Post by Batflunkie on Jun 2, 2018 11:38:48 GMT -5
The Black Bayou
A Valiant Style Novella
A Comical Tragedy Of Intrigue And Paranoia Set In The Heartland Of America
Chapter 1: The Moonster Brigade/The Kids Are Alright
--A Small Play--
*Bruce Lee enters*
Bruce Lee: Teacher....
Sensei: Hmmm, I see your talents have gone beyond the mere physical level. Your skills are now at the point of spiritual insight. I have several questions.
What is the highest technique you hope to achieve?
Bruce Lee: To have no technique
Sensei: Very good. What are your thoughts when facing an opponent?
Bruce Lee: There is no opponent
Sensei: And why is that?
Bruce Lee: Because the word "I" does not exist
Sensei: So, continue..."
Bruce Lee: A good fight should be like a small play, but played seriously. A good martial artist does not become tense, but ready. Not thinking, yet, not dreaming. Ready for whatever may come. When the opponent expands, I contract. When he contracts, I expand. And when there is an opportunity, I do not hit. It hits all by itself.......
*sensei nods in agreement*
Francis Jameson Cuthford feathered the interior of his leather jacket, fishing out a pocket watch. The face was worn and cracked, much like his mirrored reflection. The second hand might as well have been counting down the minutes of his existence in this intangible tapestry of life. But was it worth living? Subsisting on a diet of dread and self-loathing, he was spiritually malnourished and was desperately clinging to anything that could aid in his escape. At least, he thought, for a little while. His veins were steeped with caffeine and sugar, better than speed, better than cocaine. For those were the devil's nectar after all, and his mother forbade him to do anything of the sort.
He did not want much of anything. His was a devoutly catholic lifestyle, but to what extent he wasn't completely sure. The half truth he spake was that God was a fabrication of rigid fascists, too hard set in the old ways of the Reaganomics Americana of the 1980's. The Cold War had ended, the bombs dismantled, and military funding dropped. These were not his concerns and they were many years in the past. The generic hard citrus soda made the well-weathered issue of Shadowman go down easy. Shadowman always got his man, it was concise and to the point. A puzzle to unravel in printed form, and he did so love his puzzles.
Shadowman was, at it's core, a basic Shakespearean three act structure; a setup of the foundation (set pieces both animate and inanimate) an introduction of the antagonist, the protagonists' struggle to overcome. Simple yet solid, like modeling clay that had yet to be finely honed into a work of art. The same deduction could be applied to other things, though mental calculations would have to be made and adjusted on the fly.
The seconds ticked down until a small, technological bleep sounded. Ushering in his playtime. He limberly flung himself out of the clubhouse window with it's old, tattered curtains and onto the roof of the makeshift shanty. At the top of his lungs, he let out a loud, savage howl that seemed to echo into the bowls of hell itself. The moon lazily crept out from behind the dark navy clouds and henceforth transformed the wild child into what he had always been; a feral, amoral animal of wolfen distinction. But the change was not so drastic as the multitudinous array of werewolf centric horror dramas would have led some to believe: 'twas the voodoo that made a man of a boy.
His friends soon arrived clothed in the garb of the shadows. Tilly De Cart, a lithe girl with an insatiable appetite for blood and Harrison De Sade, a clumsy oaf who was almost always tired and in need of medical attention. With friends as vile and vicious as these, who would ever need enemies?
After a brief hop to the nearest pier, the three collectively began discussing their plan. Raid the old icehouse? No, dead bodies were no fun, regardless of what Morgus the Magnificent, Chopsley, and E.R.I.C. would have led some to believe. Steal away some nice hot benets and coca from Cafe Du Moneux? No, too crowded, and they would be too easily caught. These street urchins were all too savy and smart enough to know when not to get caught. What they truly needed was easy game to satiate their collective thirst for mayhem and chaos.
The video palor and book rental outside of the Garrison's supermarket? "Now there, my dear Tilly," Francis muttered slyly,"is a cause worth all fool's gold in the world." The store had just recently gotten in some english subtitled episodes of Kakuranger, a foreign superhero program featuring ninjas, mythical folklore monsters, and giant robots that transformed out of old style japanese houses. It reeked of dumb fun and a good time had by all and that's why they coveted it like a white fire diamond.
But they had to be cautious. There had been some rumors floating around that the shopkeeper, a nasty old haitian voodoo witch, had been embuing the merchandise with a curse. Whether good or bad, they weren't quite sure. But it was worth the risk. "Evenin' y'all, out a bit late ain'tcha?" They all muttered some crock about having a lax curfew at home and floated through the isles like the 'gentlemen thieves of yonder Japan' that they all so admired.
"Got Mortal Kombat here Tilly," Harrison cheekily pointed out, "I know you love you some of that there Johnny Cage." "Oh hush up Harris, I know you've got choo some hots for Sonya Blade and every other kind of woman in that movie. Don't think I don't know what you do with that door closed." The old Haitian was just laughing herself into a fit over these little scamps. "Abraxas?" "Maybe," Francis muttered, distracted. "My box has V.D. if your box has V.D. honey." "Forget the pain, Tilly, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." "Whole truth;" Francis spake, communing with the energy and wit of the film,"what I wanna know is why is Canada such a 'right of passage holy land' for independent film makers? What do they have that we don't?"
"Count cher blessings chill'd," the old Haitian spoke up, too amused to hold herself back any longer, "At least we got Final Cut aka Dangerous Highway."
"Yes ma'am," Tilly said, with a crease in her jeans and hand in her wallet, "but it comes off as pretencious art house nonsense to me. I'm moreso an apprentice of a more east asian literary fare; poetry, action, violence, mysticism, and general Shakespearean drama are my bread and butter. It is blunt and unrelenting, challenging yet gentle as the cool fall's breeze." "Well spoken little one," The Haitian lady spake, firmly clutching the crisp dollar bill, "enjoy your movie for you have taken the pebble from my hand."