Post by Max f'n Daemon on Oct 22, 2022 14:29:44 GMT -5
With a sneer on his face and a glass of alcohol in his hand, Max Daemon steps onto the stage. The cigar in his lips lowers as his scowl deepens. The smoke rises past his narrowed eyes.
He removes the cigar and finishes the glass of whiskey. He tosses the glass to his right, uncaring at the smash that it creates when it hits the stage. In his other hand, he grips the microphone tighter. The sound of feedback across the speakers goes ignored.
He tosses the expensive cigar to his right as well. The flame goes out as it crashes against the wood.
Max crosses his arms and looks at the judges giving him no reaction, which by itself is enough of a reaction for him.
"Fuck everything else.
I wanna fight you
Not just...one of ya'.
All of ya'.
I wanna get off this stage and slap the taste out of your fuckin mouths.
I wanna grab your score sheets and rip 'em half because of how incompetent you're all bein.
You're faced with a once-in-a-lifetime talent well worth the price you pay for 'em. A person willingly givin their time and effort, time also worth more than this fuckin buildin is worth, ta' participate in this jerk-off fest ta' prove who is an arbitrary best.
And when faced with a reality ya' don't like, ya' decide ta' take it personally and give me low scores?
I'm sorry if the idea that settin fuckers straight is so nuanced that it was too fuckin hard for your pea brains ta' comprehend.
But hey, ya' want me ta' make it perfectly clear for ya'?
I can do that."
Max steps forward. He hops off the stage,
He approaches the judges' table. Sauce, Larry, and Theo all refuse to give him any sort of reaction, even as they continue meeting his reddened eyes and baggy eyelids.
"I wanna fight all of three of ya'.
I wanna make ya' rethink your choices, not only in this competition, but also in your life...in your careers.
Unlike most people in this circlejerk, I don't care about money. I don't care about recognition. Hell, I don't give a shit about This is Awesome and certainly don't need any of your supposed recognition or advertisement.
Nah. I'm in this for me. For my lot. For my career.
So I'm sorry if I take it just a smidge more personal when ya' decide that ya' suddenly can't recognize my words.
So I'll make it crystal fuckin clear for ya'. And I don't have ta' imagine what I'm gonna say ta' ya'. Cause I'll say it right now ta' your ugly fuckin faces."
Max slams his hands against their table.
None of them flinch or blink.
"I'm running this competition. Your points are arbitrary because everyone knows that I'm the best. So even if ya' give me low scores...or rank me below 32nd place...or decide that Dionysus or Peter Vaughn are the best people and most likely ta' win...it won't change the fact that I'm the best talker...the best wrestler...the best performer here.
And that's what ya' want, right? A performance? We're not wrestlin in this fuckin thing, right? We're not gonna put a ring on that stage..."
Max uses his hands to gesture to the now empty stage behind him.
"...and duke it out like actual fuckin wrestlers, right? Nah, we're performin like circus monkeys for your amusement. Where's the peanuts then? Or are you just the peanut gallery in name only?
Is this how ya' get your kicks? Watchin people give ya' their life stories or bemoan ta' ya' how they wanna fight people alive but don't have the balls ta' actually do it? Or fight people dead but can't because they lack the means ta' bring 'em back?
Or do ya' just wanna watch people...good, honest, vile, evil...all the like...people of any alignment or jurisdiction tell ya' that their the best? Tell ya' that they're gonna win it all?
How often have ya' heard that? Does that impress ya'? Are ya' happy ta' see people tell ya' the same shit over and over again? Or are ya' lookin for somethin more?"
Max's scowl deepens once more.
"Who the fuck are you three ta' tell me I'm subpar? Ta' tell me I'm not good enough for Dionysus or Peter Vaughn or even Reagan Voorhees, the harlot of hate that she might be?
What the fuck have you three done ta' decide I'm worse than them?
Have ya' won titles? Ooh, how impressive.
Have ya' beaten certain people before? I'm shakin in my fuckin custom Reebok Ex-Oh-Fit Pure Platinum Hi-Daemons shoes.
Or do ya' think you're so emboldened by the response ta' this whole thing that it empowers ya' enough ta' make these calls?
Or...and this is my best guess...ya' think you're worth more than ya' are. That your shit doesn't stink and you're better than all of us.
So why not prove it?
I wanna fight all three of ya'. It can be all at once, I'm not picky. I don't even need a fuckin ring."
Max unzips his hooded jacket. He tosses it aside before turning around. He hops back onto the stage, widening his arms and looking around at the arena they're in.
"I can do it right here. Right now. On this stage. Wouldn't that be fuckin impressive, huh? We don't have ta' imagine any kinda fights. We can start our own.
But just imagine it with me. How would it go?
Would ya' three-on-one me? Would ya' decide ta' be fair and give me a gauntlet? Would ya' schedule an actual match or a fight for later on?"
Max smirks, a soft chuckle releasing from his lips. The absence of any humor is deafening.
"Nah. Ya' won't. You'll just sit there and judge me. Not because ya' can't, but because ya' won't.
And not because you're impartial, nah.
Because you're all a buncha pussies.
So fine. Judge me. Treat me fairly or unfairly, fine.
But there's no need ta' imagine what I'd say ta' the people I'd fight.
Because they're all real.
And none of 'em have the balls ta' fight me anyway."
Max tosses the microphone towards the judges. It crashes against the stage and rolls off, creating another loud thud on the speakers when it hits the floor below.
Max walks off stage, ignoring the clenching fists and tightened lips of the three impartial judges.
He removes the cigar and finishes the glass of whiskey. He tosses the glass to his right, uncaring at the smash that it creates when it hits the stage. In his other hand, he grips the microphone tighter. The sound of feedback across the speakers goes ignored.
He tosses the expensive cigar to his right as well. The flame goes out as it crashes against the wood.
Max crosses his arms and looks at the judges giving him no reaction, which by itself is enough of a reaction for him.
"Fuck everything else.
I wanna fight you
Not just...one of ya'.
All of ya'.
I wanna get off this stage and slap the taste out of your fuckin mouths.
I wanna grab your score sheets and rip 'em half because of how incompetent you're all bein.
You're faced with a once-in-a-lifetime talent well worth the price you pay for 'em. A person willingly givin their time and effort, time also worth more than this fuckin buildin is worth, ta' participate in this jerk-off fest ta' prove who is an arbitrary best.
And when faced with a reality ya' don't like, ya' decide ta' take it personally and give me low scores?
I'm sorry if the idea that settin fuckers straight is so nuanced that it was too fuckin hard for your pea brains ta' comprehend.
But hey, ya' want me ta' make it perfectly clear for ya'?
I can do that."
Max steps forward. He hops off the stage,
He approaches the judges' table. Sauce, Larry, and Theo all refuse to give him any sort of reaction, even as they continue meeting his reddened eyes and baggy eyelids.
"I wanna fight all of three of ya'.
I wanna make ya' rethink your choices, not only in this competition, but also in your life...in your careers.
Unlike most people in this circlejerk, I don't care about money. I don't care about recognition. Hell, I don't give a shit about This is Awesome and certainly don't need any of your supposed recognition or advertisement.
Nah. I'm in this for me. For my lot. For my career.
So I'm sorry if I take it just a smidge more personal when ya' decide that ya' suddenly can't recognize my words.
So I'll make it crystal fuckin clear for ya'. And I don't have ta' imagine what I'm gonna say ta' ya'. Cause I'll say it right now ta' your ugly fuckin faces."
Max slams his hands against their table.
None of them flinch or blink.
"I'm running this competition. Your points are arbitrary because everyone knows that I'm the best. So even if ya' give me low scores...or rank me below 32nd place...or decide that Dionysus or Peter Vaughn are the best people and most likely ta' win...it won't change the fact that I'm the best talker...the best wrestler...the best performer here.
And that's what ya' want, right? A performance? We're not wrestlin in this fuckin thing, right? We're not gonna put a ring on that stage..."
Max uses his hands to gesture to the now empty stage behind him.
"...and duke it out like actual fuckin wrestlers, right? Nah, we're performin like circus monkeys for your amusement. Where's the peanuts then? Or are you just the peanut gallery in name only?
Is this how ya' get your kicks? Watchin people give ya' their life stories or bemoan ta' ya' how they wanna fight people alive but don't have the balls ta' actually do it? Or fight people dead but can't because they lack the means ta' bring 'em back?
Or do ya' just wanna watch people...good, honest, vile, evil...all the like...people of any alignment or jurisdiction tell ya' that their the best? Tell ya' that they're gonna win it all?
How often have ya' heard that? Does that impress ya'? Are ya' happy ta' see people tell ya' the same shit over and over again? Or are ya' lookin for somethin more?"
Max's scowl deepens once more.
"Who the fuck are you three ta' tell me I'm subpar? Ta' tell me I'm not good enough for Dionysus or Peter Vaughn or even Reagan Voorhees, the harlot of hate that she might be?
What the fuck have you three done ta' decide I'm worse than them?
Have ya' won titles? Ooh, how impressive.
Have ya' beaten certain people before? I'm shakin in my fuckin custom Reebok Ex-Oh-Fit Pure Platinum Hi-Daemons shoes.
Or do ya' think you're so emboldened by the response ta' this whole thing that it empowers ya' enough ta' make these calls?
Or...and this is my best guess...ya' think you're worth more than ya' are. That your shit doesn't stink and you're better than all of us.
So why not prove it?
I wanna fight all three of ya'. It can be all at once, I'm not picky. I don't even need a fuckin ring."
Max unzips his hooded jacket. He tosses it aside before turning around. He hops back onto the stage, widening his arms and looking around at the arena they're in.
"I can do it right here. Right now. On this stage. Wouldn't that be fuckin impressive, huh? We don't have ta' imagine any kinda fights. We can start our own.
But just imagine it with me. How would it go?
Would ya' three-on-one me? Would ya' decide ta' be fair and give me a gauntlet? Would ya' schedule an actual match or a fight for later on?"
Max smirks, a soft chuckle releasing from his lips. The absence of any humor is deafening.
"Nah. Ya' won't. You'll just sit there and judge me. Not because ya' can't, but because ya' won't.
And not because you're impartial, nah.
Because you're all a buncha pussies.
So fine. Judge me. Treat me fairly or unfairly, fine.
But there's no need ta' imagine what I'd say ta' the people I'd fight.
Because they're all real.
And none of 'em have the balls ta' fight me anyway."
Max tosses the microphone towards the judges. It crashes against the stage and rolls off, creating another loud thud on the speakers when it hits the floor below.
Max walks off stage, ignoring the clenching fists and tightened lips of the three impartial judges.