Orange Revolution, Ch. 1: The AssassinUrban area, nighttime.
Panel 1- [You hear that?] [I don't either] ['cause there's nothing there to
Scene is a dark and dirty urban street, littered with battered corpses of
Skippies. A streetlight lays on the ground, snapped in half. A car is
overturned on its side. Broken glass from shattered windows litters the
Panel 2- [I still wear headphones with music blasting in my ears] [to drown
out the voices.] [I used to scream so I didn't have to listen.]
More destruction, and closer-up. We're getting closer to the source.
Panel 3- [Until, those voices:] [they could cut through concrete] [ten feet
We see the shadowy outline of Orangenius in the distance, holding up a
Skippy. Other Skippies are either dead or running around in panic.
Panel 4- ['cause they come from the inside now.]
Close-up of Orangenius (still a shadowy outline) destroying a Skippy
(possibly by ramming his knee upwards, or maybe ripping him in half with his
hands) and splattering its blood upward
LightsI follow the red lights. I see billions of little lights. They look like Christmas lights. Davis says to only follow the red lights. Davis says the other lights are bad lights. Davis says I'm happy when I follow the red lights, because I smile.
Davis says not to remember how long I've been following the red lights. Davis says I wouldn't follow the red lights anymore if I knew how long I've been doing it. I don't remember how long I've been following the red lights. I don't remember much about anything. Davis says I like Davis. I like Davis.
Davis says he has a friend named Brown. Davis has a friend named Brown. Davis says Brown used to follow the red lights. Davis says Brown doesn't follow the red lights anymore. Davis says Brown can't see any lights anymore. Davis says Brown is blind. Davis says Brown likes Davis. Davis says I like Brown.
I like Brown.
When I follow the red lights, I see people covered in red lights. Davis says to hurt the people covered in red lights. Davis says red
The Life of an ArtistThis is the story of how I became a famous painter. I thought the way it happened was kind of strange so I'll tell you about it.
I've always loved to paint. When I was a kid, I would get home from school, lock myself in my room, and create. I used a set of paints my grandfather gave me. He once was an artist, too, but he joined the Army and killed a few people, and said he couldn't focus enough anymore to make anything decent.
Anyway, I used to lock myself in my room and paint all day and night and go to sleep in the early hours of the morning knowing that I had made something beautiful. It was like this most nights. I didn't get much sleep, but how could my parents object when I was bringing in so much prize money? I had already won three scholarships.
I had obtained a reputation as sort of a "child prodigy" as they called it in the art magazines. I took art classes in college. Some of my stuff was put in museums, which made me pretty happy. I graduated, got my paints and brushes, sat
DaydreamWith the pillars of fume rising, the corny radio talk-show host talking, the bagel too stale and coffee too weak, this isn't my first choice of places to be. "Absolutely not," says the Mother and I think, it's not that bad. I could be at a zoo cleaning up after smelly, dirty, stupid animals -- no, actually, I could be one of the animals, in some little fake world, my fake world -- and everyone that points and watches, safe in their anti-ozone anti-animal cars, would be dead in an instant if they crossed the line into my domain. "There's no way I'll let you skip with the grades you had in your progress reports." That's the Mother speaking. These words, mixed up with the phony commercials on the radio, are not what I want to hear. I think about the zoo, and I'm really more like the guy selling popcorn to fat kids, already fiddling with his watch and he still has eight hours left to go. I'm saying, "Yeah, okay." I'm saying, "Sure." Talk-shows and commercials, it's easy to talk you're not
The Wheels on the BusSTOP
I drive the short bus. I'm not supposed to call it that, but that's what it is, and I'm not gonna call it something it isn't. I used to ride it, but now I drive it. Everyone on the bus is here for a reason. Everyone on the bus is special in their own way.
The kid that sits behind me is Anthony. Anthony is angry because his parents beat him. He kicks my chair to make me angry, and it works. He's kicking it right now. I want to beat him, too, like his parents do, only worse, much worse. I want that seat to be drenched in blood, coming from the orifices of that little shit's face as I pound his skull until he finally stops breathing. Then I'll hang his legs from the ceiling, and no one will ever sit in the seat behind me again. But I don't do those things...
I don't because the seat behind me doesn't get crushed in the crash, and Anthony will grow up and save a child from a burning building. Anthony's wife stabs him to death.
In the seat next to Anthony is Christopher. Christopher
MundaneIt was a typical day at the Chinese food place down the street. Employees drift in like the gentle light of the rising sun. The chimes chiming. The pretty Asian voice streaming from the speaker. The Super Lucky Cat grinning unconditionally. One by one the diligent employees march in, ready to do whatever they do for their paychecks. The first one in is always the owner, with the key rattling in his hand, the shaking tail of a serpent ready to strike. Twisting. Turning. Threatening. My what sharp fangs you have. The click, it strikes. The door opens, you're dead. Kiss your body goodbye. You're in heaven now. Heaven is a Chinese food place down the street.
The bulky chef struts in. You are what you eat. The cheerful waitress-slash-happy-ignorant-bitch smiles at him. Hear no evil, speak no evil, look at the Super Lucky Cat. The college guy with glasses, whose job today is to make the rice. The world loves to see you fail. You were given everything and you wasted it. Multiplied your future
ScumbagSometimes, a game is more than just a game. This was the case with a guy named K-- who I knew from the popular online roleplaying game World of Warcraft. I've been a competitive, "hardcore" gamer for a while leading up to the events of this story, and I'm used to evaluating, interacting with, and generally spending a lot of time online with other gamers. The area of the game that I've spent the most time with is raiding, which is when either ten or twenty-five players, often organized as part of a guild, team up to fight monsters and get new weapons and armor to make their characters more powerful. In the years that I've been playing World of Warcraft a lot of situations have gone sour because of people being egotistical, selfish, short-tempered, immature, or overdramatic. For example, every group of players has a designated leader in charge of distributing the game's virtual rewards, and it isn't that uncommon for a leader to unfairly keep the best items for himself or give