Post by bel on Jul 15, 2012 17:12:52 GMT -5
PRODUCTION CODE: 1x05
===
The blades of a bolt cutter snap the shackle of a rusty lock in two. A leather gloved hand then yanks the equally oxidized chain from around the metal door handles and tosses it to the ground below. The camera pans out to set the scene: Bel Biggz, in a presumably new white leisure suit, stands before the double wooden doors of what may possibly be an old church building. The view is tight so all that is in frame is the front of this church although one could only draw that conclusion because of the steeple roof. There are no clear marking of what denomination this may be. In fact, the building looks abandoned.
Bel opens the door outwards and hesitantly enters the building. The only source of light is the massive hole in the roof. This seems to be a traditional lay out, an aisle way with pews on either side leads to a stage and altar. Despite the content, Bel remembered the place having vibrant color. Gone are the paintings of depicted divinity. The adornments and the stone statues have disappeared. The red carpet is now shredded, stained, and littered with debris. The roof that was once over his head now lays amongst the pews on right. Or least what remains of them after being broken and splintered. It is as if color has been drained from this place.
“Dissolution Numinous.”
He threads lightly as he walks down the aisle.
“March 24th, 2011, new candidate: 57. Former professional wrestler. Drug addict. These roles in life seem to go hand to hand.”
“I must say that I hope in the presence of this place that my words aren’t misconstrued for something they are not.”
All that remains of the stage is a tipped over podium. He stops at the brief set of wooden stairs that lead up to the stage and takes a seat.
“Communication is vital if this relationship is to prosper so I apologize to any that I put in a state of confusion. On the other hand, if one does not listen and understand and all they do is hear, whose fault is it truly?"
The sounds of birds chirping in the overhead rafter filter and echo through the desolate building.
“So when I say that I had discussions with god, let’s not stoke the flames by desecrating religious paraphilia in an attempt to antagonize me. It didn’t exactly work because,” Bel shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t care either way. You see, I heard what was said, I listened to it, and then I understood it. I never spoke with God. While it may be an allusion to faith, the fact of the matter is that…”
Fingers touch forward as if favoring symptoms of a migraine.
“…I spoke with … god.”
He rises to his feet and saunters over to the overturned podium. He kneels down and reaches into the shelf. In a truly cringe inducing visual, Bel apathetically pulls a leather bound book with streamers of spider webs trailing from it.
“And many years ago, before I watched him die, god resided here.”
He blew off the dust and webs of the book.
“When I awoke, that is the first thing that came to mind that through his alleged mysticism, when he foretold this. All of this. What it is, I can’t place my finger on it. That is what people don’t understand and because they don’t understand, they want to deny my place at MY home.”
“57’s history: clean since forced retirement. Says that it is losing battle. Addiction is disease. Good candidate.”
He opens the book and stuck inside the cover page is a small slip of paper that simply reads: Inmate 329092, deceased. He pockets the piece of paper and then flips through the pages. Unfortunately the book is too water damaged and moldy to discern any of the words on its pages. He tosses it aside like garbage.
“Besides a little mix-up here and there, everything that has been said about me has been absolutely true. A man spoke from his lofty perch the other day and like the others … I heard him. I listened to him. Finally, I understood him. He wants to be called out about his choice of lifestyle. Why would I denounce someone who seems so pleased with himself reveling in the shallow side of the pool? We are born and then we die. What we do between those time in between is ultimately of no consequence but to our self. What I mean is that the people you hurt either get over it or they don’t and when you leap off this mortal coil, it doesn’t really matter much anyway because memories always fade.”
He sits back down on the steps. This setting definitely seems subdued compared to the last few.
“Like everyone will eventually, I have died. Unlike everyone, I was born again. There is a purpose and as I may have explained, home is the destination that illuminates that purpose for me to see. What my friend doesn’t seem to comprehend that even when I do not speak, I have said something. If you didn’t hear it, then maybe it wasn’t intended for you. At the end of the day, I have nothing to prove to anyone here. I did not enter this great empire for purses and trinkets as I originally believed. That much has been made clear to me.”
He smirks as he remembers something else that needed to bring up.
“Finally, our great party host has gladly pointed out that he is capable of reading a dossier. I am addicted to heroin. I haven’t shot up in over four years … but …”’
“He is so desperate. So desperate to turn the tide. That is the key.”
“…as any addict knows, you don’t do it because you enjoy it or because it is fun … it’s because at the bottom, it is necessary to continue living. He wants to jest about compulsion, about how easy it is to survive without succumbing to it.”
Bel chuckles and for the first time, he directly addresses the camera and its proposed audience of one.
“This is from addict to addict. You crave recognition, fame, and notoriety and judging by your rented friends that you have obtained none of it. You want to strut around like the cock of the walk, claiming that you fear nothing. You act as if you’re larger than life but in the scheme of things you’re a grain of sand in the desert just like the rest of us. You say that you recognize your flaws but as evidenced by your decadent disposition, you fail to learn by them. You don't understand that what you desire is unobtainable by any means. You can reach the very top and you’ll still hunger for more. What does this mean for you and me, you wonder?”
Again, to his feet, he looks to the exit…
“Instead of doing the honorable deed, all you want to do is take. You want take this away from me and I cannot abide by that. This body has brought me to numerous places, high and low. I would like to predict the result for you, friend. Win or lose, I will have gleaned another piece of the puzzle. Win or lose, you will struggle with the fact that when you die, no one will remember your name.”
The scene fades as he nonchalantly walks down the aisle and out of Dissolution Numinous forever.
“Let’s arrange a family consultation for 57. Let me calm their fears.”
===
The blades of a bolt cutter snap the shackle of a rusty lock in two. A leather gloved hand then yanks the equally oxidized chain from around the metal door handles and tosses it to the ground below. The camera pans out to set the scene: Bel Biggz, in a presumably new white leisure suit, stands before the double wooden doors of what may possibly be an old church building. The view is tight so all that is in frame is the front of this church although one could only draw that conclusion because of the steeple roof. There are no clear marking of what denomination this may be. In fact, the building looks abandoned.
Bel opens the door outwards and hesitantly enters the building. The only source of light is the massive hole in the roof. This seems to be a traditional lay out, an aisle way with pews on either side leads to a stage and altar. Despite the content, Bel remembered the place having vibrant color. Gone are the paintings of depicted divinity. The adornments and the stone statues have disappeared. The red carpet is now shredded, stained, and littered with debris. The roof that was once over his head now lays amongst the pews on right. Or least what remains of them after being broken and splintered. It is as if color has been drained from this place.
“Dissolution Numinous.”
He threads lightly as he walks down the aisle.
“March 24th, 2011, new candidate: 57. Former professional wrestler. Drug addict. These roles in life seem to go hand to hand.”
“I must say that I hope in the presence of this place that my words aren’t misconstrued for something they are not.”
All that remains of the stage is a tipped over podium. He stops at the brief set of wooden stairs that lead up to the stage and takes a seat.
“Communication is vital if this relationship is to prosper so I apologize to any that I put in a state of confusion. On the other hand, if one does not listen and understand and all they do is hear, whose fault is it truly?"
The sounds of birds chirping in the overhead rafter filter and echo through the desolate building.
“So when I say that I had discussions with god, let’s not stoke the flames by desecrating religious paraphilia in an attempt to antagonize me. It didn’t exactly work because,” Bel shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t care either way. You see, I heard what was said, I listened to it, and then I understood it. I never spoke with God. While it may be an allusion to faith, the fact of the matter is that…”
Fingers touch forward as if favoring symptoms of a migraine.
“…I spoke with … god.”
He rises to his feet and saunters over to the overturned podium. He kneels down and reaches into the shelf. In a truly cringe inducing visual, Bel apathetically pulls a leather bound book with streamers of spider webs trailing from it.
“And many years ago, before I watched him die, god resided here.”
He blew off the dust and webs of the book.
“When I awoke, that is the first thing that came to mind that through his alleged mysticism, when he foretold this. All of this. What it is, I can’t place my finger on it. That is what people don’t understand and because they don’t understand, they want to deny my place at MY home.”
“57’s history: clean since forced retirement. Says that it is losing battle. Addiction is disease. Good candidate.”
He opens the book and stuck inside the cover page is a small slip of paper that simply reads: Inmate 329092, deceased. He pockets the piece of paper and then flips through the pages. Unfortunately the book is too water damaged and moldy to discern any of the words on its pages. He tosses it aside like garbage.
“Besides a little mix-up here and there, everything that has been said about me has been absolutely true. A man spoke from his lofty perch the other day and like the others … I heard him. I listened to him. Finally, I understood him. He wants to be called out about his choice of lifestyle. Why would I denounce someone who seems so pleased with himself reveling in the shallow side of the pool? We are born and then we die. What we do between those time in between is ultimately of no consequence but to our self. What I mean is that the people you hurt either get over it or they don’t and when you leap off this mortal coil, it doesn’t really matter much anyway because memories always fade.”
He sits back down on the steps. This setting definitely seems subdued compared to the last few.
“Like everyone will eventually, I have died. Unlike everyone, I was born again. There is a purpose and as I may have explained, home is the destination that illuminates that purpose for me to see. What my friend doesn’t seem to comprehend that even when I do not speak, I have said something. If you didn’t hear it, then maybe it wasn’t intended for you. At the end of the day, I have nothing to prove to anyone here. I did not enter this great empire for purses and trinkets as I originally believed. That much has been made clear to me.”
He smirks as he remembers something else that needed to bring up.
“Finally, our great party host has gladly pointed out that he is capable of reading a dossier. I am addicted to heroin. I haven’t shot up in over four years … but …”’
“He is so desperate. So desperate to turn the tide. That is the key.”
“…as any addict knows, you don’t do it because you enjoy it or because it is fun … it’s because at the bottom, it is necessary to continue living. He wants to jest about compulsion, about how easy it is to survive without succumbing to it.”
Bel chuckles and for the first time, he directly addresses the camera and its proposed audience of one.
“This is from addict to addict. You crave recognition, fame, and notoriety and judging by your rented friends that you have obtained none of it. You want to strut around like the cock of the walk, claiming that you fear nothing. You act as if you’re larger than life but in the scheme of things you’re a grain of sand in the desert just like the rest of us. You say that you recognize your flaws but as evidenced by your decadent disposition, you fail to learn by them. You don't understand that what you desire is unobtainable by any means. You can reach the very top and you’ll still hunger for more. What does this mean for you and me, you wonder?”
Again, to his feet, he looks to the exit…
“Instead of doing the honorable deed, all you want to do is take. You want take this away from me and I cannot abide by that. This body has brought me to numerous places, high and low. I would like to predict the result for you, friend. Win or lose, I will have gleaned another piece of the puzzle. Win or lose, you will struggle with the fact that when you die, no one will remember your name.”
The scene fades as he nonchalantly walks down the aisle and out of Dissolution Numinous forever.
“Let’s arrange a family consultation for 57. Let me calm their fears.”