Post by carl on Jan 8, 2009 22:02:51 GMT -4
Los Angeles, California.
Life is pain and misery and emptiness. It is the f##ked up people that realize that and the even-more-f***ed-up people that plaster a smile on their faces and repeat to themselves “everything is going to be OK. Say your prayers, eat your vegetables. Everything is going to be OK. ”These are the people that say things like “you may not be able to control what happens in your life, but you can control how you react to it.” Is that really control? If I can change the temperature of the air conditioner as my car is careening off a cliff, is that really control?
No. It is an illusion. It is just an illusion; a mirage; a happy little trick of the mind that keeps the lemmings marching. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Wake up. Hit the alarm. Brush your teeth. P**s. Or p**s and then brush your teeth; that's called 'control'. Shower. Shave, if there's time. Dress yourself: the button-down Oxford homogeneity. Monkey suit, monkey shoes, monkey tie. Today's Thursday, wear the red one with the blue stripes. If you want 'control,' go wild and wear the blue one with the red stripes. That'll show them! That'll show them all who the master of his destiny is.' Eat breakfast. Drink coffee. Kiss the girlfriend. Get in the car and adjust the seats, the mirrors. Adjust the air conditioner as you careen off the cliff.
Wake up. This is your life, and you're dying one second at a time.'
Dave's Diner is a small mom-and-pop coffee and breakfast hole-in-the-wall across the street from the police station of all things in the so-called “downtown” of Los Angeles and I'm thinking what am I doing here?. I've had bowel movements bigger than the downtown of LA. But the coffee's not bad. At least I got that going for me. My finger picks at the rip in the tacky leather cushions of the two-person booth. The yellowish cushioning is poking up through the split in the seat. It's taunting me. “Pick me.” It's like a scab. Picking it will make it worse, but honestly, have you ever had a scab you didn't pick at?
Me either. And as I'm running the little wooden stirring stick around the edge of the coffee mug on its six-hundred-sixty-sixth lap and stare out the window at lemmings marching to walk; staring at watches, shuffling briefcases, casting awkward glances; I think about scabs and scars. I think about Streets Wilson and Julian Bale.
I think about his bruises and his blood. I picture the stuffy stewardess – glorified air waitress- in her own blue-and-white monkey suit with the plastic pilot wings and plastic nameplate reading “Michelle” casting a wary eye at the ex Tag Champions in seat 17E and 17F of Flight 205 from the location of Overdrive to where ever they go, with tinted sunglasses trying to discretely cover the blood bruise around there eye or eyes if there lucky. I think the YouTube video Jessica showed me at home – our home – this morning. “Pure Innovation vs Julian Bale and Streets Wilson(?) Tag Title Fight!” The footage was graicell phoney cellphone camera. It was far away too, and lasted only 0:50 seconds. But I knew it was home. Everyone that mattered knew; everyone else didn't matter.
How like us? No one else matters. Just Pure Innovation. Just Bale and Wilson. Like Lee Van Cleef and Clint Eastwood in some wind-blown desert cemetery, ten paces apart and Peacemakers ready. I am the Man With No Name.
It's the sound of the waitress placing down my favourite meal from a nice Duck roast with all the trimmings down in front of me. I force a smile up at her and nod to say “thank you.” She doesn't ask if I want anything else. I don't mind. I am the Man With No Name, and I am not Carl Cage.
--------------------------------------------------
“Heroes...”
The voice is distinctly that of Carl Cage. The Essence Of Egotism finds himself once more in downtown of LA. He's not loitering this time. He's pacing. A gentle rain falls like a thin curtain of mist and water. A black pair of Armani suit trousers, smart shoes, a black Fedora type hat and a posh thick coat buttoned up offer there protection from the rain. The streets are mostly empty. A few businessmen meander about in a seemingly aimless fashion under enormous black umbrellas. Businesswomen take careful steps to avoid puddles and maintain balance atop the elegant heels of business shoes.
“That's what they think we are... heroes.”
Cage ducks under the awning of a shop, a damp haven from the soft rainfall.
“Yet they pass on the streets, unable to recognize us. Our alter-egos. How is that possible? We don't wear capes; most of us. We don't wear masks; most of us. We don't hide. We don't have inner-circles and secret identities. So how does someone, how does a quote-unquote “hero” like The Essence Of Egotism bask in the thunderous roar of thousands on Monday Night, but walks unnoticed on the streets on Tuesday Morning?”
Cage pauses. He removes his hands from the front pockets of his posh thick coat and crosses them in front of his chest. His head rises, lifting the shadow from the brim of his Fedora hat like a veil from his face.
“It's because we're temporary. We are Disposable Heroes. We exist as superhuman only for the hours between when Overdrive starts and when they end. That time is bookended by relative obscurity. We exist like disposable camera, disposable razors, disposable contact lenses. Available at convenience. Temporary. The same decaying matter as every other atom, molecule and nucleotide.”
Carl pauses again. His pale blue eyes follow the path of a businessman who passes in front of him. The man makes no acknowledgment of Cage's existence. He averts his gaze and stares at his shoes. Polished black. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.
“Heroes get remembered, but heroes die. Ask Superman. Ask Captain America. Heroes get remembered, but legends never die. So what's a Disposable Hero to do? Our kryptonite and our curse is the knowledge that we are fleeting, and there is only one way to extend our lives. It's a Catch-22, and like Yossarian's friend we can pursue elongated life to the point that we appear dead, or we can shorten our lives in the hopes of immortality.
Carl Cage, Jason Royce, Trevor Blackwell and Tabitha Crowley the Disposable Heroes... we choose the latter. Bones break. Lips burst. Teeth get knocked in or out. Necks snap like twigs. Internal organs rupture and fill with blood until it curdles and gurgles up the throat and out the mouth. It is the pursuit of a legacy. We will soon be wearing our kryptonite around our waists, with our names engraved in them. It won't be long until that happens to all that defy us or get in our way to kicking some serious a**e!!!"
Cage instinctively touches the bare spot on his waist wear his soon to be Tag Title belt will go.
“We kill ourselves to live forever. The first step to immortality is death. Bale, Wilson, one of us Tag's will die...
...the other will live forever. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
Carl lowers his head and again lets the shadow of his brim obscure his face. He thinks to himself how great he will become after beating a The Tag champs as it will be a nice stepping stone to bigger and better things for him and Pure Innovation, and to getting gold around his waist, Cage begins walking again. He stops only briefly to check his reflection in the window pane of Dave's Diner; a small mom-and-pop coffee and breakfast hole-in-the-wall. He doesn't notice the Man on the other side of the glass, sipping his coffee and eating a Duck roast with all the trimmings.
"So Bale, Wilson let me leave you with these words "People might mistaken my identity but you won't come Overdrive because you will have the image of me and Royce with our hands raised at the end of the match and your lifeless carcuss flat on your back."
Carl smirks and thinks to himself 'some day I will have it all and then no one will 'MISTAKEN MY IDENITY' and the scene fades as he is walking down the street and out of veiw.
Life is pain and misery and emptiness. It is the f##ked up people that realize that and the even-more-f***ed-up people that plaster a smile on their faces and repeat to themselves “everything is going to be OK. Say your prayers, eat your vegetables. Everything is going to be OK. ”These are the people that say things like “you may not be able to control what happens in your life, but you can control how you react to it.” Is that really control? If I can change the temperature of the air conditioner as my car is careening off a cliff, is that really control?
No. It is an illusion. It is just an illusion; a mirage; a happy little trick of the mind that keeps the lemmings marching. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Wake up. Hit the alarm. Brush your teeth. P**s. Or p**s and then brush your teeth; that's called 'control'. Shower. Shave, if there's time. Dress yourself: the button-down Oxford homogeneity. Monkey suit, monkey shoes, monkey tie. Today's Thursday, wear the red one with the blue stripes. If you want 'control,' go wild and wear the blue one with the red stripes. That'll show them! That'll show them all who the master of his destiny is.' Eat breakfast. Drink coffee. Kiss the girlfriend. Get in the car and adjust the seats, the mirrors. Adjust the air conditioner as you careen off the cliff.
Wake up. This is your life, and you're dying one second at a time.'
Dave's Diner is a small mom-and-pop coffee and breakfast hole-in-the-wall across the street from the police station of all things in the so-called “downtown” of Los Angeles and I'm thinking what am I doing here?. I've had bowel movements bigger than the downtown of LA. But the coffee's not bad. At least I got that going for me. My finger picks at the rip in the tacky leather cushions of the two-person booth. The yellowish cushioning is poking up through the split in the seat. It's taunting me. “Pick me.” It's like a scab. Picking it will make it worse, but honestly, have you ever had a scab you didn't pick at?
Me either. And as I'm running the little wooden stirring stick around the edge of the coffee mug on its six-hundred-sixty-sixth lap and stare out the window at lemmings marching to walk; staring at watches, shuffling briefcases, casting awkward glances; I think about scabs and scars. I think about Streets Wilson and Julian Bale.
I think about his bruises and his blood. I picture the stuffy stewardess – glorified air waitress- in her own blue-and-white monkey suit with the plastic pilot wings and plastic nameplate reading “Michelle” casting a wary eye at the ex Tag Champions in seat 17E and 17F of Flight 205 from the location of Overdrive to where ever they go, with tinted sunglasses trying to discretely cover the blood bruise around there eye or eyes if there lucky. I think the YouTube video Jessica showed me at home – our home – this morning. “Pure Innovation vs Julian Bale and Streets Wilson(?) Tag Title Fight!” The footage was graicell phoney cellphone camera. It was far away too, and lasted only 0:50 seconds. But I knew it was home. Everyone that mattered knew; everyone else didn't matter.
How like us? No one else matters. Just Pure Innovation. Just Bale and Wilson. Like Lee Van Cleef and Clint Eastwood in some wind-blown desert cemetery, ten paces apart and Peacemakers ready. I am the Man With No Name.
BANG!
It's the sound of the waitress placing down my favourite meal from a nice Duck roast with all the trimmings down in front of me. I force a smile up at her and nod to say “thank you.” She doesn't ask if I want anything else. I don't mind. I am the Man With No Name, and I am not Carl Cage.
--------------------------------------------------
“Heroes...”
The voice is distinctly that of Carl Cage. The Essence Of Egotism finds himself once more in downtown of LA. He's not loitering this time. He's pacing. A gentle rain falls like a thin curtain of mist and water. A black pair of Armani suit trousers, smart shoes, a black Fedora type hat and a posh thick coat buttoned up offer there protection from the rain. The streets are mostly empty. A few businessmen meander about in a seemingly aimless fashion under enormous black umbrellas. Businesswomen take careful steps to avoid puddles and maintain balance atop the elegant heels of business shoes.
“That's what they think we are... heroes.”
Cage ducks under the awning of a shop, a damp haven from the soft rainfall.
“Yet they pass on the streets, unable to recognize us. Our alter-egos. How is that possible? We don't wear capes; most of us. We don't wear masks; most of us. We don't hide. We don't have inner-circles and secret identities. So how does someone, how does a quote-unquote “hero” like The Essence Of Egotism bask in the thunderous roar of thousands on Monday Night, but walks unnoticed on the streets on Tuesday Morning?”
Cage pauses. He removes his hands from the front pockets of his posh thick coat and crosses them in front of his chest. His head rises, lifting the shadow from the brim of his Fedora hat like a veil from his face.
“It's because we're temporary. We are Disposable Heroes. We exist as superhuman only for the hours between when Overdrive starts and when they end. That time is bookended by relative obscurity. We exist like disposable camera, disposable razors, disposable contact lenses. Available at convenience. Temporary. The same decaying matter as every other atom, molecule and nucleotide.”
Carl pauses again. His pale blue eyes follow the path of a businessman who passes in front of him. The man makes no acknowledgment of Cage's existence. He averts his gaze and stares at his shoes. Polished black. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.
“Heroes get remembered, but heroes die. Ask Superman. Ask Captain America. Heroes get remembered, but legends never die. So what's a Disposable Hero to do? Our kryptonite and our curse is the knowledge that we are fleeting, and there is only one way to extend our lives. It's a Catch-22, and like Yossarian's friend we can pursue elongated life to the point that we appear dead, or we can shorten our lives in the hopes of immortality.
Carl Cage, Jason Royce, Trevor Blackwell and Tabitha Crowley the Disposable Heroes... we choose the latter. Bones break. Lips burst. Teeth get knocked in or out. Necks snap like twigs. Internal organs rupture and fill with blood until it curdles and gurgles up the throat and out the mouth. It is the pursuit of a legacy. We will soon be wearing our kryptonite around our waists, with our names engraved in them. It won't be long until that happens to all that defy us or get in our way to kicking some serious a**e!!!"
Cage instinctively touches the bare spot on his waist wear his soon to be Tag Title belt will go.
“We kill ourselves to live forever. The first step to immortality is death. Bale, Wilson, one of us Tag's will die...
...the other will live forever. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
Carl lowers his head and again lets the shadow of his brim obscure his face. He thinks to himself how great he will become after beating a The Tag champs as it will be a nice stepping stone to bigger and better things for him and Pure Innovation, and to getting gold around his waist, Cage begins walking again. He stops only briefly to check his reflection in the window pane of Dave's Diner; a small mom-and-pop coffee and breakfast hole-in-the-wall. He doesn't notice the Man on the other side of the glass, sipping his coffee and eating a Duck roast with all the trimmings.
"So Bale, Wilson let me leave you with these words "People might mistaken my identity but you won't come Overdrive because you will have the image of me and Royce with our hands raised at the end of the match and your lifeless carcuss flat on your back."
Carl smirks and thinks to himself 'some day I will have it all and then no one will 'MISTAKEN MY IDENITY' and the scene fades as he is walking down the street and out of veiw.
