Post by Trace on Jul 22, 2009 6:55:37 GMT -5
Trace Demon takes his seat at the head of the table. Four others are also seated, all of them having been waiting for an hour for Trace to arrive. Trace orders a glass of scotch, it is a man’s drink after all, and glances around the table at his four advisors: Eddie, John, Chris and Zach. Only one thought creeps through his mind.
Why don’t my advisors have more exotic names? Would it kill them to be called Cortez or Ricardo or something equally as interesting?
Eddie: You’re late.
You should be called Cortez god damn it!
Trace: I overslept.
That statement is hard to believe. Everything about Trace’s appearance insinuates that he hasn’t slept in days. Large black bags are clearly present beneath his eyes, his hair is untidy and his clothes askew. His suit and shirt look like they’ve been slept in and his tie is undone. Despite this he remains alert and aware of his surroundings. And a lack of sleep has never affected anyone, right?
Eddie: It’s six in the afternoon.
CORTEZ!!!
Trace: I forgot that I had to monitor my sleeping habits for you.
Trace’s sarcasm is blatant but uninspired. He subconsciously taps rhythmically on the table in front of him. The other’s around the table share nervous glances.
John: Why did you ask us to meet you here sir?
Trace: I think I need some help.
Zach: Thank god, we thought you’d never admit it.
Trace: Admit what?
Zach doesn’t speak, obviously realising his mistake. There have been worries over Trace Demon’s mental state ever since he went missing from his hospital bed, in the process throwing a doctor into the laundry shoot and stealing his stethoscope.
He still hasn’t returned the stethoscope.
Trace: You think I’m nuts, don’t you?
There is a chorus of “No sir, not at all” from all around the table. Trace looks at each man in turn, each of them desperately trying to avoid making eye contact in fear of their soul being sucked out through their pupils and devoured by demons.
What? It could happen.
Trace: Thunder got to you, didn’t he? I swear that man doesn’t realise that I’m not crazy. I’m just a misunderstood artist, like Picasso or Mozart or even Hitler.
Everyone goes silent.
Trace: Okay, maybe Hitler wasn’t really a misunderstood artist as much as he was a crazed maniac.
Good save.
Chris: I think we’re getting a little off topic.
Trace: Who said you were allowed to speak?
Chris: I’m fairly certain it’s in my civil rights as a human being.
Damn civil rights, always causing problems.
Trace: You know I don’t believe in freedom of speech unless it’s your freedom to listen to my speech.
There’s silence again. This is starting to become an unwanted trend of this meeting, almost like somebody made a bad joke about a dead Nazi ruler just moments earlier.
Oh wait.
Trace: Back to the topic at hand, I need some advice.
The waiter places Trace’s glass of scotch on the table. Trace takes a large drink. Ah, the overly expensive taste of being a man.
John: Advice on what sir?
Trace: Well as you know I am involved in the Survival of the Fittest Tournament this week. You know, a bunch of men all losing to me because I rule.
Boy, do I rule. My rule-a-tude is off the charts.
That isn’t even a word.
Quiet strange voice, it’s a word if I say it’s a word.
Eddie: You sure that’s wise?
Trace: How could it not be wise?
Eddie: Well you did get thrown from the top of a cage less than a month ago.
Of course. Battleground. That damn Kurt Burton and his overly active imagination. I mean seriously, who throws someone off the top of a cage anymore? It just isn’t done in modern civilized society. Hell, it isn’t even done in uncivilized society. That was proven by how Yukio Blaze didn’t throw anyone off of a cage and he’s the most uncivilized person in the business.
Trace: Do you realize your opinion would be more valid if your name was cortez?
Eddie: What?
Trace: It’s nothing.
CORTEZ I SAY!
Trace: I just need to know how to send a message.
Chris: You could always just punch someone in the face. That’ll certainly send a message.
Trace: While I certainly love the idea of violence I need to send a message through the use of words. But to do that I need an interesting location.
Zach: What about a beach house?
Trace: It’s been done.
John: What about a private war room.
Trace: What kind of stupid idea is that? Who in the world owns a private war room? Probably someone with serious masculinity issues, that’s who.
Chris: Why not an abandoned slaughterhouse.
Zach: What a stupid...
Trace: I like it.
Zach: Stupidly awesome idea.
Trace: You’re such a weasel.
Zach (bowing his head in shame): I know.
The waiter taps Trace on the shoulder. Trace turns to look at him, realising he has a nervous look on his face. Why does everyone look nervous around him? He’s not insane, just misunderstood god damn it.
Waiter: I’m sorry sir, but some of our other guests have been disturbed by your actions.
Trace: Can’t a man talk to his associates in peace?
Waiter: But sir, who exactly are you talking to?
Trace turns his intentions back to the table to see that there is nobody else there. He comes to the realization that he’s been talking to non-existent people the entire time. His only concern is why if they were imaginary they didn’t have more interesting names.
Trace: Maybe I am going crazy.
Why don’t my advisors have more exotic names? Would it kill them to be called Cortez or Ricardo or something equally as interesting?
Eddie: You’re late.
You should be called Cortez god damn it!
Trace: I overslept.
That statement is hard to believe. Everything about Trace’s appearance insinuates that he hasn’t slept in days. Large black bags are clearly present beneath his eyes, his hair is untidy and his clothes askew. His suit and shirt look like they’ve been slept in and his tie is undone. Despite this he remains alert and aware of his surroundings. And a lack of sleep has never affected anyone, right?
Eddie: It’s six in the afternoon.
CORTEZ!!!
Trace: I forgot that I had to monitor my sleeping habits for you.
Trace’s sarcasm is blatant but uninspired. He subconsciously taps rhythmically on the table in front of him. The other’s around the table share nervous glances.
John: Why did you ask us to meet you here sir?
Trace: I think I need some help.
Zach: Thank god, we thought you’d never admit it.
Trace: Admit what?
Zach doesn’t speak, obviously realising his mistake. There have been worries over Trace Demon’s mental state ever since he went missing from his hospital bed, in the process throwing a doctor into the laundry shoot and stealing his stethoscope.
He still hasn’t returned the stethoscope.
Trace: You think I’m nuts, don’t you?
There is a chorus of “No sir, not at all” from all around the table. Trace looks at each man in turn, each of them desperately trying to avoid making eye contact in fear of their soul being sucked out through their pupils and devoured by demons.
What? It could happen.
Trace: Thunder got to you, didn’t he? I swear that man doesn’t realise that I’m not crazy. I’m just a misunderstood artist, like Picasso or Mozart or even Hitler.
Everyone goes silent.
Trace: Okay, maybe Hitler wasn’t really a misunderstood artist as much as he was a crazed maniac.
Good save.
Chris: I think we’re getting a little off topic.
Trace: Who said you were allowed to speak?
Chris: I’m fairly certain it’s in my civil rights as a human being.
Damn civil rights, always causing problems.
Trace: You know I don’t believe in freedom of speech unless it’s your freedom to listen to my speech.
There’s silence again. This is starting to become an unwanted trend of this meeting, almost like somebody made a bad joke about a dead Nazi ruler just moments earlier.
Oh wait.
Trace: Back to the topic at hand, I need some advice.
The waiter places Trace’s glass of scotch on the table. Trace takes a large drink. Ah, the overly expensive taste of being a man.
John: Advice on what sir?
Trace: Well as you know I am involved in the Survival of the Fittest Tournament this week. You know, a bunch of men all losing to me because I rule.
Boy, do I rule. My rule-a-tude is off the charts.
That isn’t even a word.
Quiet strange voice, it’s a word if I say it’s a word.
Eddie: You sure that’s wise?
Trace: How could it not be wise?
Eddie: Well you did get thrown from the top of a cage less than a month ago.
Of course. Battleground. That damn Kurt Burton and his overly active imagination. I mean seriously, who throws someone off the top of a cage anymore? It just isn’t done in modern civilized society. Hell, it isn’t even done in uncivilized society. That was proven by how Yukio Blaze didn’t throw anyone off of a cage and he’s the most uncivilized person in the business.
Trace: Do you realize your opinion would be more valid if your name was cortez?
Eddie: What?
Trace: It’s nothing.
CORTEZ I SAY!
Trace: I just need to know how to send a message.
Chris: You could always just punch someone in the face. That’ll certainly send a message.
Trace: While I certainly love the idea of violence I need to send a message through the use of words. But to do that I need an interesting location.
Zach: What about a beach house?
Trace: It’s been done.
John: What about a private war room.
Trace: What kind of stupid idea is that? Who in the world owns a private war room? Probably someone with serious masculinity issues, that’s who.
Chris: Why not an abandoned slaughterhouse.
Zach: What a stupid...
Trace: I like it.
Zach: Stupidly awesome idea.
Trace: You’re such a weasel.
Zach (bowing his head in shame): I know.
The waiter taps Trace on the shoulder. Trace turns to look at him, realising he has a nervous look on his face. Why does everyone look nervous around him? He’s not insane, just misunderstood god damn it.
Waiter: I’m sorry sir, but some of our other guests have been disturbed by your actions.
Trace: Can’t a man talk to his associates in peace?
Waiter: But sir, who exactly are you talking to?
Trace turns his intentions back to the table to see that there is nobody else there. He comes to the realization that he’s been talking to non-existent people the entire time. His only concern is why if they were imaginary they didn’t have more interesting names.
Trace: Maybe I am going crazy.