one last snarl and one last laugh, he pulled the trigger. "The Star,.... has been disconnected....."
It wasn't long then after that the play came to a halt, being discontinued 20 minutes into the performance. Surely, our ratings plummeted and morals were low, but,... I must say,... I felt a smidgen of enjoyment... I caused all of this chaos, this madness, this disarray. It was by my actions which resulted in the destruction of an over-inflated ego and the loss of rating for us, but it simply did not matter to me. What mattered was that this "star" was no more. This star performer is going to be sent to receive righteous judgement before the Tribunal.
What mattered to me is that I got to watch this production burn from on top of a throne. I pulled the strings. I watched the tower of cards crumble beneath my wake.
What I discovered is how much fun being bad really is.
But to say that I am simply evil for doing such a crime is but of half-truths. Surely, we do not blame the car for why it hit a civilian, for the drunken fool choosing to drive is surely at fault. Perhaps, more or less, I am the civilian in this scenario, for I have control to position myself to be hit by this car and, in painful compensation, receive my fair share of outrageous entertainment. Surely, my rating will drop, but in the end, theirs will to. What differs between me and them is that I'm the one smiling at the end of the day.
And that makes all the difference.
The minutes fly on like hours. I settle down in my little corner as I watch him bombard little midgets with a gun. Money scatters about across the floors, and yet, it never seems to be enough. I simply watch as he kills more and more of these midgets as I occasionally throw a plastic tube at a boy who needs no map. Of course, when the tube wraps around this blonde haired bloke, my VIP runs on out and shoots him like some sort of racial stereotype. Eventually the boy dies and we loot his corpse and the show goes on as intended. But with this abysmal script writing, the blonde haired boy is magically raised from the dead to challenge the black hero once again. I believe that his partner, who is some skull phantom of sorts, has the ability to resurrect the dead like some modern day Jesus. Whatever the case, it is clear to anyone by now that this play is being written by some 13 year old juvenile who has an obsession with Japanese animation.
So the play goes on. The same thing happens; Kid comes to lane, I throw a tube on him, boy dies, we get money. As much as I find this to be trite and repetitive, the crowds seem to love it. But then.... it happens..... I simply blink for a moment and realize that I released a flying snake towards the near-dead boy....
Purple Bimbo has Slain an Enemy
The crowd goes silent, for it seems that, in the commotion of it all, the supporting act has just now said a line only meant to be said by the star of the show. Surely, I thought that the crowd would be tired by now of seeing the same thing 3 times in a row, so a problem should not be created by my slip of the finger. But no, the star looks at me with disgust in his eyes. He grabbed me by the bra and let me have it. His saliva drenched my face as brutal vulgarities and many things of the sort came flowing out of his mouth. He pointed his finger at me and grunted "If I EVER see you do something like this again... just one... more... time.... I'm going to make you PAY for it."
His warning went upon deaf ears, for I have started to grow bored of this play. I decided to give into my inquisition as to what may result from my rebellious nature and punched a midget to collect his money. The star didn't seem to notice, so I did it again. With a snap of his neck, he turned towards me, frothing with rage and extreme disdain for my very being. What came out of his mouth was something undecipherable by anyone with half a brain (metaphorically speaking, that is). But,... I found a sick satisfaction bubbling beneath my nonchalant appearance. On the outside, I was concerned and understanding of his rage, but deep down, I took delight in seeing this anger, this rage, this.... reaction. I had to press on.
The boy without a map returned to my lane once more and I jumped on the first opportunity to murder him myself. Within seconds of appearing on stage, he was dead again. A wave of midgets flew on by and all of them fell before my feet; their riches pouring into my nest egg. It wasn't long now till the star came back and saw what was happening. From afar, he kept his eye on me, and displeasure filled his sights. He let out the wail of some savage beast as he drooped over, staring at me like a mad man who has just lost his last shred of sanity. He laughed as he slowly stumbled towards me, flicking his head back as he looked into my eyes with a sadistic glimmer shimmering in his pupils. "It's okay" he said, "This is my smurf! I DON'T CARE IF THIS WHOLE ACT IS SENT TO THE THRESHOLDS OF HELL, I'LL SEND YOU AND THE OTHERS WITH IT! HAHAHHAHAHAHA!"
The star clasped onto his pistols and fitted them into his mouth like some deranged Saturday morning cartoon. With one last snarl and one last laugh, he pulled the trigger. "The Star,.... has been disconnected....."
It wasn't long then after that the play came to a halt, being discontinued 20 minutes into the performance. Surely, our ratings plummeted and morals were low, but,... I must say,... I felt a smidgen of enjoyment... I caused all of this chaos, this madness, this disarray. It was by my actions which resulted in the destruction of an over-inflated ego and the loss of rating for us, but it simply did not matter to me. What mattered was that this "star" was no more. This star performer is going to be sent to receive righteous judgement before the Tribunal.
What mattered to me is that I got to watch this production burn from on top of a throne. I pulled the strings. I watched the tower of cards crumble beneath my wake.
What I discovered is how much fun being bad really is.
But to say that I am simply evil for doing such a crime is but of half-truths. Surely, we do not blame the car for why it hit a civilian, for the drunken fool choosing to drive is surely at fault. Perhaps, more or less, I am the civilian in this scenario, for I have control to position myself to be hit by this car and, in painful compensation, receive my fair share of outrageous entertainment. Surely, my rating will drop, but in the end, theirs will to. What differs between me and them is that I'm the one smiling at the end of the day.
And that makes all the difference.
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