| Welcome to The Pitt. We hope you enjoy your visit. You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free. Join our community! If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| Erica Duke - The Savage Buffalo; Duke v Kijo, Show #6 | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Nov 7 2015, 07:02 PM (26 Views) | |
| Post #1 Nov 7 2015, 07:02 PM | Jon A |
|
It's hard to shed anything but crocodile tears over my colleague Erica Vargas' tragic analysis of her tenure in The Pitt. “It's like Sisyphus,” she said, “I rolled that rock all the way up the mountain... and it rolled right back down on me.” Well, shucks. It makes a dame's eyes damp, for sure. But I have a lot of confidence in Vargas, and I suspect she won't have much trouble finding another rock to roll. I have not read “The Myth of Sisyphus” for a while, but if memory serves there is nothing in that story to indicate that the poor bugger ever gave any thought to the real nature or specific gravity of that rock that would eventually roll back on him—which is understandable, perhaps, because when you're locked into that kind of do-or-die gig, you keep pushing and ask questions later. Neither Sisyphus or Erica Vargas had the time or any real inclination to question what they were doing. Which is admirable in a bizarre way... except that Sisyphus still gets mashed and Vargas will survive in the footnotes of The Pitt as a conceited, half-mad disposable Bond Girl—a martyr, to the bitter end, to narrow, atavistic concept of “pride” that has done more damage to Erica Toughill's pocketbook in two months than student and car loans could have done in a decade. When the cold eye of history looks back on Erica Vargas's run in The Pitt, it will show that she had the same effect as Charles Manson and the Hells Angels had on hippies and flower power. And nobody will And nobody will And nobody will And nobody will And nobody will And nobody will And nobody will [Erica Duke pounds her red electric typewriter in frustration, unable, seemingly to type anything but the same three words in succession. Her locker room in The Pitt has been converted into a heavily fortified bunker; debris and furniture litter the floor. She tears the paper from the cylinder, crumples it up, and tosses it to the floor with all the empty beer cans and grapefruit rinds.] DUKE: Awful gibberish. [She clamps her gold-tipped cigarette holder between her teeth and load another sheet of paper into the typewriter, but sits bolt upright when she hears a loud, percussive...] *BANG!* DUKE: Sweet Jesus! [She springs upright and grabs hold of the cheap desk chair she was sitting on, wielding it like an axe. Duke gulps hard when she sees the full-length mirror along one wall, fractured in a spider-web like fashion for no apparent reason.] [She puts the chair down, and picks up a three-inch black aerosol cylinder from beside the typewriter. Slowly, she removes the wooden chair that has been bracing the dressing room door closed, undoes her self-installed padlock, and unbolts the lock, opened the door with extreme caution.] [The hallway outside is empty except for humming flourescent lights and framed posters of The Pitt's roster. Bug-eyed, Duke pokes her head out and looks both ways down the hallway, and begins loudly uttering threats to no one in particular.] DUKE: All right... Listen up you pigfuckers, you screwheads... I don't know if you're Kijo, or JJ Brine, or Andrea Kristian or that cheap dime-store swindler in a kabuki mask that took out Donovan... Get this through your head, whoreface: the fat is in the fire now! Yessir, today's pig is tomorrow's bacon! You don't scare me, pal! I'm a weapons expert! [She demonstrates by spraying mace into a poster of Andrea Kristian.] DUKE: Nyahhhh! [She takes a step down the hallway and maces a poster of Kijo.] DUKE: Nyahhhh! [She takes another step down the hallway and mistakes an open doorway for a poster and accidentally maces a familiar-looking technician.] DUKE: Nya— RODNEY: AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH! DUKE: —aaahh—oh Jesus... sorry, Rodney. [Rodney clutches his burning face in agony as Duke winces in sympathy.] DUKE: Oh god, this is going to cost me. Never mind, I was looking for an excuse to get him in here anyway. [She guides Rodney into her dressing room and locks the door again.] The journalist returns to her writing, trying to ignore her houseguest who is now shirtless in her compound as he insists on waving his clothing around, trying to wind-wash the Mace out of it. His eyes are bright red and his face and chest are soaked with the beer they had both been using to rinse the awful chemical off his flesh; his body is racked with fits of coughing and wild choking sobs. I would hate for him to fear me, but wouldn't begrudge him if he did. Fear is a healthy instinct, not a sign of weakness. It is a natural self-defense mechanism that is common to felines, wolves, hyenas, and most humans. Even fruit bats know fear, and I salute them for it. If you think the world is weird now, imagine how weird it would be if wild beasts had no fear. But I have not time for imagination now. We still have to finish this twisted saga of Vengeance and Revelation in the Allegheny Loft District. So, what the hell? Let's get after it. Sora Ijin—despite any claims to the contrary—is a dangerous thug who lives every day of her life a as a stalking monument to the notion that a woman with a greed for the desires of her own id should expect no mercy and give none... ...And that is the difference between Kijo and a lot of the merciless geeks she likes to tell strangers she admires: class acts like Pol Pot and Bill Cosby. I suspect that when the great scorer comes to write against Kijo's name, one of the first few lines in the Ledger will note that she probably lacks the courage of her consistently monstrous convictions. There may be more fear and insecurity in that overworked and underslept silver sword of a body than most anyone will be comfortable admitting. I am not wont to disagree with even a criminally insane meat husk on questions of the miasma that surround her soul. But in truth it has not yet struck me that Kijo is either truly insane or a criminal, given the context of wrestling. The wrestling business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good women die like dogs. There's also a negative side. Right. And enough of that foul nonsense for now. My houseguest needs another couple of cold beers: one to injest, and another to salve the mace. Mahalo. - Erica Duke, sports desk. Edited by Jon A, Nov 7 2015, 07:04 PM.
|
![]()
Erica _
|
|
![]() |
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · Archives · Next Topic » |








1:25 AM Jul 11