Post by kieranking on Sept 16, 2009 7:05:40 GMT -4
Foreword: Just a quick intro, but I'm pretty happy that I got it up without too much hassle. Looking forward to my first match. Man, I sound way too eager. Enjoy...
Kieran King never did like flying. There was something about the idea of a giant metal contraption, weighing several hundreds of thousands of pounds, remaining at thousands of feet above the ground for consistent time periods, that just didn't quite sound right. He felt the same way about boats. Every time he had ever thrown chunks of metal into water (which admittedly was not very often – and even rarer when the water was deeper than a puddle), the metal sank. This general principle applied even moreso for metal in air. Kieran was very much of the impression that metal – especially in large quantities – should always be in contact with the ground, or falling towards it. If Kieran didn't know better, he would claim that this whole buouancy and anti-gravity business reeked of sorcery. Kieran did know better though, but it didn't do much in the way of comforting him.
Incredibly, these transportation technologies (which had been around for much longer than the totality of Kieran's existence), were pretty much the extent of Kieran's technological woes. He was quite savvy in the computer department, well up-to-date in television, surround sound, and the like, and always seemed a step ahead of the curb in relation to his cellphone. This, one would suppose, would be largely in part due to the generation he grew up in. Times sure have changed over the last decade. They say technology increases exponentially, and if that's the case, then Kieran King sure has his hands full in years to come.
For now though, Kieran grips the arm of his seat, and stares out at the ocean passing those thousands of feet below him. Mulling it over in his head, he concedes that it would be rather impractical to attempt to swim 18,565 kilometres to reach Paris; and seeing as how they've yet to build a bridge across the islands of his home nation New Zealand, there's no chance that a walkway could be erected between New Zealand and continental Europe in time for Kieran to lurk backstage at The Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercy for APW Overdrive. So his choice was a boat or plane. Either way, he's not going to be thrilled about it, so he figures he might as well make the journey as short as possible. Even then he is still trapped in this cabin for pushing twenty-four hours (ignoring the few stops on the way – how much fun can you have with a two-hour stopover in Singapore anyway?). Imagine being on a boat for that length of time!
At least the view from this high up was quite spectacular – as long as Kieran was able to dismiss those fears of gravity's last laugh as nothing more than hodgepodge. He always had an affintiy for the ocean. He was a reasonably strong swimmer, and had even served as a lifeguard one summer for some extra coin. He was also quite fond of sharks. As far as Kieran was concerned, if the environmental conditions were somehow evened out, a shark could defintiely outfight a lion, tiger or a bear. It may struggle for a while against the crocodile, but ultimately a shark would be a tad more maneuvarable, and therefore come away with a win. It should be noted (not for any plot-related purpose, but rather to get a little better idea of the kind of person Kieran King is) that Kieran would refuse any offer to go swimming with sharks, despite his fondness of both swimming and sharks in their independent forms. As much as one would expect an insistance of fearlessness to follow after such a statement, Kieran would freely admit that his reluctance to participate in such an act is most definitely due to fear. If a shark could win in a fair fight, imagine stepping (or diving) into the shark's own territory and expecting to come out with all your limbs still attached. That's just preposterous. And besides, the last time Kieran tried to mix two things he enjoyed together, it did not work out well at all. Chocolate cake + orange juice = disaster.
Kieran sighed. When he finally reaches his Paris hotel room, it's certain that Kieran will be extremely tired, yet he'll still be kept awake, raking his brain as to why nobody picked up on his sigh. Television and films have told him that airplanes are the fourth most likely place for strangers, usually wise elderly folk, to pick up on emotional distress in another person. Behind long train journeys, long bus journeys, and bars. Eventually, he'll comfort himself by realizing that there were no elderly people around, and he'll drift off into a long, long sleep. But for now, he sighs.
There is a new world awaiting Kieran, and it all starts when this hunk of flying death touches down in Paris. It has all the makings of a child running away from home to become an actor, except none of that is true. Actually... it just has the same theme: new start in life.
But as has already been acknowledged, in some crazy psuedo-foreshadowing course of events, there is nobody for Kieran to open up to here. Probably for the better. Kieran's interpersonal ability is quite unique. It's not that he hates people, per se, he just doesn't like liking people. Seems cut straight from the Gregory House mold, right? Well, maybe. But without anybody to talk to, Kieran's swirling head just dizzies him to sleep. Strange how he'll still be tired when he touches down in Paris.
- - - - -
“Thank you for flying with Emirates. Please gather your carry-on luggage and make your way orderly towards the exit”.
The co-pilot's voice crackles over the speaker system, and lands in Kieran's ears. Following orders like a good little sheep, Kieran waits until he has room to step out into the aisle, and quickly pulls his bag out of the overhead compartment. He passes by his favourite flight attendant from the journey, and greets her beaming smile (complete with a well-hidden forcefulness) with a sly wink.
After being processed (or a much more humane equivalent – whatever suits your own descriptive tendencies), Kieran steps out onto French soil. He stops in his tracks, scanning the foot traffic of the main international lobby. Much to his disappointment, the stereotypical Frenchman is nowhere to be seen. On top of that, he can see neither one baguatte or croissant. Next Kieran expects that the French aren't willing to wave a white flag at the first chance they get in war. Of course, they do have nuclear weapons in their arsenal now, so that could actually be true come World War III. Jeepers! Everything is getting flipped upside down over here! And Kieran thought all he would have to deal with is toilets flushing the wrong way, and people chomping down on amphibians for breakfast. Perhaps this whole overseas adventure wasn't such a smart idea.
Given the secluded nature of his beloved homeland, Kieran has had little chance to travel very far in his life. A few excursions when he was younger, but since reaching what one could call 'independence' (although that opens a whole new can of worms, we'll roll with it anyway) he hasn't been able to really grip the bull by the horns, so to speak (although it may become a reality if he visits Pamplona in July), and cut his own path through the world. It's a common tradition for young adults to head overseas, often to Europe, for a period of anywhere from a month to a few years (if working), to gain what employers often label as 'life experience'. It's not mandatory by any means, but in a country where you are never more than a few hours from the beach, quite simply it can just drive you completely insane if you don't get the hell out of there. So this is Kieran's trip; his foreign work experience. And lucky him, he even has a guide.
A rather proper looking man stands in a black suit, and with a nifty little bowtie to match, holds a sign out that reads “Monsieur King”, so we'll assume he's French. Monsieur King saunters on over, allowing himself to be commanded again by the prompts of silly French people.
“Monsieur King?”
The Bowtie Man asks, with a crazy accent to match the initial suspicion of nationality.
“That would be me”.
Kieran comes to a halt in front of The Sign Guy, who still stands at attention. Dropping his carry-on bag, ever-so-nonchalantly, and hearing a clatter that worries him slightly as the bag hits the ground, Kiearan reaches out to shake the man's hand. Very business-like, but still with a splash of genuineness, the handshake is reciprocated.
“Do you speak English?
Kieran inquires, hopefully.
“Oui”.
Now that's just confusing.
“Are... are you kidding me? You say you speak English, but you respond in French? Are you a fucking moron?”
The poor soul looks horrified. It would seem he didn't expect to be harrassed by his ward today. It wasn't in his job description at all.
“Bro... relax. I'm just messing with you”.
A drop of sweat wipes itself from his brow.
“But you're going to need to try to stick to English as much as possible. I'll give you this forewarning right now, I do understand a bit of French, but it's only on the listening side of things. Speaking, writing and reading are pretty much deadends for me. Is that cool with you?”
“Oui”.
“Dude, I may have been joking around before, but it would be awfully kipper if you could respond in english. 'Yes', 'yeah', 'yup' or even 'uh huh' would suffice. Up to you. So lay it on me, stud. What you got?”
“Yes, sir”.
“There you go! But don't start up that whole 'sir' business. Call me Kieran”.
“Yes, Kieran”.
“You have a name?”
“Ferdinand”.
“Okey dokey then, Ferdinand it is. I was expecting a Jacques or Pierre, but I suppose that's border-line racist of me, my apologies”.
Ferdinand nods, in what appears to be acceptance. A nod is a funny little thing. It's definition is fairly broad.
“You don't talk much do you, Ferdinand? I understand. This is just your job after all. The trick is though, you've got to find a way to enjoy your work, or else sooner or later you'll be right keen to gouge your own eyes out, and that won't do no good for anyone, especially not you or I. So answer me this, bud, how long are you stuck here being my bitch?”
“Your bitch?”
“Jokes, man. Learn to keep up. How long are you my driver for?”
“Just over three weeks”.
“Three weeks? Longer than I expected”.
“I've been hired to take you as far as Finland. When you move to Russia after that, I will not be going with you”.
“Good to know, good to know. I really need to get on top of all this stuff, but for now, I've got you. So, how about you take us back to the hotel, we'll drink ourselves into a stupor, and generally have a righteously riotous time. What do you say?”
- - - - -
Kieran, and his newly acquired friend did head back to his hotel after they left the airport, but there was a crucial flaw in Kieran's plan. It would seem as if he (only momentarily) forgot that Ferdinand is a Frenchman. In fact, Ferdinand is a resident of Paris, where he lives with his fiancee. Therefore, that completely ruined Kieran's plan of getting trollied as a way of getting to know each other – a common pasttime amongst New Zealand's youth.
When Kieran got to his hotel room, he considered heading down to the bar to experience his first taste of European culture, but then the exhaustion of such a strenuous journey washed over him. Rather than drinking until he passed out, he instead collapsed upon the bed and crashed. That night he slept for fifteen hours undisturbed, and then he dozed a little after his alarm (that Ferdinand set) went off. But before this monumental slumber could take place, Kieran tossed and turned a little. In the past thirty hours, not one person asked him how he was doing. Regardless of what the answer was, it was, quite frankly, a bit rude of everyone.
That's one of the problems with people these days. Nobody cares about anyone but themselves.
Two can play at that game.
Incredibly, these transportation technologies (which had been around for much longer than the totality of Kieran's existence), were pretty much the extent of Kieran's technological woes. He was quite savvy in the computer department, well up-to-date in television, surround sound, and the like, and always seemed a step ahead of the curb in relation to his cellphone. This, one would suppose, would be largely in part due to the generation he grew up in. Times sure have changed over the last decade. They say technology increases exponentially, and if that's the case, then Kieran King sure has his hands full in years to come.
For now though, Kieran grips the arm of his seat, and stares out at the ocean passing those thousands of feet below him. Mulling it over in his head, he concedes that it would be rather impractical to attempt to swim 18,565 kilometres to reach Paris; and seeing as how they've yet to build a bridge across the islands of his home nation New Zealand, there's no chance that a walkway could be erected between New Zealand and continental Europe in time for Kieran to lurk backstage at The Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercy for APW Overdrive. So his choice was a boat or plane. Either way, he's not going to be thrilled about it, so he figures he might as well make the journey as short as possible. Even then he is still trapped in this cabin for pushing twenty-four hours (ignoring the few stops on the way – how much fun can you have with a two-hour stopover in Singapore anyway?). Imagine being on a boat for that length of time!
At least the view from this high up was quite spectacular – as long as Kieran was able to dismiss those fears of gravity's last laugh as nothing more than hodgepodge. He always had an affintiy for the ocean. He was a reasonably strong swimmer, and had even served as a lifeguard one summer for some extra coin. He was also quite fond of sharks. As far as Kieran was concerned, if the environmental conditions were somehow evened out, a shark could defintiely outfight a lion, tiger or a bear. It may struggle for a while against the crocodile, but ultimately a shark would be a tad more maneuvarable, and therefore come away with a win. It should be noted (not for any plot-related purpose, but rather to get a little better idea of the kind of person Kieran King is) that Kieran would refuse any offer to go swimming with sharks, despite his fondness of both swimming and sharks in their independent forms. As much as one would expect an insistance of fearlessness to follow after such a statement, Kieran would freely admit that his reluctance to participate in such an act is most definitely due to fear. If a shark could win in a fair fight, imagine stepping (or diving) into the shark's own territory and expecting to come out with all your limbs still attached. That's just preposterous. And besides, the last time Kieran tried to mix two things he enjoyed together, it did not work out well at all. Chocolate cake + orange juice = disaster.
Kieran sighed. When he finally reaches his Paris hotel room, it's certain that Kieran will be extremely tired, yet he'll still be kept awake, raking his brain as to why nobody picked up on his sigh. Television and films have told him that airplanes are the fourth most likely place for strangers, usually wise elderly folk, to pick up on emotional distress in another person. Behind long train journeys, long bus journeys, and bars. Eventually, he'll comfort himself by realizing that there were no elderly people around, and he'll drift off into a long, long sleep. But for now, he sighs.
There is a new world awaiting Kieran, and it all starts when this hunk of flying death touches down in Paris. It has all the makings of a child running away from home to become an actor, except none of that is true. Actually... it just has the same theme: new start in life.
But as has already been acknowledged, in some crazy psuedo-foreshadowing course of events, there is nobody for Kieran to open up to here. Probably for the better. Kieran's interpersonal ability is quite unique. It's not that he hates people, per se, he just doesn't like liking people. Seems cut straight from the Gregory House mold, right? Well, maybe. But without anybody to talk to, Kieran's swirling head just dizzies him to sleep. Strange how he'll still be tired when he touches down in Paris.
- - - - -
“Thank you for flying with Emirates. Please gather your carry-on luggage and make your way orderly towards the exit”.
The co-pilot's voice crackles over the speaker system, and lands in Kieran's ears. Following orders like a good little sheep, Kieran waits until he has room to step out into the aisle, and quickly pulls his bag out of the overhead compartment. He passes by his favourite flight attendant from the journey, and greets her beaming smile (complete with a well-hidden forcefulness) with a sly wink.
After being processed (or a much more humane equivalent – whatever suits your own descriptive tendencies), Kieran steps out onto French soil. He stops in his tracks, scanning the foot traffic of the main international lobby. Much to his disappointment, the stereotypical Frenchman is nowhere to be seen. On top of that, he can see neither one baguatte or croissant. Next Kieran expects that the French aren't willing to wave a white flag at the first chance they get in war. Of course, they do have nuclear weapons in their arsenal now, so that could actually be true come World War III. Jeepers! Everything is getting flipped upside down over here! And Kieran thought all he would have to deal with is toilets flushing the wrong way, and people chomping down on amphibians for breakfast. Perhaps this whole overseas adventure wasn't such a smart idea.
Given the secluded nature of his beloved homeland, Kieran has had little chance to travel very far in his life. A few excursions when he was younger, but since reaching what one could call 'independence' (although that opens a whole new can of worms, we'll roll with it anyway) he hasn't been able to really grip the bull by the horns, so to speak (although it may become a reality if he visits Pamplona in July), and cut his own path through the world. It's a common tradition for young adults to head overseas, often to Europe, for a period of anywhere from a month to a few years (if working), to gain what employers often label as 'life experience'. It's not mandatory by any means, but in a country where you are never more than a few hours from the beach, quite simply it can just drive you completely insane if you don't get the hell out of there. So this is Kieran's trip; his foreign work experience. And lucky him, he even has a guide.
A rather proper looking man stands in a black suit, and with a nifty little bowtie to match, holds a sign out that reads “Monsieur King”, so we'll assume he's French. Monsieur King saunters on over, allowing himself to be commanded again by the prompts of silly French people.
“Monsieur King?”
The Bowtie Man asks, with a crazy accent to match the initial suspicion of nationality.
“That would be me”.
Kieran comes to a halt in front of The Sign Guy, who still stands at attention. Dropping his carry-on bag, ever-so-nonchalantly, and hearing a clatter that worries him slightly as the bag hits the ground, Kiearan reaches out to shake the man's hand. Very business-like, but still with a splash of genuineness, the handshake is reciprocated.
“Do you speak English?
Kieran inquires, hopefully.
“Oui”.
Now that's just confusing.
“Are... are you kidding me? You say you speak English, but you respond in French? Are you a fucking moron?”
The poor soul looks horrified. It would seem he didn't expect to be harrassed by his ward today. It wasn't in his job description at all.
“Bro... relax. I'm just messing with you”.
A drop of sweat wipes itself from his brow.
“But you're going to need to try to stick to English as much as possible. I'll give you this forewarning right now, I do understand a bit of French, but it's only on the listening side of things. Speaking, writing and reading are pretty much deadends for me. Is that cool with you?”
“Oui”.
“Dude, I may have been joking around before, but it would be awfully kipper if you could respond in english. 'Yes', 'yeah', 'yup' or even 'uh huh' would suffice. Up to you. So lay it on me, stud. What you got?”
“Yes, sir”.
“There you go! But don't start up that whole 'sir' business. Call me Kieran”.
“Yes, Kieran”.
“You have a name?”
“Ferdinand”.
“Okey dokey then, Ferdinand it is. I was expecting a Jacques or Pierre, but I suppose that's border-line racist of me, my apologies”.
Ferdinand nods, in what appears to be acceptance. A nod is a funny little thing. It's definition is fairly broad.
“You don't talk much do you, Ferdinand? I understand. This is just your job after all. The trick is though, you've got to find a way to enjoy your work, or else sooner or later you'll be right keen to gouge your own eyes out, and that won't do no good for anyone, especially not you or I. So answer me this, bud, how long are you stuck here being my bitch?”
“Your bitch?”
“Jokes, man. Learn to keep up. How long are you my driver for?”
“Just over three weeks”.
“Three weeks? Longer than I expected”.
“I've been hired to take you as far as Finland. When you move to Russia after that, I will not be going with you”.
“Good to know, good to know. I really need to get on top of all this stuff, but for now, I've got you. So, how about you take us back to the hotel, we'll drink ourselves into a stupor, and generally have a righteously riotous time. What do you say?”
- - - - -
Kieran, and his newly acquired friend did head back to his hotel after they left the airport, but there was a crucial flaw in Kieran's plan. It would seem as if he (only momentarily) forgot that Ferdinand is a Frenchman. In fact, Ferdinand is a resident of Paris, where he lives with his fiancee. Therefore, that completely ruined Kieran's plan of getting trollied as a way of getting to know each other – a common pasttime amongst New Zealand's youth.
When Kieran got to his hotel room, he considered heading down to the bar to experience his first taste of European culture, but then the exhaustion of such a strenuous journey washed over him. Rather than drinking until he passed out, he instead collapsed upon the bed and crashed. That night he slept for fifteen hours undisturbed, and then he dozed a little after his alarm (that Ferdinand set) went off. But before this monumental slumber could take place, Kieran tossed and turned a little. In the past thirty hours, not one person asked him how he was doing. Regardless of what the answer was, it was, quite frankly, a bit rude of everyone.
That's one of the problems with people these days. Nobody cares about anyone but themselves.
Two can play at that game.
