The Mystery Man

[The scene cuts in on a brick wall. As the camera zooms off of that particular spot, it is noticeable that the faux-wood covering has broken off here, leaving what lies underneath bare to the eye. The only light in the cramped room comes from a dingy light bulb hanging by a lone chain. The camera smoothly pans away from it, showing instead an ancient TV with a blank countenance. A dirty sock drapes over one corner of it, and it is accompanied by an empty vodka bottle. Its screen curtly flashes on and the local news appears, as if some unseen entity had a whimsical urge to channel-surf.]

"... Is that the man's stomach and chest cavities were hollowed out, and gasoline was poured into his stomach, and he was set ablaze. The gruesome murder was discovered about an hour after it occurred by another occupant of the same apartment house. The discoverer of the body claims that above the dead man's head the words "Checkmate" were written in blood. This heinous crime is now undergoing extreme investigation..."

[From behind the lens, a small chuckle emanates. The camera sweeps effortlessly to the right and eventually comes to rest focusing on an ashtray. A fuming cigarette burns in it, until the stick is picked up by a black-gloved hand. The subject, wearing his Oakleys despite the impending darkness around him, sits in a ratty old armchair and holds a half-full [or half-empty, if you're a pessimist] bottle of bourbon in his free fist. Slowly, he brings the cigarette to his mouth and takes an almost triumphant pull on it. He breathes out the smoke with a mocking, cynical smile on his young-yet-worn face.]

"Ah, it's been a while since I've wreaked that kind of havoc... I'd say I'm about due, wouldn't you?"

"Things never cease to amaze me around these parts. I thought Wannabe couldn't possibly go any lower. Well, every time I think I've hit bottom, somebody throws me a shovel.Every time I read something he says it seems to be all drama, I'm not sure whether this is professional wrestling or f*cking "Days of Our Lives". Christ, quit being such a drama queen. I have to face you this Monday, but I have the upper hand...I know who I am... do you?, precisely, I didn't think so, see I have the upper hand Wannabe I always do, It is a shame for you but great for me. I don't need to beat you, because you're beating yourself. Does that make sense? Of course not. I can't expect you to understand. The cognoscenti must lower their standards when facing the bourgeoisie. My point, greatly dumbed down, is that you're practically suicidal. You're killing yourself with your own words. You couldn't have been content to shut up and pay me the reverance someone of my merit warrants. No, just go running your pie-hole at random. Don't take the time to think things over before they come out. Just keep gabbing to no end like the mindless automaton that you are. It makes the ordeal all the more easier for me."

[He lofts the bourbon bottle to his lips and takes in a large swig of the fluid inside. He grimaces for a moment as the liquor goes down, but then resumes his normal, annoyingly complacent expression.]

"That's what you do, isn't it? Paint your foe as the Great Satan, the enemy to all mankind. Try to appeal to the little man by whispering in their collective ear, force-feeding them your bitter falsehoods. Rally the white-trash populace behind you, hoping against hope to start a new revolution. But guess what, Wannabe? That'll never happen. Why? Because a mob mentality will never win out. You and your contemptible allies can have the entire f*cking planet for all I care, because we'll always be there regardless. We're the ones you don't know about. We're the ones you see out of the corner of your eye in a dark room. We've been here forever, and we'll be here forever. The Inquisition... Waco... Khmer Rouge... those events, among others, are what keep us here. As long as there is misery and filth like you on this crazy blue marble, none of us can rest. Compared to the aforementioned occurrences, you're not such a big screaming deal... but the rebellion against ignorance has to start somewhere. I HAVE to down you, Anthony, for the good of everyone. I don't enjoy doing it - well, correction, I do enjoy doing it - but the Creator's decree must be carried out in all facets and at all costs. Seize the day while you still can, child. Tonight, for the sake of mankind... I'm gonna rock your world."

Hmm. [He reaches for the remote and turns the TV off. Then, there is a knock at the door, and a thickly-accented voice calls out, "Hello? Anybody there?". Our protagonist, sensing a chance at hand, slinks down in his seat. The worn-out door creaks open, and the maid enters the room. She, a middle-aged Indian woman, pulls her cart in behind her and slams the door. She notices the dingy, yet radiant light bulb in the seemingly empty room and trudges over to turn it off. The predator senses opportunity, and, in one motion, grabs and yanks the easy chair's lever. The foot-rest flies out and the headrest jerks back, slamming into the hapless maid. She stumbles backwards, trips over her own two feet, and crashes forcefully into the closed door. Then, a penetrating scream rings out through the small hotel abode, and a river of blood starts to flow down the doorframe. As the camera purveys the scene closer, it becomes gruesomely evident that the wretched soul has impaled her right eye on a coathook. She flails wildly, her appendages waving in haphazard manners, like a gasping fish out of water. As more and more piercing wails come out of her mouth, our subject gives a small sigh, pushes the lever back down to its original position, and stands up. He walks plaintively over to her, as if this is the most normal thing in the world, and stares at the horrific scene with a steadfast, almost frighteningly casual gaze. Then, giving a small "tsk-tsk", he pulls a small black object from his slacks pocket. With a small click, the blade pops out of the knife's handle. He reaches in front of the poor creature and ends her misery with a quick slash across the trachea. Her struggling ceases at once, and even more blood proceeds to gush out onto the dirty hardwood floor. He places his index finger in front of the stream pouring from her throat and writes "CARPE DIEM" on the wall beside her corpse. With all being said and done, he opens the door and walks out of the room. The camera gets one last shot of the carnage and leisurely pans to the sanguine message next to the body. With those words being thorougly inscribed into their viewers' minds, the scene then abruptly cuts off.]

"Sure, I'm crazy. But that used to mean something. Now, everyone's crazy." - Charles Manson