Every story has its turning point, right? That moment when the actual story kicks into gear, making it worth telling? Making it interesting?
Interesting, but not always good.
For me, my turning point was finding pieces of my girlfriend in my fridge. Horrific, sure, but one heck of a plot point, right?
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I was working on a new project.. Cowboy Justice 2: Justice Rides a Pale Horse. It was going great. The Pale Horse was suitably pale, and I was having a whale of a time trying to re-create the arid wilds of Oklahoma in the cheery confines of a Hollywood backlot. A special-effects guy by trade, illusions were my forte, and the movie was suitably challenging for an artist of my calibre. In fact, in hindsight, it was a little too challenging, as I was devoting entirely too much time to it. After all, there were green-screens to erect, horses to paint, and actors to suspend from wires. What kind of sensible person would want to go home and share a bed with a stranger?
That's what she was to me, to be honest. A stranger. Hey, it's Hollywood, right? It's not about people, it's about looks. She was inoffensive enough, sure, but I can't honestly say I ever truly cared for her, which makes.. my condition, all the more confounding.
Basically: I was late getting home, again. It had been a terrible day, and some anonymous extra had managed to somehow spill grape juice all over my favorite animatronic cow. Bessie was a beaut, a holstein of the highest sort, and you know how grape juice gets when you let it settle. Anyway, I got home around three or so, and immediately knew something was amiss. Although somewhat absent-minded, Justine had never had a habit of leaving the front door open, let alone bashing off the hinges (with what looked to be a hammer) and leaving it several paces down the front walk. Entering the townhouse, hackles raised, my foot came down on broken glass. Somebody had broken my television. This was no absent-minded girlfriend at work!
Rushing to the kitchen to ensure that nobody had eaten my porridge, I stumbled upon a horrible sight. One female running shoe, lying on its side, in the middle of the kitchen floor. Just sitting there. Innocuous. Mocking me. Where was its partner? Where was the foot that was supposed to inhabit it? If only I'd fled. If only I'd not been so thirsty..
Reeling, I lurched for the fridge. I'd needed a stiff, stiff drink. Somebody had been in my house! Somebody had been touching my stuff! Opening the fridge, I saw.. Her. It. Well, several its. In my absence, somebody had murdered Justine, and left several pieces of her in my fridge! Beside my food!
The police arrived promptly, and were very kind about the whole matter. I was a suspect, of course, but several co-workers had seen me stamping around the set, irate at Bessie's purple-splotched state, so I had a valid alibi.
Of course, the culprits were never found. Apparently, random thugs are hard to track down when they don't steal anything or leave any incriminating evidence behind. We never even found the murder weapon.
Whatever the case, things soon returned to normal. Well, as normal as things can get when you can't sleep. As some sort of horrid by-product of the shock of finding Justine in the fridge, I found myself unable to sleep at night. No, I wasn't haunted by images of her or pieces of her, or whatever you'd assume I'd see. I just couldn't sleep. I'd close my eyes, and.. nothing. But not the good nothing. Bad nothing.
After a week or so of insomnia-induced haphazardness, the director of Cowboy Justice 2 let me go. Apparently having the star of your movie suddenly burst into flame during the climatic love scene isn't beneficial.
That was the straw that broke the camel's back. I hadn't visited my psychiatrist since we'd worked out my irrational fear of sea monsters (Think about it. A sea monster's attacking.. Where do you go? You're in the ocean. How's swimming three feet to the left going to stop a sea monster from eating you?) but I'd gladly pay his fifty-dollars-an-hour fee for the ability to sleep again.
His answer?
Become a super-hero.
Become a friggin' super-hero.
Apparently, the number-one method of coping with the slaying of a loved-one (or not-so-loved one, I guess) is to dress up and fight crime. Who knew? "Wellness through cathartic vengeance", as the good doc put it.
So here I am, tired as hell, and wearing a silly costume. It took me a week or so to fit all my proprietary special effects gear in my gloves and chest-jewel-thing, but I think I've got it all up to par. It'd better be up to par, as apparently the thugs in Paragon City play hard.
Random thugs, if you're out there, you'd best watch out. I'm trying my best to be a hero, and I won't hesitate to blind you, maybe punch you a couple times, then convince you that you're dead.
Hopefully, somehow, that will make me well.
I just want to be well.
Posted
This is really good stuff. Keep it coming!
Posted
Enjoyed this bunchies...very amuseing, cant wait to read more! =)
Every story has its turning point, right? That moment when the actual story kicks into gear, making it worth telling? Making it interesting?
Interesting, but not always good.
For me, my turning point was finding pieces of my girlfriend in my fridge. Horrific, sure, but one heck of a plot point, right?
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I was working on a new project.. Cowboy Justice 2: Justice Rides a Pale Horse. It was going great. The Pale Horse was suitably pale, and I was having a whale of a time trying to re-create the arid wilds of Oklahoma in the cheery confines of a Hollywood backlot. A special-effects guy by trade, illusions were my forte, and the movie was suitably challenging for an artist of my calibre. In fact, in hindsight, it was a little too challenging, as I was devoting entirely too much time to it. After all, there were green-screens to erect, horses to paint, and actors to suspend from wires. What kind of sensible person would want to go home and share a bed with a stranger?
That's what she was to me, to be honest. A stranger. Hey, it's Hollywood, right? It's not about people, it's about looks. She was inoffensive enough, sure, but I can't honestly say I ever truly cared for her, which makes.. my condition, all the more confounding.
Basically: I was late getting home, again. It had been a terrible day, and some anonymous extra had managed to somehow spill grape juice all over my favorite animatronic cow. Bessie was a beaut, a holstein of the highest sort, and you know how grape juice gets when you let it settle. Anyway, I got home around three or so, and immediately knew something was amiss. Although somewhat absent-minded, Justine had never had a habit of leaving the front door open, let alone bashing off the hinges (with what looked to be a hammer) and leaving it several paces down the front walk. Entering the townhouse, hackles raised, my foot came down on broken glass. Somebody had broken my television. This was no absent-minded girlfriend at work!
Rushing to the kitchen to ensure that nobody had eaten my porridge, I stumbled upon a horrible sight. One female running shoe, lying on its side, in the middle of the kitchen floor. Just sitting there. Innocuous. Mocking me. Where was its partner? Where was the foot that was supposed to inhabit it? If only I'd fled. If only I'd not been so thirsty..
Reeling, I lurched for the fridge. I'd needed a stiff, stiff drink. Somebody had been in my house! Somebody had been touching my stuff! Opening the fridge, I saw.. Her. It. Well, several its. In my absence, somebody had murdered Justine, and left several pieces of her in my fridge! Beside my food!
The police arrived promptly, and were very kind about the whole matter. I was a suspect, of course, but several co-workers had seen me stamping around the set, irate at Bessie's purple-splotched state, so I had a valid alibi.
Of course, the culprits were never found. Apparently, random thugs are hard to track down when they don't steal anything or leave any incriminating evidence behind. We never even found the murder weapon.
Whatever the case, things soon returned to normal. Well, as normal as things can get when you can't sleep. As some sort of horrid by-product of the shock of finding Justine in the fridge, I found myself unable to sleep at night. No, I wasn't haunted by images of her or pieces of her, or whatever you'd assume I'd see. I just couldn't sleep. I'd close my eyes, and.. nothing. But not the good nothing. Bad nothing.
After a week or so of insomnia-induced haphazardness, the director of Cowboy Justice 2 let me go. Apparently having the star of your movie suddenly burst into flame during the climatic love scene isn't beneficial.
That was the straw that broke the camel's back. I hadn't visited my psychiatrist since we'd worked out my irrational fear of sea monsters (Think about it. A sea monster's attacking.. Where do you go? You're in the ocean. How's swimming three feet to the left going to stop a sea monster from eating you?) but I'd gladly pay his fifty-dollars-an-hour fee for the ability to sleep again.
His answer?
Become a super-hero.
Become a friggin' super-hero.
Apparently, the number-one method of coping with the slaying of a loved-one (or not-so-loved one, I guess) is to dress up and fight crime. Who knew? "Wellness through cathartic vengeance", as the good doc put it.
So here I am, tired as hell, and wearing a silly costume. It took me a week or so to fit all my proprietary special effects gear in my gloves and chest-jewel-thing, but I think I've got it all up to par. It'd better be up to par, as apparently the thugs in Paragon City play hard.
Random thugs, if you're out there, you'd best watch out. I'm trying my best to be a hero, and I won't hesitate to blind you, maybe punch you a couple times, then convince you that you're dead.
Hopefully, somehow, that will make me well.
I just want to be well.