Sound and Fury
Posted: Mon Oct 15, 2018 7:38 am
((Quincy Archer continued from Battle of Epic Proportions))
((Warren Pace continued from A View to a Kill))
It had been a while since the Barracks had seen human contact, but that would soon change. The first person to revisit the place was none other than one Quincy Archer, esquire, who had been struck with indecision as to his next destination until Danya's announcement revealed the newly-christened safety of the barracks, which by coincidence he found himself next to. After his company with Margaret, which ended in their separation, he found himself desiring a few minutes of personal time before he was forced to interact with his 'peers'.
The first thing brought to his attention was the fact that one of the buildings appeared to have suffered serious fire damage. Quincy whistled at the havoc his fellow students had managed to inflict. Of course, it was only to be expected when powerful weapons were given to drooling mongoloids.
The second incongruous detail was the large patch of blood and flesh that dominated the outside area near the burnt building. It amazed him how artificial it looked compared to what he had seen of bloodshed online. No, he realized, this was more realistic than what he'd seen in the movie or indeed, anything he didn't witness up close. It reminded him of the audience's expectations to hear sound transmitted through the vacuum of space, highly exaggerated gunfire, and horse gallops that sound like coconuts being banged together.
"Things that try to look like things often look more like things than things," he quoted, then chuckled madly. He'd done his best to look past the conventions of fiction and critique things based on actual facts of life, but he'd slipped and forgotten himself with the sight of real bodies. Not even witnessing the first SOTF series had accomplished this, as anyone who'd read his blog could testify.
A close examination revealed, well, nothing. By this time the area contained little more than bits of maggot food, barely recognizable as human flesh, and little shreds of fabric from the unlucky victims' clothes, and Quincy couldn't see how he could possibly determine anything from those.
Then he realized that he didn't need to. The first announcement that he heard on the island had told him the whole story.
Ivye Dewley was the punchline to a great many of Quincy's joke back at Southridge. While Quincy was not unsympathetic to goth culture, being a modest fan of My Chemical Romance himself, he couldn't help but laugh at those who took it too far, and no one did that better than the ludicrously named Ivye. With a name and complexion like that, he supposed that she couldn't help but be pigeonholed as a goth, but Quincy drew the line at actual delusions to vampirism. He'd heard it one day and had persisted in helping a great deal more students find out about her, and why not? Even Quincy himself was capable of discerning fact from fiction! It perturbed him to know that there were worse people out in the world, and one going to his own school to boot.
Compared to Ivye, Gabriel Theobaldt was almost normal. Oh, sure, there was the matter of the whole reclusive jackass thing, but Quincy never saw anything wrong with that. He'd actually missed the old Gabriel when the latter began to socialize more. Sellout. Quincy had called him out on it, and began to worry when Gabriel didn't relapse and beat his scrawny little arse into the ground, an act which he was more than capable of. Then again, Quincy knew nothing about Gabe's time on the island. For all he knew, the kid could have gone mad and reverted back to his old self.
Not that it mattered now. Both him and the Queen of the Night had met their ends at the hands of Adam Dodd. Boy was Quincy stunned when one of his favourite 'fictional characters' transferred to Southridge. It gave him the incentive to look up SOTF again, and from the looks of things, his entire class had been caught in the crossfire of Danya's grudge against the boy.
"So this is what you do for a living, watch kids blow themselves up," he commented, feeling the aroma of death and decay force its way down his nose. "You must be a riot at parties."
He turned to leave, but stopped when he felt his bladder swell to uncomfortable proportions. Come to think of it, he hadn't really stopped to take care of business since he came to in the quarry. Oh well. Might as well do it now.
As he unzipped his pants and pulled out his penis, Quincy looked at the blood-patch and raised an eyebrow. It would be funny if he aimed his golden shower at the center of the circle of gore, but no. Someone might see him and take offense, and if that someone had a gun, well, Quincy would be concerned with other bodily fluids of his. So he aimed at the burnt building instead, whistling at the impressive distance he managed to make. After several seconds, the stream ebbed to nothing and Quincy zipped himself back up. "Ain't nothing like getting out what you've gotta get out," he commented.
He was about to move into one of the more intact buildings in the area when he noticed a familiar face standing ten feet in front of him. Said face had come to the barracks as a part of S.A.D.D., and was busy marveling at the fact that somehow, he had beaten track superstar Dorian Muriaru to the site when he came across his old friend's eerie lack of shock at the meat puddle he was examining. He'd watched, mouth agape, as Quincy relieved himself in the presence of the dead. Now the two of them stared at each other, unsure of what to do next, until Quincy decided to break the ice.
"Hullo, Warren. Did you enjoy watching me pee?"
----
[font=Courier]SOUND AND FURY REVIEWS SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
Normally I prefer not to pay attention to the fetid gossip that flows around me in my everyday life, if only to prevent myself from inhaling lethal amounts of carbon monoxide in the evening, but one item in particular has been pressed rudely into my face by you, the readers, who assume that a program like this would appeal to my deepest interests. Indeed, the combination of violence and the brutal punishment of retarded teenagers is what piqued my curiosity and caused me to finally take the plunge into your interests.
For those of you who live in remote areas without any connection to the internet (and apparently have some other way of reading my work), Survival of the Fittest is a massive television program involving 120 students who have been kidnapped by European terrorists and forced to kill each other. And that's exactly what you get if you watch this program.
What sets SOTF apart is that a comprehensive viral marketing scheme concocted in order to get the audience to believe that the events on camera are really happening. Before you send me hate mail chastising me for insensitivity to the deaths of the contestants, let me assure you that I went into this series fully open to the possibility that it was nonfictional. Indeed, most of the program fits in well with this assumption. All footage is filmed from strategically placed cameras around the island' and reminds me of The Blair Witch Project; some of these cameras are even destroyed' at certain times by clumsy or enraged students. Unfortunately, there is one area in which my suspension of disbelief was snapped in half with sickening crack, as if it were made of bone, and that is in the character acting.
Characterization is wildly inconsistent, as though the program was written by a writing staff of dozens who barely even bothered to collaborate before submitting their patchwork script. For every deep character like Adam Dodd, you find about five shallow stocks from the Friday the 13th series whose sole purpose is to engage in meaningless dialogue and wait for the nearest Jason to gruesomely murder them. Creative deaths abound, which would be more of a benefit if realism wasn't supposedly a priority. One boy attempted to swim off the island, only to be diced to chum by the propellers of patrolling boats; a girl was blown out of the island's outhouse by a grenade, her mangled and broken body flying an unbelievably long distance before hitting the ground at last; and another boy was repeatedly run over by a car near the end of the game. I'm serious! Not one, but TWO cars, apparently with full gas tanks, are found and, in a sequence that could have been directed by Michael Bay, engage in a chase across the island, crash into a warehouse, and blow it to the Mushroom Kingdom.
Another even more convincing blow to the program's credibility is the characters' surprising vulnerability (or resistance) to physical trauma. Nowhere is the latter more prominent than with the character of Jacob Starr, one of the early game antagonists, who is burned, shot, stabbed, and beaten and never seems to treat these injuries as more than a scratch. My eyes nearly rolled right out of my head when he was shot by an arrow in the shoulder and was still able to move it despite the fact that it should be ripping up his shoulder joint when jostled. (Incidentally, this happens with every arrow wound in the series. Clearly the writing staff did not do the research.) Fortunately, Jacob is prevented from ruining the series by an astounding improvement on the part of the writing staff, and becomes more sympathetic and well-rounded by the time Adam Dodd slits his throat (upon which he hits the other end of the durability scale and takes maybe ten seconds to bleed out).
Fortunately, there was one portion of the story that truly excelled. The story of Adam Dodd, whom I've already mentioned, focuses on the complete destruction of his optimism and hope, warping him into a shell-shocked survivor who seems to be as much of a feral animal as a human. Adam's performance, as well as that of his supporting characters (especially Hawley Faust), really bring this particular story arc to life, and made me forget that I was essentially watching a massively multiplayer slasher flick.
The final straw came for me when, as Adam was just about to have his final confrontation with his nemesis, Cody Jenson (who had also found a motorcycle on the island prior to the finale. Don't ask.), the cameras cut out due to 'technical difficulties' and the series ended. Consider it the final 'up yours' from the creators to the audience. A sequel series is currently running, but I won't be seeing it under any circumstances because of my lack of confidence that the first season's problems will be resolved in any way.
SOTF could have been a work of art if only the editors had cut out the ancillary bullshit storylines and the pretention of being nonfictional and focused entirely on Adam Dodd's battered humanity. As it stands, it serves to fill only a specific niche, that of diehard Jason and Freddy fans who don't mind feeling ashamed of themselves for watching blood-and-guts porn. Massive condemnation of this series has arisen from nearly every media outlet in the country, not to mention some outside the country, and I feel obligated to join them. The anonymous producers of the show took what could have been a cultural milestone and sabotaged it to add shock value and exploitation, resulting in a condescending, intelligence-insulting mess. If this is Art, it is the new kind that sacrifices meaning for the chance to offend the audience. View at your own risk.
Yours Sincerely,
The Late Arthur Aldridge[/font]
((Warren Pace continued from A View to a Kill))
It had been a while since the Barracks had seen human contact, but that would soon change. The first person to revisit the place was none other than one Quincy Archer, esquire, who had been struck with indecision as to his next destination until Danya's announcement revealed the newly-christened safety of the barracks, which by coincidence he found himself next to. After his company with Margaret, which ended in their separation, he found himself desiring a few minutes of personal time before he was forced to interact with his 'peers'.
The first thing brought to his attention was the fact that one of the buildings appeared to have suffered serious fire damage. Quincy whistled at the havoc his fellow students had managed to inflict. Of course, it was only to be expected when powerful weapons were given to drooling mongoloids.
The second incongruous detail was the large patch of blood and flesh that dominated the outside area near the burnt building. It amazed him how artificial it looked compared to what he had seen of bloodshed online. No, he realized, this was more realistic than what he'd seen in the movie or indeed, anything he didn't witness up close. It reminded him of the audience's expectations to hear sound transmitted through the vacuum of space, highly exaggerated gunfire, and horse gallops that sound like coconuts being banged together.
"Things that try to look like things often look more like things than things," he quoted, then chuckled madly. He'd done his best to look past the conventions of fiction and critique things based on actual facts of life, but he'd slipped and forgotten himself with the sight of real bodies. Not even witnessing the first SOTF series had accomplished this, as anyone who'd read his blog could testify.
A close examination revealed, well, nothing. By this time the area contained little more than bits of maggot food, barely recognizable as human flesh, and little shreds of fabric from the unlucky victims' clothes, and Quincy couldn't see how he could possibly determine anything from those.
Then he realized that he didn't need to. The first announcement that he heard on the island had told him the whole story.
Ivye Dewley was the punchline to a great many of Quincy's joke back at Southridge. While Quincy was not unsympathetic to goth culture, being a modest fan of My Chemical Romance himself, he couldn't help but laugh at those who took it too far, and no one did that better than the ludicrously named Ivye. With a name and complexion like that, he supposed that she couldn't help but be pigeonholed as a goth, but Quincy drew the line at actual delusions to vampirism. He'd heard it one day and had persisted in helping a great deal more students find out about her, and why not? Even Quincy himself was capable of discerning fact from fiction! It perturbed him to know that there were worse people out in the world, and one going to his own school to boot.
Compared to Ivye, Gabriel Theobaldt was almost normal. Oh, sure, there was the matter of the whole reclusive jackass thing, but Quincy never saw anything wrong with that. He'd actually missed the old Gabriel when the latter began to socialize more. Sellout. Quincy had called him out on it, and began to worry when Gabriel didn't relapse and beat his scrawny little arse into the ground, an act which he was more than capable of. Then again, Quincy knew nothing about Gabe's time on the island. For all he knew, the kid could have gone mad and reverted back to his old self.
Not that it mattered now. Both him and the Queen of the Night had met their ends at the hands of Adam Dodd. Boy was Quincy stunned when one of his favourite 'fictional characters' transferred to Southridge. It gave him the incentive to look up SOTF again, and from the looks of things, his entire class had been caught in the crossfire of Danya's grudge against the boy.
"So this is what you do for a living, watch kids blow themselves up," he commented, feeling the aroma of death and decay force its way down his nose. "You must be a riot at parties."
He turned to leave, but stopped when he felt his bladder swell to uncomfortable proportions. Come to think of it, he hadn't really stopped to take care of business since he came to in the quarry. Oh well. Might as well do it now.
As he unzipped his pants and pulled out his penis, Quincy looked at the blood-patch and raised an eyebrow. It would be funny if he aimed his golden shower at the center of the circle of gore, but no. Someone might see him and take offense, and if that someone had a gun, well, Quincy would be concerned with other bodily fluids of his. So he aimed at the burnt building instead, whistling at the impressive distance he managed to make. After several seconds, the stream ebbed to nothing and Quincy zipped himself back up. "Ain't nothing like getting out what you've gotta get out," he commented.
He was about to move into one of the more intact buildings in the area when he noticed a familiar face standing ten feet in front of him. Said face had come to the barracks as a part of S.A.D.D., and was busy marveling at the fact that somehow, he had beaten track superstar Dorian Muriaru to the site when he came across his old friend's eerie lack of shock at the meat puddle he was examining. He'd watched, mouth agape, as Quincy relieved himself in the presence of the dead. Now the two of them stared at each other, unsure of what to do next, until Quincy decided to break the ice.
"Hullo, Warren. Did you enjoy watching me pee?"
----
[font=Courier]SOUND AND FURY REVIEWS SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
Normally I prefer not to pay attention to the fetid gossip that flows around me in my everyday life, if only to prevent myself from inhaling lethal amounts of carbon monoxide in the evening, but one item in particular has been pressed rudely into my face by you, the readers, who assume that a program like this would appeal to my deepest interests. Indeed, the combination of violence and the brutal punishment of retarded teenagers is what piqued my curiosity and caused me to finally take the plunge into your interests.
For those of you who live in remote areas without any connection to the internet (and apparently have some other way of reading my work), Survival of the Fittest is a massive television program involving 120 students who have been kidnapped by European terrorists and forced to kill each other. And that's exactly what you get if you watch this program.
What sets SOTF apart is that a comprehensive viral marketing scheme concocted in order to get the audience to believe that the events on camera are really happening. Before you send me hate mail chastising me for insensitivity to the deaths of the contestants, let me assure you that I went into this series fully open to the possibility that it was nonfictional. Indeed, most of the program fits in well with this assumption. All footage is filmed from strategically placed cameras around the island' and reminds me of The Blair Witch Project; some of these cameras are even destroyed' at certain times by clumsy or enraged students. Unfortunately, there is one area in which my suspension of disbelief was snapped in half with sickening crack, as if it were made of bone, and that is in the character acting.
Characterization is wildly inconsistent, as though the program was written by a writing staff of dozens who barely even bothered to collaborate before submitting their patchwork script. For every deep character like Adam Dodd, you find about five shallow stocks from the Friday the 13th series whose sole purpose is to engage in meaningless dialogue and wait for the nearest Jason to gruesomely murder them. Creative deaths abound, which would be more of a benefit if realism wasn't supposedly a priority. One boy attempted to swim off the island, only to be diced to chum by the propellers of patrolling boats; a girl was blown out of the island's outhouse by a grenade, her mangled and broken body flying an unbelievably long distance before hitting the ground at last; and another boy was repeatedly run over by a car near the end of the game. I'm serious! Not one, but TWO cars, apparently with full gas tanks, are found and, in a sequence that could have been directed by Michael Bay, engage in a chase across the island, crash into a warehouse, and blow it to the Mushroom Kingdom.
Another even more convincing blow to the program's credibility is the characters' surprising vulnerability (or resistance) to physical trauma. Nowhere is the latter more prominent than with the character of Jacob Starr, one of the early game antagonists, who is burned, shot, stabbed, and beaten and never seems to treat these injuries as more than a scratch. My eyes nearly rolled right out of my head when he was shot by an arrow in the shoulder and was still able to move it despite the fact that it should be ripping up his shoulder joint when jostled. (Incidentally, this happens with every arrow wound in the series. Clearly the writing staff did not do the research.) Fortunately, Jacob is prevented from ruining the series by an astounding improvement on the part of the writing staff, and becomes more sympathetic and well-rounded by the time Adam Dodd slits his throat (upon which he hits the other end of the durability scale and takes maybe ten seconds to bleed out).
Fortunately, there was one portion of the story that truly excelled. The story of Adam Dodd, whom I've already mentioned, focuses on the complete destruction of his optimism and hope, warping him into a shell-shocked survivor who seems to be as much of a feral animal as a human. Adam's performance, as well as that of his supporting characters (especially Hawley Faust), really bring this particular story arc to life, and made me forget that I was essentially watching a massively multiplayer slasher flick.
The final straw came for me when, as Adam was just about to have his final confrontation with his nemesis, Cody Jenson (who had also found a motorcycle on the island prior to the finale. Don't ask.), the cameras cut out due to 'technical difficulties' and the series ended. Consider it the final 'up yours' from the creators to the audience. A sequel series is currently running, but I won't be seeing it under any circumstances because of my lack of confidence that the first season's problems will be resolved in any way.
SOTF could have been a work of art if only the editors had cut out the ancillary bullshit storylines and the pretention of being nonfictional and focused entirely on Adam Dodd's battered humanity. As it stands, it serves to fill only a specific niche, that of diehard Jason and Freddy fans who don't mind feeling ashamed of themselves for watching blood-and-guts porn. Massive condemnation of this series has arisen from nearly every media outlet in the country, not to mention some outside the country, and I feel obligated to join them. The anonymous producers of the show took what could have been a cultural milestone and sabotaged it to add shock value and exploitation, resulting in a condescending, intelligence-insulting mess. If this is Art, it is the new kind that sacrifices meaning for the chance to offend the audience. View at your own risk.
Yours Sincerely,
The Late Arthur Aldridge[/font]
