VoyForums
[ Show ]
Support VoyForums
[ Shrink ]
VoyForums Announcement: Programming and providing support for this service has been a labor of love since 1997. We are one of the few services online who values our users' privacy, and have never sold your information. We have even fought hard to defend your privacy in legal cases; however, we've done it with almost no financial support -- paying out of pocket to continue providing the service. Due to the issues imposed on us by advertisers, we also stopped hosting most ads on the forums many years ago. We hope you appreciate our efforts.

Show your support by donating any amount. (Note: We are still technically a for-profit company, so your contribution is not tax-deductible.) PayPal Acct: Feedback:

Donate to VoyForums (PayPal):

[ Login ] [ Contact Forum Admin ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time | Archives: 1, [2], 3 ]

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]

Date Posted: 12:09:37 11/18/01 Sun
Author: Drake Maxwell
Author Host/IP: dialup-209.245.203.85.Dial1.Houston1.Level3.net / 209.245.203.85
Subject: Tryout Roleplay

Saturday, October 20, 2001 – The Early Morning

He was lying inside the womb as most of America was. Even though his senility was being attacked by verbal and thoughtless propaganda, he was unprepared for what was next to occur. Literal life was not even consumed yet we were given this alleged sense of security, that the real world was what we see everyday. Methodical warlords roamed the cursed Earth giving peace nothing but the sense that it did not even exists. This was the method the false and idiotic who spoke before thought gave us for a reality. It sparked many questions to go off, whether or not life was actually real or was it just as figurative as wealth and power?

Try to figure this all out was Drake Maxwell, he like most was still in the rapture of genesis, a prison his mind could not help him out of nor could his soul change the minds of others. He was lost and never found. His mind had thoughts like most others and he professed those thoughts through spoken tongue. He was encased into the tomb of apathy and desolation. Where could he find freedom, what was freedom, does freedom even exist or was it abstract like power and wealth? He stayed in the corridor unmentioned and drained of even the ability to walk and give you a piece of the truth, which he spoke. He wasn’t a time devourer with a future destined for emptiness and the black void. He wasn’t an ebony cloaked emperor of his words. His world was not ruled by himself, rather he wanted a piece of something his own and not by others. Thoughts of the living and of the dead contemned him to conjure up his own thoughts. A plethora of conflict engulfed his soul, his mind, and his body, but still he rose to fight what he believed in and what he thinks of now.

The sharp binding of the groans and screams brought the scene open to eyes. The open corridor had its off white color to it and the characters contained inside of it were almost contraire to the color of the walls. Each person living here was as plain as the next person was. Not one of these souls had a distinctive characteristic towards them, lonely, deceitful, and ambitious without marginal thought were these people’s main thoughts. Atleast 3 of them would sit in the hallways, they were known to do this for simplistic reasons. They weren’t awakened towards reality, these people were commonly known as “vegetables”. They continued the same pattern each and everyday of the week, continuing the ritual since the day they went to work. The blood-curdling screams came from inside these walls. The vegetables had been placed out of their homes and were forced to move in with the schizophrenic and mentally disemboweled. These people were given an equal opportunity, but waste it and live in solidarity resembling the 21st century’s version of Emily Dickinson. They had the luxury to be insane and get away with murder. They were the only free souls.

As their screams echoed on, the outskirts of central Michigan held home to a castle stretching far out into the heavens. As the cold stubble brick held place, the lights dwelled inside were not of light fixtures rather candles as sort of a throwback to the 17th century. The door was cloaked with timber wood and steels two hatching used for knocking instead for used the hand. A fire burning a piece of club wood set the light as darkness caste upon the light. As the camera crew motions forward, they are stopped at their tracks and gained no entry to the castle. Standing above them in the top room and looking out of the opaque window stood the man whom we’ve been seeing upon for the past weeks and so forth. His long black hair got in the way sometimes so he tied it back with a rubber band. His lips quivered as he clutched his head, the midnight oasis had been overshadowing him for the past few hours and it would soon be purged away, but as it loomed, the hated and hypocritical were fueling his own anger.

Drake: “Death, a time consuming nature, in this world, everything eventually dies. There is no real salvation for the body or soul... Time is to blame for the decomposition of the body and slow deterioration of the soul that the body harbors. In fact, the brain is the only things that you really have control over, if you are sane, that is. No matter how hard someone beats your face in, they still have no control whatsoever on what is going on inside the walls of your head. The thoughts racing through your brain at unmarked speeds. You see the brain is the one thing that is safe from everything in a world like this. It is the one thing that is held sacred among an entire world of sacrilege. However, when he was reigning here, he constantly assaulted your minds with an onslaught like you have had never seen before. He forced you into using your mind in ways that you never could have imagined. He was the one person who could hack his way in to your brain using his words, actions, and messages. Now, sadly, he is gone from this world once again. Will he ever return? That is something that not even I truly know the answer to. Although, I do know this: I am taking his role. His ability; the strengths that he had harnessed through exposing the weaknesses of all of the others, focusing all of their weakness for his own strength, using it to cripple the brain . That is right, fools, I am the heir to the throne. So, it is with fortune that I proudly accepted my role as the new ruler of this plane...

What you can’t understand why I am this? Look back and recall just what this existence has done, first with the sickness of the brain. It did not give the brain a corresponding truth; rather it gave it a corresponding falsehood. Yet you wonder, you sit and stare and gaze upon the fact that I happen to be an aristocrat living off feeding off the pains of society’s wrong doings. El Diablo, he should know this as he is affected by it to. Society castes his brother and sent him out of the reality and into the depiction of heaven or hell. It took away his very own flesh and blood and he decides to make this up by avenging. Avenging what Diablo? That the fact of the matter is your brother is dead; can you resurrect that El Diablo? Can you change dated history so that its one ridiculing fragment of unjust and betrayal can lead you victory? Diablo, you cannot do this for the fact of that you are a mere mortal whose only thoughts are concerned on his own well being and not of those surrounding you. Sure, maybe we all have had a brush with the touch of infidelity and miscarriage of one another, but this doesn’t tell us to start reaping what he have previously sown into the ground. I cannot wait to see the looks on all your faces once you finally realize. When it finally hits you. Exactly what is going on, what I am doing now. When you realize that the answer was right in front of you all along. You see Diablo, there is a scheme here and we are judged by our Lord upstairs to take either a fall for this scheme or to rise and control it. You on the other hand wish, WISH that the regretful things you have done could be undone. Call me a hypocrite if you will and see where that happens to get you, into a rut which you cannot escape.

Wait, let’s define a hypocrite for you and just for you Diablo shall we? The practice of expressing feelings, beliefs, or virtues one does not hold or possess. Exult the great deal of hubris, arrogance inside you and take what ye have given towards you seriously. You can use the word of tongue and try to actually contain me in wanting me to stop my rambunctious upon thy soul, but that one promise you hold or want will not occur. Why you ask? Simplicity plays a role in this, as you very well happen to see that blood is thicker than water unless that blood is tainted. Yes on that very day your brother died in your arms, that one occurrence made it clear that the bond between you and your sibling had been tainted and there is nothing you can do about that one. Diablo, one question that has not been answered from you as of right now is that: Were does pride dwell in you?”

Pride, how many times has this 5 letter word come into play throughout the existence of these promotional videos? Of course, it is figuratively countless. Dream us all a little dream Diablo as the paper cuts that are cutting deep within you right now are getting deeper and deeper. Your pride lies in vengeance, spreading propaganda to incubus children men and women whom take up your entire fan base, and gaining power by it. Corruption is a word that comes into play once you speak it. Corruption to embody the people’s minds with the insufficient, ruthless, conniving and unjust propaganda you speak towards them, it is sickening to hear their constant screams and burning questions given upon to your opponents. I am one opponent who can easily answer those questions.”

He stops in mid speech once again clutching his head, with the sinless screams and euphoric trances echoing throughout his frontal lobe. Next to him was the cap of Advil his doctor gave to him to take. He palmed it into his hand and popped open the cap with his thumb and poured two capsules into his palm and took them. His panic attack was stopping and slowly ceasing. He returned to composure and walked away from the window and into the stair chamber. He walked down each step, a decreasing plane and his height. As he got there into the main chamber, he clutched his head once again and this time he’d forgot to take the Advil with him. No security was there to help him as he collapsed to the floor unconscious. His eyes rolled into his cerebral lobe otherwise known as his skull. He was breathing, but he was not awake. He was unable to start his leadership.

Panning inside towards his head, the inner voice of himself was stopped and could not find him. He was confined into the voided reality, and did not know what to do in this situation. He looked around and saw nothing to grab or to clutch into his hands. There was nothing but white, he was enclosed in a box, there was no sound rather hesitation. His eyes widened and wanted to see just were was he exactly?

Drake: “Hello? Anyone here?”

He stated to the voided complex but no answer responded to his question. Rather he was feeling just where was he, and why was he experiencing these attacks. Without question, the scene shifted to into a calm setting, it creates the same type of serene feeling that the last setting that we saw ushered in. The day is young and the sky is a bit overcast. The gray cloud subdues the sun; they protect this courtyard that we are seeing now from the heat of the sun's rays. A black, cold-iron fence that acts both as a prison and as a shield at different times contains the large green area. Running directly through the centers of each segment of cold-iron are strategically placed cobblestones that intersect in the center to form a type of crossroads. Maxwell still did not know where he was rather he gave questions to what occurred.

Drake: “What is this?”

Voice: “You’ll find out soon.”

The question echoed throughout that place as Drake once again he bewildered in this fetish of cat and mouse between himself and his owns subconscious. He walked down one of the cobblestone paths that divide the courtyard into several (four to be exact) sections. He sat down on one of the cobblestones and checked his watch. It did not move; it was rather indisposed at the moment. Time was a bender at the moment and there wasn’t a decisive thought about it. Drake once again looked around and this time he saw the rain pouring from the black heavens. Mud was covering the planes as large puddles were starting to consume the soil. Lying in the little pockets, which used to be plowed fields were three women covered in black swim caps and swimming suits. Those faces were pale-ish blue, and had pocketing deep blue eyes. These three figures turned to where Drake was and started chanting satanic messages towards him. Drake could decipher this and chanted the sayings back towards the women. They jumped up from the sitting position that they were currently in and ran off from the picture. Drake was once again stammering towards what had just happened. The scene around him begins to fabricate into non-existence and with that another void opens: The Black Hole.

Drake couldn’t hold one to anything to keep his present stature and he was also sucked into the void and thereby could not escape.

The scene fades to one of your worst nightmares. the scene fades to an infernal failure. The walls are white and show no emotions or feelings of hurt towards those that have fallen and ceased to exist in this desperation reality. The lights above are long and shine with a light that is so heartless that it almost sickens you to look into them. they speak of all of the deaths that surround you in these halls. the pain, the anguish, the hatred, the fears, The victims of those who have wasted eight or more years of their life to get a little piece of paper that allows them to kill people. several people travel through the hall, most wearing scrub uniforms with their cute little masks around their necks, however, those saddened are clad in street clothes. strangely, the audio is nowhere to be found. He appears, and the audio drops in instantly.

The hospital.

Lying there in an emergency room on his proverbial deathbed was Drake Maxwell, an oxygen tank placed next to him and living off of breathing support. Some of his closest associates surround him in his unconscious. Whether it is his business employees, mistresses, or bodyguards, they were there to watch if Drake could get through this. It never dwelled upon Drake that he had to take up for other’s responsibilities. He always was taught to keep towards what he had to do and not get involved in what other’s had to do. This included school and outdoor social life. Of course his parents weren’t there but his grandparents were and well that is a whole other story. Drake laid in bed early morn; his eyes focused on an unseen goal. Drake had been like this ever since he awoke from sleep about 3 hours ago. Having an argument with his landlord caused him to have a different prospective on life. Maybe the people around him changed the way he thought about things. Maybe they do not want to listen to the actual truth. Maybe they enjoy the sweet nectar of the false truthful and idols. Whatever the case happened to be those take depended on him had to watch him suffer. The people that loved him and nurtured him had to watch his drop like a petal from a flower.

The beautiful violin weaves its music all towards the world. Classical masterpieces of art was it, as the player moves the long violin stick, its pain was brought out into harmony and classical beauty, never reached of an untold status for most players couldn’t accomplish. Playing the harmonizing notes intoxicated Drake into a world of perversion and thoughtless mind control. This violin, yes a mere instrument had the powers to change what occurs and doesn’t in the mind of the human male and female. As it lied in an unconscious state, its pain was not there rather the feelings of joy and happiness. The reason for this was there was no one to play its pain. Its beauty could not be found; it turned out to be just another instrument.

Drake hadn’t said words towards us in half of an hour, but was it worth it? Here he lay in subconscious limbo hanging from a thread of blood, skin, tissue and organs. Knowing that he may not be able to hold on much longer, he kept his mouth shut and focused upon the thought that he had to work to regain lost value. His wills and triumphs had been dissolved and forgotten, he could not fall back upon them. Shall he think to the wise man and he was to get a wise answer. That wasn’t to be the true case as he was into limbo of conscious and impressionable relapse. The blood he’d spill was tainted and was on his hands. Each victory, each methodical wasteland of victory, deceit, and pride was being taken towards the depths of fictional work. He had to get a seemingly grip on what he held and keep it towards himself for the good holding and proverbial keeping of untold power.

He could have been given something other than what he was experiencing now. He could have had a mother, father 2 kids and a loving wife. His patience could run years long and he could not be the chaos infuriated, and ecstasy devourer, which he was today. He could have been the man who led the nation into the new millennia, and made the country he lived in pure. He’d have it, would have it, done it.

This was the exact opposite, the difference from that monotone. This wasn’t a dream nor was it even the American dream.

Rather, he was stuck to the deprived freedom we call existence.

Sunday October 21, 2001 – Midnight’s Darkness

Hours had soon passed on, but still Drake hadn’t woken from his slumber and night progressed into day. The confidants were gone and he would lie there unconscious embodying and living right now off of life support. The sun brightened up the hospital room, it waked upon the plants giving them nourishment, it brightened up eyes for other to reap the gift of sight, but it did not end the comatose state that Drake Maxwell was in. The mind nubbing sounds he would experience, the sharp pains of the twisted dagger of oppression sank into his heart and digging itself deeper for the instant where it could end it all with a simple turn. What could he do was the question in mind could he actually overcome this and make it to Tuesday rather less the Global Title Tournament 3rd round.

Back in Wonderland however, the scene was much different that what it was in the real world. Nothing makes sense anymore, let loose of the chains that are holding you so firmly to the ground. Let loose of all of the shackles, let loose of the enemies, let loose of the emotions, let loose of yourself, let loose of reality. Drake Maxwell stood inside of the black void and moved around, there was nothing for him to touch taste or even try to smell and wonder for, everything was wiped out. He walked in the void knowing that he’d never be released from the prison unless some type of a sinner’s reform saved him. He clearly looked around, but still saw nothing, as this world was a shallow void much like the actual one. Drake did not know what do expect, so he sat there and shivered. He sniffled and came to contract with his emotions. He rolled himself into a ball and cried hard, hard enough to bloodshot his eyes. Could he keep his sanity was the true question. He had released it many times often and the blood filled his veins into a thumping rhythm. Suddenly a huff and soft male voice entered the room.

Romulus: “Ahh, my pupil was so down in the face?”

Drake stopped crying, he stopped cringing and he had wiped his face of the tears. He looked up into the black sky and saw nothing but emptiness. The voice called out to him again; ”It seems that you are in one dire dilemma.” Drake kept searching for who and or what the voice calling him was. He searched and yearned for the answer, but it wasn’t there. The gruff voice of a man thought to be atleast 30+ years in age had faded on for just a brief moment, which did happen to leave Drake in a dilemma. Drake walked over past the center of the void and next to a beating wall. He took his fist and began pounding and smashing the wall with his bear hands hoping that it would move. Rather all it gave was the beating back and no movement came from it. If he had slept on the cold ground floor in Detroit, lying in the streets and picked on by upper class and shoddy police work, would he still be what he was today. That question left a burning memento left for him to answer. All he could think of right now were flashbacks of his long past….

Flashback: October 14, 1986

Coming into an clouded sequence we comes straight into a black and white color engulfs the screen opening the scenery with a broken downed home with tattered cloths and broken bottles. The wooden stools that were placed at the dinner table have been knocked over. One edge has been broken off of its original piece and is dripping blood, which is now in a puddle. The glass windowpanes are broken as well giving the place an odd feeling. An automobile engine is heard from the distance as the cameraman moves out of the home and into the open pasture filled with grass and a large oak tree with some of its barks torn off. A yellow blaze is coming along the pavement of the road. As it comes closer you can see what is on the side of the bus. It reads Detroit I.S.D. As the school bus comes towards a halt the students on the bus are rambunctious and pretty excited about going home after a hard day. The door opens and a young boy steps out. Children open windows and start yelling obscenities at him, but he brushes it off for he takes this criticism every single day. The door closes and the bus operator drives off. The boys’ face is plain, but cute in a grunge type sort of way. He has bruises all over his face, the most notables are his eyes which are covered with black colored rings around them. His dried blonde hair his shifty and uneven in places. He sees his home and backs away and moves towards his mailbox labeled: The Maxwell’s. He opens the slip and looks into the little box. There is nothing but the little outline. The child sighs and walks towards the opening leading into his home. He looks at the windows and goes onto the den. He sees two bodies one, with a face decompressed and one lying next to a .45 semi automatic handgun. He looks over towards the woman and checks her for a pulse while placing his fore and middle finger at the middle of her neck. He sighs and sniffles a little bit signaling that tears are almost coming down his face. He looks over towards the man and looks at the blood streaming from his temple where a single bullet lodged into his skull. The blood is dry and not able to be slipped upon. He then walks out of the home and sits on the wooden porch steps sitting still showing no emotion…

A child finding his parents dead, and uncaring, unemotional. Darkness has already to plague his soul at a young age. Must he care that his parents are dead? Must one wonder what occurs to this boy? No one will help, no one will answer my plea. For he is lost and unable to be save.

Soon police officers begin to arrive at the scene and rush into the house. The boy pays them no attention as he sits sulking and uncaring towards his parents. A lone officer of 36 years of age comes towards the boy. He is kinda bulky around the waist and his blue dress shirt is neatly tucked in. He also has black dress pants with white and yellow streaks going down the sides. His jacket contains his badge number, some lapel pins and a DPD emblem on the left breast pocket. He also has a thick brown mustache, with chubby cheeks. His cap is overlapping his brown comb over. He walks up towards the kid with a notebook pad in hand ready to ask the child some questions over what happened.

Andrews: “Hey, little guy I am Sgt. Derrick Andrews with the Detroit Police Department. Now can you tell me exactly what is going on here?”

The boy just gave him a dirty look

Young Drake: “Yeah, I know exactly what occurred here. This for one is my house. The two people you know that are dead on the floor are my mother and father. Stupid bastards never amounted to anything but a child beating dope head and a sweet nurturing woman taken away from me.”

The police officer wrote all of this on his little notepad jotting down every word said by the boy. He starts to scratch his combed neatly brown hair kind of clueless towards the boy. He walks into the house leaving the boy outside to sulk. Inside of shacked house are detectives, coroners, and reporters looking to get a scoop. Forensics is taking away the broken off chair leg and the .45 Handgun away from the crime scene and place them in a zip lock bag. Which is then placed into a burlap sack labeled: Detroit Police Department: Forensics lab. A photographer comes into the picture and starts taking pictures of the two dead bodies, but is taken away by detectives making sure that they don’t let a reporter leak out crucial information. He is taken out of the house and thrown against a police vehicle and slammed into it head first. Sergeant Andrews walks into the house and walks up towards another detective whose wearing a brown overcoat and black slacks with black Faragamo’s. His hair is in a crew cut shape colored brown. His cold Gray eyes focus down on the ground as he lights as cigarette. He doesn’t notice Andrews right next to him and shifts towards his right looking over the two dead bodies. He then turns towards his right and accidentally steps on a bottle of Miller Lite® beer. The glass shatters all along the floor into a small radius. Andrews looks down and grows angry as the man has given him a cut in his slacks but also having a shard of glass go into his left ankle…

Andrews: “Hey! Watch where you’re stepping you old fart.“

Andrews bellows out. The man looks up and eyes up Andrews. His cold eyes are piercing a figurative hole into Andrews’s skull. He then opens his mouth…

Nikerson: “Andrews tell me this. A man with a 7.52-mm bullet lodged into his skull dies and quick death. Minutes before this he has just beaten his wife to death with a broken piece of wood smashing every bone in her face. You on the other hand are pissed about a little nick in your pants and you leg. How f(beep)ing childish are you? Andrews, my name is Nikerson, Ron Nikerson. You’re new boss. This is my case ok? So why don’t you go back to your squad car and head back towards your duty and let actual detectives work on this.”

Nikerson was a real hard ass, always serious about his job. He joked around once and accidentally shot a man in the face with a Remminton double barrel shotgun. Ever since then he’s taken his life and his job seriously. Never allowing failure to enter his life. He escorts Andrews out of the home and into the driver side of his car. The boy at the doorstep gets up from his position and goes 5 paces upward, coming a few feet away from Nikerson. Nikerson watches Andrews drive off and slightly turns around towards the boy. He sees him and bends down towards him looking at him smiling…

Nikerson: “It’s ok son, well get you a home to stay for the night. I know you must feel terribly sorry for what happened to you parents but {sighing} things like this happen a lot.”

Nikerson said that in a low voice feeling compassion. Something he thought he had forever banished from his emotions…

Young Drake: “You telling me that it will be ok, that it will be all fine and dandy. Well Mr. Nikerson, nothing is ok and nothing is fine and dandy. My father killed himself because he couldn’t handle the pressure of living after killing his wife, because she was the good sweet wholesome woman and he was in the drunken stupor he always was in. He didn’t want to become someone’s b(beep)tch in prison. Nikerson, maybe you don’t realize this but they weren’t the best parents in the world. Why, they weren’t even normal parents. Have you ever been beaten on Nikerson?”

The boy responded towards Nikerson whose anger was becoming a little heated, but he kept things under pressure.

Nikerson: “No, now son it’s ok to be angry about the situation but we will get you some fluids and somewhere nice to stay.”

Nikerson replied to the boy keeping that smile across his lips, that same smile that the boy had seen enough of these types before after his now dead mother called 911 on her now dead husband.

Young Drake: “You still don’t get it do you. You’re life, you’ve wanted everything to be right and neat. Your own freaking problems are giving you a false sense of reality. Maybe you can’t think that backing into a corner and ducking your problems will help you get on with your life. You’re just another damn tool used by a prophet to ensure a normal happy life within Earth. F(beep)ck you Nikerson, you rat bastard, you sellout towards your own people.”

The boy said emphatically towards Nikerson. Nikerson was going to be this nice altogether, so rather than play it cool he took the boy in a swift motion Nikerson grabs the boy by the neck and lifts him off of the ground choking the life out of him. He started yelling at the boy with emotions running high.

Nikerson: “You little rat piece of s(beep)it, you don’t know a damn thing about me. I own you, child and you better f(beep)cking believe that, for I judge your damn fate boy. I am the f(beep)cking person you don’t want to f(beep)ck with. You get me?”

The boy’s faces was turning a blood red as he was soon to pass out, the pain was well above his threshold and he could take it no longer. He let out one shallow remark, “I get you!” with one last gasping breath. Nikerson lets the boy go and drops his onto the ground, not before the boy kicks him in the testicles. Nikerson grabs his crotch and falls down low enough that the boy then spins kicks him straight in the jaw knocking him back a few feet and knocking him onto the ground. The boy spits at him and runs away from the scene running and never looking back .

End Flashback

That entire satire of what he’d experience was going to cling to him like a haunting memory for the rest of his walking and living days. He kept all of this to himself for a short period of time never actually releasing it until it was truly needed. As he lay on his bed the question was still remaining, was he actually going to be able to reconcile with his demons and come out of this?

He’d gone into another day’s comatose and he still hadn’t saved himself from the pits. The voice was fading and he had no hope or real justification to solve this matter. All he could rely on were basic instincts, not artificial intelligence. Thus, he was intertwined within his own haunting trauma. He had the grim thoughts of his existence ending and vanishing. The point of his soul alyssums what he believed in. He was thought to be okay and as the night progressed on, he was getting worse and worse. Each single diagnostic became smaller and smaller for him to progress on in life.

Back inside his subconscious however, you are viewing the inside of the mind with the brain as the main topic. Inside you see the electrolytes moving around sending the brain’s every command while known that the brain is only used 1/10 of the time. The other is artificial knowledge, which is learned by the user of this brain. The picture fuzzes and transfuses into another picture this time of the eyes. The color pupil giving off distinctive traits of people colored blue, black or hazel. Giving a casual feel the perception of man. Like the picture of the brain this scene also fuzzes out. Now the scene opens up to a slight buzzing sound and the lights illuminating out each on giving off a new feel. Dormitory doors unlock and men in orange jump suits come out. Standing at the door of their respected white and galls shrines domicile the men chuckle and give each other high fives. This is what is known as a correctional facility or in other words, “prison”. A man with a shrouding presence stands inside of a glass casing. His eyes a piercing green giving off some kind of evil feeling. He stands wearing a black long sleeved fish net shirt much like Trent Reznor. Covering his legs is black tightly fitting jeans, and black steel tipped army boots cover his feet. His sickly black hair gives an aroma of wild buffalo grazing the plains. On the left side of his shirt where on a normal buttoned shirt would lie the breast pocket has a sticker. The top layer colored with states the words; “Hi My Name Is.” colored in white lettering. Under this on the front layer part states the name Ronald, more promptly known as Romulus to most of you. His lips quiver as if he were about to speak.

Romulus: “Drake, I am stuck inside this birdcage of society’s downfall and I have you to thank for it. Your thoughts for helping the senseless and pour has come to me realizing that you are not a true prophet speaking towards man in away so the truth is: You are a tool for the system.”

Drake constantly shook his head no, stating that the truth he spoke was the actual truth and not some false propaganda recently constituted by his peers. It reached its pressure as Drake could not take much more of it. He looked over and stared at Romulus inside the glass cage wanting to be let out. Romulus wasn’t in pain or had carried out into daggers sinking in. Rather he stood in perfect condition, sucking in the dense foggy air. Drake took steps closer, but then the scene changed. The voices of a thousand men entered the room and started laughing. Laughing at Drake for him being a false person who lived up towards hype and was the media jewel rather it be a jewel in counted on to speak what he spoke. The term sellout came into use as the other shouted it to him. He had betrayed the cause and rather instead of bringing it forward, he drove it backwards. Drake collapsed at the mass feat; he bowed giving praise to them . They would not accept any of it. They lifted Drake up off the ground and he was profoundly beaten and placed
upon a stake to be crucified. He screamed in pain towards the circumstances he was currently given and repeated the words sorry. They would not accept the apologetic plea and they cursed Drake into the depths of hell. He had lost his grip and he’d fallen down. It was over and the sad but true mentality had gone into play.

Sunday October 21, 2001 – A Mid-Day Awakening

As the scene opened again, there was solemn difference. All Drake had experienced in the past day or so had been one dream after another, there was not pain his haunting dreams had once again plagued his thoughts into believing what others wanted him to do. He’d been connived to think that the masses hated him in every way imaginable and that he was a sellout. For the fact, which drove him into the mind, nubbing trauma was victory over Young Tiger in the second round of the Global Title Tournament. Excitement drove him into ecstasy as he celebrated with friends. He felt autocracy inside of him; he felt joy over sadness. Party knew he could not mourn over the subjected matter, but this led into one of the hardest parties he had ever attended or held.

Drake Maxwell sat up in a cold sweat, the long night before presumably handed him a harried fate as he went out expediting along the masses of friends and drinks, which caused him into the depleted figure you, see before your eyes. The night’s rendition always was common for him as he usually did this on a day after a victory. Although his mind is a lithe bit worst for the wear, he still finds comfort lying inside that box with the blue covers and the silk pillow. He stood up and gazed upon another Detroit day with hunger upon his eyes. He’d felt a fading of like an ear was coming to an end. He could not put his finger upon it, but he knew it lay inside the fragment of his job. As he walked to his bathroom, a trickle of blood came across his brow and he wiped it off with a closed fist and washed it off with warm water. His body ached and pain was present, but he did not bring it out for to him, it showed weakness.

He looked into his mirror and saw those cold gray eyes reflection off of the mirror. He had bags around his eyes notifying that he had not received much sleep. He stared into the bleak oasis known as a reflection and chuckled towards it.

Drake: “As you look the looking glass you are given a reflection of what to concur, expect, and thrive on. This small item for which man craves to show what they happen to look like, it is such fickle matter for which most men want and are deprived of. So atrocious of what you think eh Tom? Triple T if you will has been one of those caring types who is only a tool to the system. He promotes senseless propaganda. Must he have such a brain to understand his true nature. No, Totally Tubular Tom is the exact opposite of what excellence is. He is a surfer whose only concerns are women, money and surfing. Three fickle items that are just matter which do not even compare to the grace of intelligence. His blood may be crimson like all of us humans are, alas there is the simple difference of this. Tom, being a tool makes you one greedy, self serving corrupt, and lazy son of a b*tch. My question is not how good you claim to be, but how good do you think you are. Id you think you are the absolute best in this “game”, then you are surely mistaken. If it wasn’t for your companions helping you throughout everything you do, you be about as a quantum worth as a retarded child whose parents adopted him and taught him communism instead of democracy!”

He chuckled towards himself as the day was progressing on. He’d been everywhere today as he went to the coffee shop and ordered himself a double mocha late and drank tow cups. He did not care, he knew happiness ways upon him and he found everything he found appeasement in. He was back into his home, he was silent he watched his television and kept his mind sharper for untold things to come. He had Totally Tubular Tom upcoming on Saturday, he had to face El Diablo in the third round of the Global Title Tournament. His entire agenda was full with work; he loved every moment of it. His time was surely coming, but when was the question.

Fade.

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]

Replies:

[ Contact Forum Admin ]

Forum timezone: GMT-8
VF Version: 3.00b, ConfDB:
Before posting please read our privacy policy.
VoyForums(tm) is a Free Service from Voyager Info-Systems.
Copyright © 1998-2019 Voyager Info-Systems. All Rights Reserved.