Post by Grace Leary on May 28, 2023 2:51:59 GMT
(apologies to everyone for a deeply unfinished piece, I got way too fucked up today lmao)
4/30/23
For a moment, Grace Leary felt weightless. Her throat, red and rope-burned, seared as she fell from the apron, momentum twisting her body until she came face first with the burning ring of fire that awaited her below.
In that same moment, she wondered if perhaps this would, in fact, be an appropriate fate. Max Daemon, the slovenly degenerate who sentenced her to it would surely agree; though as her mind lingered on such an assertion she reasoned that she'd sooner throw herself into the flames than to accept any moral judgment passed by the slovenly degenerate in question as valid.
Instead, as the flames drew ever nearer and the residual heat below scorched her cheeks, Grace instinctively brought her arms towards her face in a protective motion. She felt nothing as she collided with the flames — the scorched flesh that shielded her radius and ulna dangled from her forearms as the ringside staff fished her from the fire. The heat singed her face, the all-too-familiar sensation of scorched hair scattered down her body like sand from a broken hourglass, but it wasn't until the bitter cold of the ABC powder spewing from the ringside technicians' fire extinguishers hit her that she actually felt something.
Curling into a ball with her bleeding, charred flesh pressed against her thighs, Grace hoped none of the oh-so-liberally-applied monoammonium phosphate made contact with her open wounds. As her senses sharpened from the shock, the world around her spun with all the ferocity of intoxication, her body not bearing the searing, throbbing ache she felt it ought to her as her eyes slid shut and the world before her became nothing but blackness.
Click.
The roll and hiss of tape fill the airwaves for a moment as the woman on the other end of the recording takes a moment to draw a sharp inhale.
"Hello, Krow. I hope you don't mind my lack of desire to refer to you as anything different than the name you presented for the world of God and man."
A knowing, reverating chuckle echoes over the track.
"After all, I have little desire to learn your government name, let alone repeat it for the masses. Because, let's be honest, it wouldn't change much at all, would it? It wouldn't change the circumstances we must reluctantly call shared; those that set us on distinct but not dissimilar understandings of the world. After all, we've faced one single, unflinching, unchangeable truth regarding our upbringings:
Poverty is ugly. The ceaseless struggle to put enough food on the table that you and those closest to you wouldn't starve in the harsh, bitter winters of the midwest and northeast alike did a number on our mothers alike. I was barely out of middle school when, taking pity on our poor, pathetic family, my mother's boss let me work years too early to be legal at an interstate truck stop. Maybe I should be thankful for such an experience; having my dear mother call in to grant me a day off school we so desperately needed to make rent, to ensure I wasn't a scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, goddamned parasite like you."
She utters a smirking, self-assured chuckle.
"Maybe I'm spoiling the punchline of this little joke, Krow. Because I can recognize the difference between us on first blush. Perhaps, were our established host the type that'd make his life story as open as our own, you could find some kind of camaraderie in his empty, nihilistic impulse to make life as difficult as possible for those he deemed unworthy.
Because as much as you can front and puff your chest out wide: I can respect the threats of violence that come from you. Even if you were just a man standing before me with the measurements you possess. Six inches taller than me, almost a hundred pounds heavier. You have the height and heft needed to put me on the shelf permanently, combined with the exact same drive that'd make such a feat trivial. After all, if putting someone like me in the hospital was all you needed to risk for one goddamned meal, how could you justify not doing such then, rather than spending half a decade behind bars, bearing the flag of someone you must've come out doubting when all was said and done."
Another laugh. However, this one lacks any sort of joy or enthusiasm behind it.
"You're a freak of nature, Krow. One sharpened by a half-decade of incarceration. I'm sure that if you put your mind to it, you could eat me alive. So tell me, why do I feel so underwhelmed, seeing your face across from mine?"
4/30/23
For a moment, Grace Leary felt weightless. Her throat, red and rope-burned, seared as she fell from the apron, momentum twisting her body until she came face first with the burning ring of fire that awaited her below.
In that same moment, she wondered if perhaps this would, in fact, be an appropriate fate. Max Daemon, the slovenly degenerate who sentenced her to it would surely agree; though as her mind lingered on such an assertion she reasoned that she'd sooner throw herself into the flames than to accept any moral judgment passed by the slovenly degenerate in question as valid.
Instead, as the flames drew ever nearer and the residual heat below scorched her cheeks, Grace instinctively brought her arms towards her face in a protective motion. She felt nothing as she collided with the flames — the scorched flesh that shielded her radius and ulna dangled from her forearms as the ringside staff fished her from the fire. The heat singed her face, the all-too-familiar sensation of scorched hair scattered down her body like sand from a broken hourglass, but it wasn't until the bitter cold of the ABC powder spewing from the ringside technicians' fire extinguishers hit her that she actually felt something.
Curling into a ball with her bleeding, charred flesh pressed against her thighs, Grace hoped none of the oh-so-liberally-applied monoammonium phosphate made contact with her open wounds. As her senses sharpened from the shock, the world around her spun with all the ferocity of intoxication, her body not bearing the searing, throbbing ache she felt it ought to her as her eyes slid shut and the world before her became nothing but blackness.
Click.
The roll and hiss of tape fill the airwaves for a moment as the woman on the other end of the recording takes a moment to draw a sharp inhale.
"Hello, Krow. I hope you don't mind my lack of desire to refer to you as anything different than the name you presented for the world of God and man."
A knowing, reverating chuckle echoes over the track.
"After all, I have little desire to learn your government name, let alone repeat it for the masses. Because, let's be honest, it wouldn't change much at all, would it? It wouldn't change the circumstances we must reluctantly call shared; those that set us on distinct but not dissimilar understandings of the world. After all, we've faced one single, unflinching, unchangeable truth regarding our upbringings:
Poverty is ugly. The ceaseless struggle to put enough food on the table that you and those closest to you wouldn't starve in the harsh, bitter winters of the midwest and northeast alike did a number on our mothers alike. I was barely out of middle school when, taking pity on our poor, pathetic family, my mother's boss let me work years too early to be legal at an interstate truck stop. Maybe I should be thankful for such an experience; having my dear mother call in to grant me a day off school we so desperately needed to make rent, to ensure I wasn't a scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, goddamned parasite like you."
She utters a smirking, self-assured chuckle.
"Maybe I'm spoiling the punchline of this little joke, Krow. Because I can recognize the difference between us on first blush. Perhaps, were our established host the type that'd make his life story as open as our own, you could find some kind of camaraderie in his empty, nihilistic impulse to make life as difficult as possible for those he deemed unworthy.
Because as much as you can front and puff your chest out wide: I can respect the threats of violence that come from you. Even if you were just a man standing before me with the measurements you possess. Six inches taller than me, almost a hundred pounds heavier. You have the height and heft needed to put me on the shelf permanently, combined with the exact same drive that'd make such a feat trivial. After all, if putting someone like me in the hospital was all you needed to risk for one goddamned meal, how could you justify not doing such then, rather than spending half a decade behind bars, bearing the flag of someone you must've come out doubting when all was said and done."
Another laugh. However, this one lacks any sort of joy or enthusiasm behind it.
"You're a freak of nature, Krow. One sharpened by a half-decade of incarceration. I'm sure that if you put your mind to it, you could eat me alive. So tell me, why do I feel so underwhelmed, seeing your face across from mine?"
