Post by wwjbcd on Oct 9, 2014 2:34:30 GMT
The Prince speaks speaks speaks speaks. He blasphemes he slanders he ridicules. He utters taboo words mortal men dare not repeat. The Prince is a man among men, a brazen egotist, a higher-level enemy full of chutzpah/gall/audacity. Much like (Devin) KONSTANTINE, a patronizingCONDESCENDING man with delusions\illusions\allusions of grandiose grandeur. We all saw him triumph at Sunday
Shame shame, we know your name, Prince Abdulla Assad!
A wide shot of a white building. A scene switch to inside with a tight shot moving down a sterile corridor. Moans. Shrieks. Giggles. Thuds. Slaps. Reinforced doors. Small sliding doors reveal bars but no window. A sparsely-furnished room. A disturbing surprise.
The sudden appearance of The Portland Madman, his head popping up into view from inside the room.
"Well, I hope yer happy, Prince Abdulla Assad! LOOK where I am now! LOOK!! Ya rallied - ya RALLIED! - ta get me committed, and ya got yer wish! ANYTHING ta not have ta get into th' ring with ol' Maxie, huh? Some man YOU are, 'Prince'!"
He sneers at the name of his new mortal enemy.
"Because you knowwww that if I weren't in here, man, you'd be in for a WORLD! OF! HURT!"
Each exclamation representing a headbutt into the bars. Several more conjure up ruby life-water, streaming down his face. Any of the precious fluid that cross his lips he takes in. Ah, satisfying, the flavour. Aged to perfection.
"You knowwww that me being in here and not able ta compete against you means you got all time in the world ta badmouth this country. This country gave birth ta ME, birth ta YOU, birth ta ALL United States of Americans! Ya get ta badmouth a country that ALLOWS ya the privilege ta do so! Freedom of speech, kids, freedom of speech! Me, I prefer freedom of... EXPRESSION myself!"
He grabs a tight hold of the bars and reels back, screaming bloody murder.
The screaming subsides, and he slumps back to his original position.
"But I'd much prefer EXPRESSING myself over your limp carcass! BOY I wish I could do that. I WISH I could do that, but..."
He gaze slowly turns downward so he can look down at the door.
"I'm stuck in HERE, now AIN'T I? A madman gets locked up for th' betterment of Mankind, right? A violent psychopath is taken out of th' public eye where th' ONLY one they can hurt is themselves, RIGHT? This place's for criminally insane nutjobs that'll NEVER see the light of th' outside world EVER again, they're that dangerous."
Maxwell closes his eyes and inhales deeply.
"Lunatics deserve this fate, this destiny, this FUTURE... BUT! I! CAN'T! STAAAAAND! IT!!!"
Maxwell grabs a hold of the small bars on the small window of the door and rocks back and forth. He's clearly getting stir-crazy, stressed out, LOSING IT.
But then, he just shrugs and opens the door, pushing it wide open and with enough force to cause it to hit the adjacent wall.
"But I can walk out any time I want - any TIME I WANT... because I'M perfectly sane, and brother, your little mistake's gonna cost ya DEARLY!"
He points right at the camera, eyes wide and Cheshire grin in full effect on his hairy greasy mug.
"An' hey, I ain't the kinda guy ta get all li-TI-gious on a fella, NO, I like ta settle scores the ol' fashioned way: with so much blood, that ya can't get up! The Prince is dead: long live the KING... of the ring! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HAHAHAHAHA HAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
His lunatic laughter echoes through the halls of the psych ward, and those echos are met with laughters coming from other cells. A cacophony of laughter. Orderlies rush in with sedatives. Maxwell basks in the madness, arms outstretched. He tilts his head upwards, looking down at the camera with wild eyes. Heavy breathing. Loudness. Loudness.
Then, a sudden cutting of the feed.
Night Combat,
using a weapon, a foreign object, quite literally. The flag of Egypt. Wait. No, wait. A weapon? A foreign object?
using a weapon, a foreign object, quite literally. The flag of Egypt. Wait. No, wait. A weapon? A foreign object?
Fool. Fool fool fool fool fool fool FOOL! Speaking of taking what is not his to use...
Shame shame, we know your name, Prince Abdulla Assad!
A wide shot of a white building. A scene switch to inside with a tight shot moving down a sterile corridor. Moans. Shrieks. Giggles. Thuds. Slaps. Reinforced doors. Small sliding doors reveal bars but no window. A sparsely-furnished room. A disturbing surprise.
The sudden appearance of The Portland Madman, his head popping up into view from inside the room.
"Well, I hope yer happy, Prince Abdulla Assad! LOOK where I am now! LOOK!! Ya rallied - ya RALLIED! - ta get me committed, and ya got yer wish! ANYTHING ta not have ta get into th' ring with ol' Maxie, huh? Some man YOU are, 'Prince'!"
He sneers at the name of his new mortal enemy.
"Because you knowwww that if I weren't in here, man, you'd be in for a WORLD! OF! HURT!"
Each exclamation representing a headbutt into the bars. Several more conjure up ruby life-water, streaming down his face. Any of the precious fluid that cross his lips he takes in. Ah, satisfying, the flavour. Aged to perfection.
"You knowwww that me being in here and not able ta compete against you means you got all time in the world ta badmouth this country. This country gave birth ta ME, birth ta YOU, birth ta ALL United States of Americans! Ya get ta badmouth a country that ALLOWS ya the privilege ta do so! Freedom of speech, kids, freedom of speech! Me, I prefer freedom of... EXPRESSION myself!"
He grabs a tight hold of the bars and reels back, screaming bloody murder.
The screaming subsides, and he slumps back to his original position.
"But I'd much prefer EXPRESSING myself over your limp carcass! BOY I wish I could do that. I WISH I could do that, but..."
He gaze slowly turns downward so he can look down at the door.
"I'm stuck in HERE, now AIN'T I? A madman gets locked up for th' betterment of Mankind, right? A violent psychopath is taken out of th' public eye where th' ONLY one they can hurt is themselves, RIGHT? This place's for criminally insane nutjobs that'll NEVER see the light of th' outside world EVER again, they're that dangerous."
Maxwell closes his eyes and inhales deeply.
"Lunatics deserve this fate, this destiny, this FUTURE... BUT! I! CAN'T! STAAAAAND! IT!!!"
Maxwell grabs a hold of the small bars on the small window of the door and rocks back and forth. He's clearly getting stir-crazy, stressed out, LOSING IT.
But then, he just shrugs and opens the door, pushing it wide open and with enough force to cause it to hit the adjacent wall.
"But I can walk out any time I want - any TIME I WANT... because I'M perfectly sane, and brother, your little mistake's gonna cost ya DEARLY!"
He points right at the camera, eyes wide and Cheshire grin in full effect on his hairy greasy mug.
"An' hey, I ain't the kinda guy ta get all li-TI-gious on a fella, NO, I like ta settle scores the ol' fashioned way: with so much blood, that ya can't get up! The Prince is dead: long live the KING... of the ring! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HAHAHAHAHA HAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
His lunatic laughter echoes through the halls of the psych ward, and those echos are met with laughters coming from other cells. A cacophony of laughter. Orderlies rush in with sedatives. Maxwell basks in the madness, arms outstretched. He tilts his head upwards, looking down at the camera with wild eyes. Heavy breathing. Loudness. Loudness.
Then, a sudden cutting of the feed.
THE
END.
so quickly so sad!
