A Treatise on Mass Production (Infamy)

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A Treatise on Mass Production (Infamy)

Post  Steven Rausch on Tue Jul 04, 2017 7:52 pm

The lights in the arena cut suddenly to black as the CarnageTron comes to life. Its massive screen portrays a scene shot somewhere in the dark halls of the arena's basement. Two tall candles flank the recording area, providing the only light in the scene. Their glow shows an otherwise empty hallway, pipes and bundled cables lining the ceiling.
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From somewhere deep in the darkness in front of the camera's shot, the low buzz of a vuvuzela begins to emanate outward. It grows louder as a figure stirs in the distance, slowly walking into the shot. The mysterious figure approaches the camera as the candles offer enough light to make out a dark brown hooded robe. The hood is drawn, obscuring the figure's head, but the apparently wooden vuvuzela he carries seems to glow in the candlelight as its annoying buzz continues to announce his presence.
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The figure continues blowing into his cheap horn as his body from the chest up now fills the shot, lit hauntingly by the flickering candles standing next to each shoulder. The drone of the vuvuzela goes on for several awkward moments, the figure's shoulders slumping as he seemingly begins running out of air in his lungs. Still, he continues to blow, the buzz growing fainter as his breath becomes more impotent.
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Eventually, the figure's head drops out of view entirely as he appears on the verge of losing consciousness. The sound of finished wood hitting concrete bounces through the arena's PA system, followed by the haggard gasps of a man dangerously low on oxygen. The figure coughs and sputters just under the view of the camera, and the awkward silence of the expectant crowd is deafening in its own right.
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Suddenly, the figure's head shoots back up into the view of the camera, this time with its hood pulled down. Looking totally disheveled and wild-eyed, breathing heavily, Brother Thelonius glares out to the CiR Universe.
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Brother Thelonius: "I am known by some... as Brother Thelonius.
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And I am known by the rest... as Brother Thelonius... still."
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Brother Thelonius continues panting and wheezing as he delivers his impassioned monologue, accidentally resembling a man coming out of an Ironman Match, despite his verifiable lack of a match on the evening's card.
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Brother Thelonius: "As I mentioned a week ago... our world is overdue for a cleansing.
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Too often... people not unlike yourselves settle for the... MASS PRODUCED aspect of our world."
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Brother Thelonius screams the phrase "MASS PRODUCED" into the microphone in his most shrill, high-pitched voice. The speakers in the arena erupt in a burst of ear-piercing feedback, as the audience's groans can be heard underneath it all. For what it's worth, it appears as if Brother Thelonius has regained his breath.
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Brother Thelonius: "For over a century, the great mouth of society has been pressed right up against the all-whirring, all-grinding assembly line of MASS PRODUCTION.
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The food, the goods, the entertainment we consume is pressed from the reduced psychological syrup of the infernal mechanical revolution. But what do we actually have as a result?
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Do we feel actual, emotional satisfaction when we press our lips to the DILUTED HIGH-FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP of existence?
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Do we achieve nirvana while seeking shelter in a house that we did not ourselves build?
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The answer is a resounding 'no,' humans. True satisfaction comes from pursuing CRAFT, IN ALL OF ITS FORMS.
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CRAFT is what stokes the fires in the wood-burning heart. CRAFT is the emotional response to a perfect handshake. CRAFT is my god, my religion, and my gift to you, the collective victims of a MASS PRODUCED SOCIETY."
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Brother Thelonius takes a moment to compose himself as he continues staring wild-eyed into the camera.
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Brother Thelonius: "As I demonstrated a week ago, the Ryan Bradfords of this world are mere cookie-cutter representations of an ideal that's long since outlived its FDA MANDATED EXPIRATION DATE. What we need to stem the tide of soulless, heartless, guileless clones is a servant to the god of CRAFT, a man so deeply devoted to his god's ideal that he's even willing to demonstrate it where it intersects with close-quarters combat: PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING.
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I will continue to demonstrate the merits of CRAFT, and soon enough you'll all see things my way..."
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He stoops out of frame again, and returns quickly with his strange, wooden vuvuzela held up for the fans to get a better view.
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Brother Thelonius: "This noise machine could have been made of plastic, but I instead toed the road of CRAFT. My god often requires a willingness to LIVE BEYOND ONE'S MEANS, but he ultimately rewards the pursuer of CRAFT in the end. Just as I earn victory here, so too can you, if only you're willing to follow.
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Mine is the sword of Michael, and yours is the shield of neutered potential."
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He allows these last words to hang in the air before once again dropping the horn to the floor with a hollow thud. He licks the thumb and first two fingers of each hand and manually snuffs each candle out simultaneously, immediately plunging the CarnageTron - and thereby the entire arena - into darkness.
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Brother Thelonius: "Son of a -!"
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Steven Rausch

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