Post by Kris on Aug 6, 2015 23:29:07 GMT -4
((OOC Note: My RP clocks in as 2361 before code, as per Microsoft Word. Good luck, Doxie! ♥ Also, Rachel references House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski without crediting him in the CD. Since she didn't, I'm gonna.))
There's only so much that cleaning supplies can do to stave off the effects of time. Using cheap materials to build it sure as shit don't help matters.
A sigh rattles free of Rachel's ribcage as she strides down the aisle of the Cochranton Market Place, the closest thing that her hometown has to a proper grocery store. Grease-stained hands loosely hold the plastic bar of the shopping cart she's pushing along at a slow, almost lethargic pace as she goes through the motions of at least trying to buy the healthier stuff that she should, by all rights, be eating instead of the over-processed shit she favors. Even though the aisle she's walking down is loaded to the brim with cheap sugary goodness, the bright and distracting colors of the packaging do nothing to distract from the dingy beige of the shelves themselves, the absence of pattern on the cheap linoleum that used to be festooned with spots and flecks in a random pattern... even the housings for the harsh fluorescent lights that occasionally buzz and flicker overhead are chipped and worn, barely above code. It's outright depressing, she has to admit--doubly so, considering how Meadville's far-nicer options aren't more than half an hour away at the absolute most--but she's got to patronize what's local and pay the upcharges. Even if most of the other townsfolk give her a wide berth despite how she's dressed comparatively normal in old denim cut-offs and an old Ford Mustang t-shirt she stole from Richard's clean laundry, even if they perpetuate the reputation of the only surviving Ellsworth being a mean-spirited drunk just like her old man rotting away in Hell when she won't touch the shit that turned him rabid... she has to support where she comes from and put money into the economy. It's just what a small town girl does.
At least they've got Captain Crunch this time.
Turning her head, she reaches out for that red box-- the light overhead flickers, goes dark for a moment with a buzz.
Something moves just out of the corner of her eye when they come back on, something she can't see enough of to identify. She knows full well that she shouldn't look, that she should let the moment pass and the riotous mass of colors surrounding her as those packages seemingly smush together into a candy-coated nightmare. It will pass, she knows it will pass... but she can't help it.
Of course she looks.
She looks so fast, she should of ended up wearing one of those neck braces for whiplash.
For a split second, a frail wisp of a woman is visible as she goes around the corner, canvas shoes all but shuffling instead of properly walking. Even if her hair is cornsilk blond without so much as a hint of gray, she moves as if she's three times her age--and through the thin white fabric of her dress? Rachel can see bruises blooming, hideous splotches of purples and browns that she knows all too well since she's worn them herself before, back before she could spell her own name. She can feel the brilliant red, the phoenixisms and kitsune-touched claims bleeding away with the years as her shoes seemingly vanish to feel the roughshod wood floors that she'd taken great delight in tearing out once she found...
She found...
She--
She's getting smacked across the ass by her husband, Richard who has just returned from his own adventure in the store. Equally greased up and bearing similar white-trash garb, the one-time wrestler has finished looking for his own chosen snacks. Finding Ben and Jerry's on sale? He couldn't help himself, winding up with a hand-basket he has filled to the brim. Chubby Hubby, Cherry Garcia and a variety of others filled the basket...and a thing or three or Oreos. He figures it'll make for a good pre-ravenous banging meal, if nothing else. Of course, the idea of ravenous banging makes her ass an attractive target when he finds her after that foray into the depths of the store.
Oi, hotness. Got some ice crea--
The physical contact is enough to make the Atomic Redhead jump, his words not quite penetrating the gap between reality and her mind's current state. Whirling around sharply on her heel, those usually-laughing green eyes are as blank as a new chalkboard--and her hand is moving toward the small of her back. Dimly, she is aware of how he recoils. How can she not be? She knows that he knows that his wife isn't the most stable...and neither is he, but for far different reasons. He knows that look in her eye, but more importantly? He knows what she's reaching for--the wickedly sharp hunting knife she keeps just beneath the hem of her shirt, a holdover from her days when her ex was still alive and doggedly trying to destroy her free will. Dropping the basket, his hands go toward the sides of her head as he steps in, gently guiding her gaze toward his face and making damn sure that he's too close for her to effectively do anything with that weapon.
Hey, hey. Rach. Raaach, honey. Come on, ground control to Major Tom. Real world calling.
The pin-points of the pupils of his eyes pierce the haze, reality slowly seeping in and expanding upon features she's known for most of her life--and loved, in one way or another, for the vast majority of it. It's not the Richard of now, though, that she sees. There are no scars from that fateful collision of Camaro and mature oak tree that sent him spinning out of her life for the better part of a decade, none of the incidental little imperfections of time and a brief stint in the business she has recently returned to... it's the same Richard that once stained his mother's kitchen sink helping her dye her hair red for the very first time, down to the reddish-orange spot on the end of his nose. A weak smile tugs her lips, rueful as her tone as she reaches up and runs her thumb lightly along where that stain lives.
...we need to get that off of your nose.
That relieved expression, that smile of his own further drags her back into the here and now, slow and laborious on her end--but she doesn't notice. She also doesn't notice the faint furrow of his brow, or the way his gaze flickers away from hers for just a second... not any longer than that, though, not with her current state. Instead, he surrounds her with a sigh, his arms slipping down to pull her close against his chest before he rubs her back and nuzzles his nose into her hair.
...a nose that is bereft of any kind of dirt, dye or grease or otherwise.
Not that he's going to tell her that.
Not when the edges of reality haven't quite set yet.
So apparently, accordin' to Tweedle Dum the commentator, there's some question as to whether or not I count as a good person.
How do I answer that question, exactly?
I mean shit-- ignorin' the obvious conflict of interest there since self-perception is a bitch sometimes, from where I sit, there ain't a single soul on the face of the planet that don't have a split of good and evil in them. Even Ravetard's has a good side, that side being the one where her actions revealed just how absatively fucktarded she was since she tapped the fuck out and saved her career. Her right hand's probably FUBAR-ed to Hell and back, but I've seen folks wrestle through worse. I mean, Raabtard has long since been scientifically proven to not have a brain, but yet he continues to function with at least some level of the same cognizance as a Romero zombie. Someone oughta buy him one of those gold foil-wrapped candies, glue a coupla' doo-dads on it, and give it to him as a medal of accomplishment. He's not smart enough to know the difference. Hell, you could probably put some gold spray paint on a piece of cow shit and he'd carry it around like a prize... and now I'm wondering how long it'd take to convince Ravetard that really, it'd totally help her regain her (nonexistent) 4chan cred if she shoved her tongue into an electric socket. I gotta help Darwin out somehow since gorram morons keep--
Wait.
No, bad redhead.
No feedback loop-de-loo.
Stahp worryin' about chlorinatin' the gene pool, Rach, though you do need to figure out how to neuter Bieber before he spawns more pop muzak Antichrists--NO!
FOCUS~!
You've got a real opponent. A for really-real boy, even!
(Not that gender really matters. Gotta make the references when they're good, though!)
Jackie--'cuz there's no way in Hell I'm gonna attempt pronouncin' your last name--I've gotta thank you, man, and I'm not bein' remotely facetious about that bit either. Why would I be? You're the first person I've come across in...well over a year that isn't entirely fucking retarded! And lemme tell ya, dear heart, that's a wonderful thing. A great thing. It is the absolute best of things, knowin' that the guy I'm gettin' into the ring with is actually worth the spandex he's wearin'! And you worked your ass off to get here, too, to get to where you can live the dream and do it in such a fashion that it ain't about arrogance or bein' edgy or any of that shit, but tryin' to be responsible and tryin' to help people. I mean, ol' Jackson Reid (AKA 'Sir No Longer Appearing In This Company Because He's Flakier'n Biscuits') probably couldn't find his own asshole without a guide and a flashlight... and yet you went to try and help him. You probably couldn't have done anythin' more than convince him that eatin' paste ain't a valid nutritional option, but you were willin' to try, by Gawd! You've got the heart of a champ, Jackie, and that ain't me blowin' smoke up your ass. That's me pointin' it out 'cuz you remind me of a certain Belle of a cousin of mine, and Nat's done some amazin' things. I think you're gonna go out there and have the crowd eatin' outta your hand and accomplish big things and set records and write your name in the history books...
..and I'm gonna make you tap out in the middle of that ring like a bitch.
Now I know what you're thinkin'--"But Rach, you were just gushin' about how happy you are to not be facin' someone that thinks two plus two equals potato! How could you turn around and say somethin' so mean?!" And I was. But here's the thing, Jackie, and it's a lesson that I'm sure you've come across in all that time you scraped and scrimped and worked your fingers to the bone. If you want your name in lights, if you want to be the man and the champ and synonymous with greatness or whatever glory-based shit you can dream up... you've gotta earn it. And while I ain't gonna say you don't have the experience to beat me, I am gonna point out that you ain't the only one with somethin' to prove. You ain't the only one after that glory, after that spotlight, after that seat at the top of the mountain that bullshit circumstance after bullshit circumstance has gotten in the way of you havin' a fair shake 'cuz of a deadbeat unfaithful cunt of a Tanner and a delusional-as-fuckin'-Hell Hubert 'Sonic The Douchehog' BAD ASS--
Okay, so maybe you don't have the experience to beat me.
I don't mean in the ring, either. Skill's one of those adaptable things, y'know? Hard to predict and whatnot. I mean that the pack of Hellhounds nippin' at my heels is far, far bigger'n yours... and they're meaner besides. You're comin' into this match with a loss from an incompetent partner as your only baggage. Me? I'm a woman--bonus points in the worst way there, man!--that's been in this business off and on for years with nothin' major to show for it. I've always been part of somethin' but not the headliner--sometimes due to management decidin' to pass me over, other times 'cuz the person I was partnerin' with had to be the headliner and my dumb ass was too in love to tell'em to budge over and share the spotlight. Oh, and we can't forget the places that closed cuz they couldn't keep asses in seats or the times the demons in my head poked hard enough to break through and fuck up the real world good and proper. Mazzy treated me right, yeah... but that's about it, and it ended too soon besides. I miss him--but that's besides the point. What matters is that if you wanna go through me, you gotta be ready to go through the Hell that lives and breathes in me and that comes out to play as soon as the bell rings.
But this is just the rantings of a crazy woman that's half your size, right?
Hah, go ahead and make that mistake. You're young, you've got all the time in the world to make a mark while my own career's one step away from endin'. Tell yourself that you've got this, that you've got no choice but to slay the proverbial dragon to be the hero of the day. Build yourself up to be the good person that colors in the lines and says his pleases and thank yous. Just don't be surprised when I knock your dick in the dirt for steppin' up to me like you got more to lose than I do here when you don't know shit about how high the stakes can actually get.
...well fuck, I guess I just failed my 'Kiss the babies!' roll.
Damn that low empathy stat.
Remember to learn to love the bomb, kids!~ ♥
There's only so much that cleaning supplies can do to stave off the effects of time. Using cheap materials to build it sure as shit don't help matters.
A sigh rattles free of Rachel's ribcage as she strides down the aisle of the Cochranton Market Place, the closest thing that her hometown has to a proper grocery store. Grease-stained hands loosely hold the plastic bar of the shopping cart she's pushing along at a slow, almost lethargic pace as she goes through the motions of at least trying to buy the healthier stuff that she should, by all rights, be eating instead of the over-processed shit she favors. Even though the aisle she's walking down is loaded to the brim with cheap sugary goodness, the bright and distracting colors of the packaging do nothing to distract from the dingy beige of the shelves themselves, the absence of pattern on the cheap linoleum that used to be festooned with spots and flecks in a random pattern... even the housings for the harsh fluorescent lights that occasionally buzz and flicker overhead are chipped and worn, barely above code. It's outright depressing, she has to admit--doubly so, considering how Meadville's far-nicer options aren't more than half an hour away at the absolute most--but she's got to patronize what's local and pay the upcharges. Even if most of the other townsfolk give her a wide berth despite how she's dressed comparatively normal in old denim cut-offs and an old Ford Mustang t-shirt she stole from Richard's clean laundry, even if they perpetuate the reputation of the only surviving Ellsworth being a mean-spirited drunk just like her old man rotting away in Hell when she won't touch the shit that turned him rabid... she has to support where she comes from and put money into the economy. It's just what a small town girl does.
At least they've got Captain Crunch this time.
Turning her head, she reaches out for that red box-- the light overhead flickers, goes dark for a moment with a buzz.
Something moves just out of the corner of her eye when they come back on, something she can't see enough of to identify. She knows full well that she shouldn't look, that she should let the moment pass and the riotous mass of colors surrounding her as those packages seemingly smush together into a candy-coated nightmare. It will pass, she knows it will pass... but she can't help it.
Of course she looks.
She looks so fast, she should of ended up wearing one of those neck braces for whiplash.
Șͤ̈́̆õ͔̜̩̳͉̞̯ͯ̄͋͒m̪̪͎̭̰̫̄̀e͈̤̹ ͫ̒̐ͯ̎s͉̜͙ͥ̆̋͂a͓̖̦̬̥̋̆͋y̜̦̫̲̌ ͕̭͖̖͎̆ͥ͒ͩ̓ͅḻ̳̣̺̳̜ͯ̈̈̚o͚̙̝̲͕̓̍̇v͕͎͙̼͓̗̏̓ͨͤ̓̍e͕̳͙̎͗̚ ̻̦̭̄ͨ̔i͓̳̻̦s̯͖̚ ̘̹ͬ̈́͑̓͆l̪̭̥̥͎͇̪ͮͬͤͩ͐i̙̹̟̣̖͈̔k̘̱̟̭͙̭͉e̲̙̦̣ͬ̑͂͐̾ ̊ȁ̝̖̘̀ͬͪ ̝̭͋͐̎͌r̼̙͇î̱̮̣̙͓͒̇͗͐ṽ̙̳̲̦e͉͚̙̱͒̉ṛ͚͑̏.̞̹̹͙͔̫̔͂̈́ͭ.͓͕̺̼̟͇͙̾̎̽͛̚.̹͇̫̗̬̒ͧ̚
For a split second, a frail wisp of a woman is visible as she goes around the corner, canvas shoes all but shuffling instead of properly walking. Even if her hair is cornsilk blond without so much as a hint of gray, she moves as if she's three times her age--and through the thin white fabric of her dress? Rachel can see bruises blooming, hideous splotches of purples and browns that she knows all too well since she's worn them herself before, back before she could spell her own name. She can feel the brilliant red, the phoenixisms and kitsune-touched claims bleeding away with the years as her shoes seemingly vanish to feel the roughshod wood floors that she'd taken great delight in tearing out once she found...
She found...
She--
She's getting smacked across the ass by her husband, Richard who has just returned from his own adventure in the store. Equally greased up and bearing similar white-trash garb, the one-time wrestler has finished looking for his own chosen snacks. Finding Ben and Jerry's on sale? He couldn't help himself, winding up with a hand-basket he has filled to the brim. Chubby Hubby, Cherry Garcia and a variety of others filled the basket...and a thing or three or Oreos. He figures it'll make for a good pre-ravenous banging meal, if nothing else. Of course, the idea of ravenous banging makes her ass an attractive target when he finds her after that foray into the depths of the store.
Oi, hotness. Got some ice crea--
The physical contact is enough to make the Atomic Redhead jump, his words not quite penetrating the gap between reality and her mind's current state. Whirling around sharply on her heel, those usually-laughing green eyes are as blank as a new chalkboard--and her hand is moving toward the small of her back. Dimly, she is aware of how he recoils. How can she not be? She knows that he knows that his wife isn't the most stable...and neither is he, but for far different reasons. He knows that look in her eye, but more importantly? He knows what she's reaching for--the wickedly sharp hunting knife she keeps just beneath the hem of her shirt, a holdover from her days when her ex was still alive and doggedly trying to destroy her free will. Dropping the basket, his hands go toward the sides of her head as he steps in, gently guiding her gaze toward his face and making damn sure that he's too close for her to effectively do anything with that weapon.
Hey, hey. Rach. Raaach, honey. Come on, ground control to Major Tom. Real world calling.
The pin-points of the pupils of his eyes pierce the haze, reality slowly seeping in and expanding upon features she's known for most of her life--and loved, in one way or another, for the vast majority of it. It's not the Richard of now, though, that she sees. There are no scars from that fateful collision of Camaro and mature oak tree that sent him spinning out of her life for the better part of a decade, none of the incidental little imperfections of time and a brief stint in the business she has recently returned to... it's the same Richard that once stained his mother's kitchen sink helping her dye her hair red for the very first time, down to the reddish-orange spot on the end of his nose. A weak smile tugs her lips, rueful as her tone as she reaches up and runs her thumb lightly along where that stain lives.
...we need to get that off of your nose.
That relieved expression, that smile of his own further drags her back into the here and now, slow and laborious on her end--but she doesn't notice. She also doesn't notice the faint furrow of his brow, or the way his gaze flickers away from hers for just a second... not any longer than that, though, not with her current state. Instead, he surrounds her with a sigh, his arms slipping down to pull her close against his chest before he rubs her back and nuzzles his nose into her hair.
...a nose that is bereft of any kind of dirt, dye or grease or otherwise.
Not that he's going to tell her that.
Not when the edges of reality haven't quite set yet.
-------------------------Ω-------------------------
August 5th, 2015
Excerpt from learn2lovethebomb.blogspot.com
Excerpt from learn2lovethebomb.blogspot.com
So apparently, accordin' to Tweedle Dum the commentator, there's some question as to whether or not I count as a good person.
How do I answer that question, exactly?
I mean shit-- ignorin' the obvious conflict of interest there since self-perception is a bitch sometimes, from where I sit, there ain't a single soul on the face of the planet that don't have a split of good and evil in them. Even Ravetard's has a good side, that side being the one where her actions revealed just how absatively fucktarded she was since she tapped the fuck out and saved her career. Her right hand's probably FUBAR-ed to Hell and back, but I've seen folks wrestle through worse. I mean, Raabtard has long since been scientifically proven to not have a brain, but yet he continues to function with at least some level of the same cognizance as a Romero zombie. Someone oughta buy him one of those gold foil-wrapped candies, glue a coupla' doo-dads on it, and give it to him as a medal of accomplishment. He's not smart enough to know the difference. Hell, you could probably put some gold spray paint on a piece of cow shit and he'd carry it around like a prize... and now I'm wondering how long it'd take to convince Ravetard that really, it'd totally help her regain her (nonexistent) 4chan cred if she shoved her tongue into an electric socket. I gotta help Darwin out somehow since gorram morons keep--
Wait.
No, bad redhead.
No feedback loop-de-loo.
Stahp worryin' about chlorinatin' the gene pool, Rach, though you do need to figure out how to neuter Bieber before he spawns more pop muzak Antichrists--NO!
FOCUS~!
You've got a real opponent. A for really-real boy, even!
(Not that gender really matters. Gotta make the references when they're good, though!)
Jackie--'cuz there's no way in Hell I'm gonna attempt pronouncin' your last name--I've gotta thank you, man, and I'm not bein' remotely facetious about that bit either. Why would I be? You're the first person I've come across in...well over a year that isn't entirely fucking retarded! And lemme tell ya, dear heart, that's a wonderful thing. A great thing. It is the absolute best of things, knowin' that the guy I'm gettin' into the ring with is actually worth the spandex he's wearin'! And you worked your ass off to get here, too, to get to where you can live the dream and do it in such a fashion that it ain't about arrogance or bein' edgy or any of that shit, but tryin' to be responsible and tryin' to help people. I mean, ol' Jackson Reid (AKA 'Sir No Longer Appearing In This Company Because He's Flakier'n Biscuits') probably couldn't find his own asshole without a guide and a flashlight... and yet you went to try and help him. You probably couldn't have done anythin' more than convince him that eatin' paste ain't a valid nutritional option, but you were willin' to try, by Gawd! You've got the heart of a champ, Jackie, and that ain't me blowin' smoke up your ass. That's me pointin' it out 'cuz you remind me of a certain Belle of a cousin of mine, and Nat's done some amazin' things. I think you're gonna go out there and have the crowd eatin' outta your hand and accomplish big things and set records and write your name in the history books...
..and I'm gonna make you tap out in the middle of that ring like a bitch.
Now I know what you're thinkin'--"But Rach, you were just gushin' about how happy you are to not be facin' someone that thinks two plus two equals potato! How could you turn around and say somethin' so mean?!" And I was. But here's the thing, Jackie, and it's a lesson that I'm sure you've come across in all that time you scraped and scrimped and worked your fingers to the bone. If you want your name in lights, if you want to be the man and the champ and synonymous with greatness or whatever glory-based shit you can dream up... you've gotta earn it. And while I ain't gonna say you don't have the experience to beat me, I am gonna point out that you ain't the only one with somethin' to prove. You ain't the only one after that glory, after that spotlight, after that seat at the top of the mountain that bullshit circumstance after bullshit circumstance has gotten in the way of you havin' a fair shake 'cuz of a deadbeat unfaithful cunt of a Tanner and a delusional-as-fuckin'-Hell Hubert 'Sonic The Douchehog' BAD ASS--
Okay, so maybe you don't have the experience to beat me.
I don't mean in the ring, either. Skill's one of those adaptable things, y'know? Hard to predict and whatnot. I mean that the pack of Hellhounds nippin' at my heels is far, far bigger'n yours... and they're meaner besides. You're comin' into this match with a loss from an incompetent partner as your only baggage. Me? I'm a woman--bonus points in the worst way there, man!--that's been in this business off and on for years with nothin' major to show for it. I've always been part of somethin' but not the headliner--sometimes due to management decidin' to pass me over, other times 'cuz the person I was partnerin' with had to be the headliner and my dumb ass was too in love to tell'em to budge over and share the spotlight. Oh, and we can't forget the places that closed cuz they couldn't keep asses in seats or the times the demons in my head poked hard enough to break through and fuck up the real world good and proper. Mazzy treated me right, yeah... but that's about it, and it ended too soon besides. I miss him--but that's besides the point. What matters is that if you wanna go through me, you gotta be ready to go through the Hell that lives and breathes in me and that comes out to play as soon as the bell rings.
But this is just the rantings of a crazy woman that's half your size, right?
Hah, go ahead and make that mistake. You're young, you've got all the time in the world to make a mark while my own career's one step away from endin'. Tell yourself that you've got this, that you've got no choice but to slay the proverbial dragon to be the hero of the day. Build yourself up to be the good person that colors in the lines and says his pleases and thank yous. Just don't be surprised when I knock your dick in the dirt for steppin' up to me like you got more to lose than I do here when you don't know shit about how high the stakes can actually get.
...well fuck, I guess I just failed my 'Kiss the babies!' roll.
Damn that low empathy stat.
Remember to learn to love the bomb, kids!~ ♥
