Post by Dackle on Feb 6, 2018 21:16:16 GMT -5
The camera opens to a vast room, filled with paintings. Two statues are in the far corners of the room. One of the statues is marble, and is missing an arm. The other is of a woman and child holding hands. The high ceilings bounce the light from the fireplace onto the paintings, giving the room a yellowed hue.
In the middle of the room stands Dackle, with his back to the camera. His ring attire is ripped and torn. At his feet is a small pool of blood, gathering mass as red droplets drip from his hand. He turns to reveal himself. A gash is above his right eye, oozing blood along his face. His left arm, with an equal cut, leaks life down his hand, feeding the pool underneath him. He smiles, and begins to speak.
It seems there is a theme in my life. It seems the theme is that things get taken from me. Things I have earned, things I have battled and fought for, get ripped from my fingers.
Dackle walks over to the armless statue.
This statue, this piece of art, it dates back to 47 B.C. I earned this at an auction, where I outbid the Chicago Museum of Art. Lovely, isn’t it? It was built by an artisan in Rome. He spent his whole life to create such a beautiful masterpiece.
Dackle reaches up with his good arm and yanks the statue from it’s pedestal. The statue crashes to the floor, smashing itself to pieces. Dackle smiles. He walks over to a painting on the near wall to the right of the statue.
This painting is an original Rembrandt. Only 17 such pieces exist. This is the epitome of a priceless heirloom, passed down from my family. Rumors among my family say this was stolen from a wealthy Jewish clan at the height of the war. It has been valued at well over six figures.
Dackle grabs the painting and breaks the frame over his knee. He takes the canvas and picks up a piece of the frame. He stabs the painting and rips it apart. What is left of the art is tossed aside, landing in the dust and small debris that was the statue. Dackle walks over to another piece of art. This one is of an aged man in a suit. It is an obvious self portrait.
That brings me to this man. This is my Grandfather. Baron Ludwig Hammerstein. He was my mother’s father, a very wealthy man. He is the one who gave me all of this.
Dackle chuckles to himself.
I know what you’re thinking. He ‘gave’ me all of this. And he did. His will was very generous to me. However, I earned that. Everytime the Baron took me on one of his ‘special’ trips. Every time his hands touched me. Every time he sat me down and told me I would be killed if I ever told on him and shared a secret we had. I earned this. I earned what I have.
Dackle grabs the picture and walks over to the fireplace. He lights the canvas a flame in the roaring embers of the massive stone cavern that held the mini inferno. As the corner of the painting flickers and smoldered, Dackle held it up.
He watched with sick satisfaction as the oils in the piece fed the red and yellow charring destruction. As the face of the Baron was engulfed in flame, the twisted grin on the face of Dackle grew wider, and even more sadistic. Dackle threw the burning painting away, tossing it aside like a magazine that had been read and reread.
Dackle walked uncomfortably close to the camera. The painting behind him had thrown embers against the wall, igniting other pieces of art, hung on the stone walls of the gallery.
I had my title shot taken from me. I worked hard for that shot. It was taken. It was taken just like my career, my family, my dignity, my life, hell, like my humanity. It was all taken from me. Now I have to recompete for something that is rightfully mine. Now I have to re-earn something that should have never left my possession.
The fires behind him have grown more and more intense. Several pieces of art along the walls have now begun to burn. Waves of heat can be seen, distorting the images of the works behind him. The camera begins to back off. Dackle follows it’s retreat.
No more will things be taken from me. I will destroy everything if I have to, but nothing will be taken from me. I have earned what I have, and I will fight to keep it. If you want me to fight in this match, so be it. But I will not lose what is mine. I will not lose what cannot be taken from me.
Suddenly, all of the light vanishes. The room goes from being lit a flame, to complete darkness. Silence is deafening. A sick laugh break through. Light is restored in the room when the fireplace comes back. All of the art, the paintings and statues, are restored, with the exception of one. The painting of the Baron is rehung, but the face is burned beyond recognition.
The camera pans to the paintings that were destroyed to see them in prestine condition. As it pans back, the view falls to the floor, where in blood in the center of the white marbled floor, the phrase, :
“And that, you can take to the bank.”
Is scrawled out. The ;laugh continues as the camera cuts out.
In the middle of the room stands Dackle, with his back to the camera. His ring attire is ripped and torn. At his feet is a small pool of blood, gathering mass as red droplets drip from his hand. He turns to reveal himself. A gash is above his right eye, oozing blood along his face. His left arm, with an equal cut, leaks life down his hand, feeding the pool underneath him. He smiles, and begins to speak.
It seems there is a theme in my life. It seems the theme is that things get taken from me. Things I have earned, things I have battled and fought for, get ripped from my fingers.
Dackle walks over to the armless statue.
This statue, this piece of art, it dates back to 47 B.C. I earned this at an auction, where I outbid the Chicago Museum of Art. Lovely, isn’t it? It was built by an artisan in Rome. He spent his whole life to create such a beautiful masterpiece.
Dackle reaches up with his good arm and yanks the statue from it’s pedestal. The statue crashes to the floor, smashing itself to pieces. Dackle smiles. He walks over to a painting on the near wall to the right of the statue.
This painting is an original Rembrandt. Only 17 such pieces exist. This is the epitome of a priceless heirloom, passed down from my family. Rumors among my family say this was stolen from a wealthy Jewish clan at the height of the war. It has been valued at well over six figures.
Dackle grabs the painting and breaks the frame over his knee. He takes the canvas and picks up a piece of the frame. He stabs the painting and rips it apart. What is left of the art is tossed aside, landing in the dust and small debris that was the statue. Dackle walks over to another piece of art. This one is of an aged man in a suit. It is an obvious self portrait.
That brings me to this man. This is my Grandfather. Baron Ludwig Hammerstein. He was my mother’s father, a very wealthy man. He is the one who gave me all of this.
Dackle chuckles to himself.
I know what you’re thinking. He ‘gave’ me all of this. And he did. His will was very generous to me. However, I earned that. Everytime the Baron took me on one of his ‘special’ trips. Every time his hands touched me. Every time he sat me down and told me I would be killed if I ever told on him and shared a secret we had. I earned this. I earned what I have.
Dackle grabs the picture and walks over to the fireplace. He lights the canvas a flame in the roaring embers of the massive stone cavern that held the mini inferno. As the corner of the painting flickers and smoldered, Dackle held it up.
He watched with sick satisfaction as the oils in the piece fed the red and yellow charring destruction. As the face of the Baron was engulfed in flame, the twisted grin on the face of Dackle grew wider, and even more sadistic. Dackle threw the burning painting away, tossing it aside like a magazine that had been read and reread.
Dackle walked uncomfortably close to the camera. The painting behind him had thrown embers against the wall, igniting other pieces of art, hung on the stone walls of the gallery.
I had my title shot taken from me. I worked hard for that shot. It was taken. It was taken just like my career, my family, my dignity, my life, hell, like my humanity. It was all taken from me. Now I have to recompete for something that is rightfully mine. Now I have to re-earn something that should have never left my possession.
The fires behind him have grown more and more intense. Several pieces of art along the walls have now begun to burn. Waves of heat can be seen, distorting the images of the works behind him. The camera begins to back off. Dackle follows it’s retreat.
No more will things be taken from me. I will destroy everything if I have to, but nothing will be taken from me. I have earned what I have, and I will fight to keep it. If you want me to fight in this match, so be it. But I will not lose what is mine. I will not lose what cannot be taken from me.
Suddenly, all of the light vanishes. The room goes from being lit a flame, to complete darkness. Silence is deafening. A sick laugh break through. Light is restored in the room when the fireplace comes back. All of the art, the paintings and statues, are restored, with the exception of one. The painting of the Baron is rehung, but the face is burned beyond recognition.
The camera pans to the paintings that were destroyed to see them in prestine condition. As it pans back, the view falls to the floor, where in blood in the center of the white marbled floor, the phrase, :
“And that, you can take to the bank.”
Is scrawled out. The ;laugh continues as the camera cuts out.
