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TWISTED METAL. (Read 22353 times)
Bad_Ronald
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TWISTED METAL.
03/31/11 at 03:51:06
 
I tried posting this particular story up in the old boards a couple times, but it was always a hassle. Let's see if it's better here... I'll put up my ancient crappy art throughout, just for kicks.

Here goes:


Dearest Competitor,

You are cordially invited to Twisted Metal.

Take this chance to make your wishes come true!

Calypso



...

TWISTED METAL.

By Bad Ronald


ONE.


Did you ever have a wish? Not the normal wish that'd usually pop up in your mind. We're talking about a wish so pure, so deep and hidden, that you wouldn't dare think it'd come true even in your wildest dreams. This wish, it might be your innermost dream. Or a wish of power. Or fame, or a wish of some sort of escape. Or revenge. A second chance.

Anything you desire. The only thing you have left to live for.

There are some people like us already out in the world, but most of the time, you'll find us in here. You have to understand, this single wish is our entire life now, we're all here because of it.

A normal person like you, you'd probably call it a passion, or a mania. An obsession. But you don't know that we all had to be broken to this point. We had to be shattered to even have this sort of desire.

So, normal person of the world, welcome.

Welcome to Midtown.

Welcome to Blackfield Asylum. Just let it all out. We're all here for you.


Proposition.


To be honest, we've all been waiting for him. The man who would come and deliver us all. It was just a matter of time when he'd finally show up.

Right now, we're in our cells brooding in our sorrows and thinking about what could be and what could've been. Blackfield Asylum Inmates, all of us, here in our grey-matching Asylum Inmate uniforms and our unbuttoned straitjackets. Each day is wasting away and we go along with it.

Each of our cells have a small window in the shape of a cross and at the right time the cross window will light up with sunlight and its form will take place on the floor. None of our cells are lit, so the first thing we see in the morning is this upside-down cross, illuminated by the outside rays of sunlight on the padded floor.

It reminds us that we're in here for our sins and we'll never get out. All of our cells are meticulously padded on the walls, the ceilings, floors. Padded so we don't hurt ourselves, same with our straitjackets. Right now, our straitjackets are loosened so we can take them off if we want, but the belt buckles on our straitjackets are gone. We only get these buckles when we come outside of our cells.

We usually come outside for potty time. Potty time is a schedule they set up for each of us to use the bathroom at different times so that we don't bump into each other and fight over the same toilet.

This schedule, we're used to it. It's a part of our life now, our bodies are practically trained to piss and shit at the time we're allowed to. If we don't feel like going when potty time comes up, then we've wasted our bathroom privileges, because we only get one potty time a day. When our stink gets unbearable, the guards come in with full-body armor and hose us down. Then they strip us and give us fresh clothes and straitjacket and leave us to dry ourselves off.

Weekends only exist three times a month. Weekends mean Recreational Activities and Exercise, which is a nice little label that really means walking around outside at night for hours and smelling fresh air with these armed guards watching you closely. Three times a month, we get to get out of the Asylum and into the courtyard outside.

All night on that three-times-a-month Saturday, we get to breathe air different than the stale mechanical air they pump in the Asylum and in our cells. On those Saturdays, we get to breathe the same air that the normal people outside get to breathe. We get to pretend we're normal too.

When we move out on Saturdays, armed military security guards with Kevlar vests and bulletproof helmets and gas masks come to our cells to accompany each of us, all of them with gas masks strapped on their faces in case they have to lob sleeping gas if one of us acts up.

These guards snap on the metal buckles on our straitjackets and tighten them up so we can't feel our own arms. Each inmate gets a three-guard patrol but some of us get more. The clown with the fire on his head and one eye gets fifteen guards looking after him. The old man with the human skull mask gets seven. The little girl with the Japanese mask thing on her head gets five guards.

All of us look the same except for these three. They may wear the same uniform like us with the same straitjackets and black slacks and black shoes, but they can't be any more different if they tried. Nobody else has never-ending fire on his head. Or a human skull, or a Japanese doll facemask. Nobody has the luxury of hiding their faces like these three.

Everyone here knows them because it's impossible not to know them. They're the only ones with a shred of dignity left intact. The clown and the skull-man and the Japanese mask girl, they're the most famous inmates in the Asylum. They've been here for life and that's a lot longer than all of us.

...

Three-times-a-month Sundays is church time and on those Sundays, we shuffle into this giant auditorium to sit and listen to this Asylum pastor or priest or whoever lecture us about the bible and God for hours and hours.

This Asylum priest tells us to repent for our sins. Asylum pastor tells us that we are loved. Asylum whoever tells us that we only need to learn to accept that love. Asylum god-fearing somebody, he tells us that if we accept that love and ask for the Lord's forgiveness, we'll be free of our sins. Or we all go to hell.

Most of the times, we wonder what he's talking about. Hell doesn't seem so bad. There's things to do there.

The inmate we call Preacher, he loves Sunday. He loves the Asylum pastor or priest or whoever. Inmate Preacher can't wait for Sunday to come by. Inmate Preacher wears this battered little fedora hat that the Asylum pastor gave him once after a long theological discussion.

The guards had to take inmate Preacher away because he refused to leave the table after the pastor's time was up. Preacher wanted to talk some more, so Asylum pastor gave him the hat as a promise that he would come every three-times-a-month Sunday to educate him. To enlighten him. To guarantee his soul a passageway into Heaven.

The Inmate Preacher hasn't taken that hat off since.

After those rare weekends, it's back to our cells and wasting away again and again and again.

We don't know how long the days and months and years have gone by, but we know that when the man who will singlehandedly deliver us all finally shows up, the clown and the skull-man and Japanese doll face won't be surprised. They already know he's coming. The man who'll deliver us all. We don't know how clown and skull-man and doll face know, but because they know; they wait patiently. They wait every single day for him.

When this man finally comes to us, they're not surprised.

When this man comes, the clown with the fire on his scalp says, "It's about time."

The man with the skull says, "Benny."

Japanese doll facemask says, "Mm."

The Preacher says, "Heathen!"

The Preacher says, "Sinner!"

The Preacher says, "Why have you come, you evil demon child? I can smell the ungodly sin reeking off you."

We all hear this in our cells because these guys are so loud, it's impossible to believe the guards aren't doing anything. And so we sniff the air and smell the blood. Seems like it's not their fault, really.

You have to understand; these guards aren't doing anything because they're all dead.

Nothing can smell that bad and still be alive.

This man opens each of our cell doors, one by one by one. We hear the cell doors slamming open and we hear murmuring. All of us see, at first, a nice, tidy suit coat. Then dirtied slacks with blood all over. Then long silky brown hair framing this horribly scarred face.

We see this man, and he says, "Hello."

And he smiles and says, "Dearest competitor, have you ever had a wish?"

He can't blame us for holding our breath and cringing a little. Really, his smile is hideous even though his teeth are perfect. His red flame boiled cheeks stretches back to show perfect white lined shining little teeth.

The man says, "My name is Calypso and I have a proposition for you."


...
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« Last Edit: 03/31/11 at 20:26:03 by Bad_Ronald »  

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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #1 - 03/31/11 at 05:01:13
 
...

TWO.


Imagine the most screwed up people in the world. People that you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. Or anywhere, for that matter. That little demon girl from the Exorcist, only now she's grown up and filled out, but still insane, imagine her too. Imagine Bozo the Clown, except that he doesn't make people laugh, he makes people die.

Imagine us, all of us. Imagine people like these all gathered in a large parking garage and you pretty much get an idea of what's happening now.

Blackfield Asylum Inmates, but we're out of the Asylum and breathing fresh air. Normal people air. And we're pretending to be normal people too. You can't get as much normal as this. That clown with fire on his head, he's the pinnacle of everyday Joe. The Preacher with the battered hat glaring holes at us, he's normal as anyone can get. The little boy staring at a wall and putting an antique clock together perfectly without looking at it once, he's pretty much an everyday little rascal. All us normal guys in our completely normal Asylum uniforms and unbuttoned straitjackets, we're all here now.

We're all waiting for the most normal of us all. Our deliverer. Mr. Normal Guy Calypso, the man who'd grant our wish.

One wish only. And only one wish. He made sure we understood that before he brought us all here. So while we wait, we start looking around the garage, then we start looking at each other. Nervous glances, threatening glares, casual look-overs. Some of us don't even look around at all, like that little boy. He's just sitting there and staring at a wall. And he's whispering, "Daddy."

And, "Daddy."

And, "Daddy."

The man with the skull says, "Benny."

Japanese doll facemask says, "Mm."

The Preacher says, "You heathens. You'd best repent or your road will lead to hell."

The Clown says, "Fuck repenting. We're already here."

We're waiting for Calypso, but he probably won't show up until we do what he says.

"Talk to each other," Calypso had said when we shuffled off the bus and into the garage. "Take this time to get to know each other before I come back to explain the rules. I'll be back soon. To get what each of you need."

The first one off the bus was the clown. This ugly mask was on his face and he was acting all too eager. Looking around and sniffing the air as he stepped off, none of us wanted to be in the same room with the guy. So we weren't going to move.

So Calypso said, "And if any of you start anything naughty, consider your wish forfeit. Consider yourself not cordially invited to my contest. Consider yourself not able to take the chance to make your wish come true."

All of us start to cower in our seats and wait for the massacre. The fire on the clown's head started flaring blue.

So Calypso looked straight at the clown and said, "Especially you. Behave yourself or you won't be able to do anything you want for the rest of your life. Behave, now, or you won't have any more arms and legs and you'll have to settle for crawling on the ground with your chin like the snake you are."

For a second, the fire on the clown's head turned black.

So Calypso said, "I gave you back that mask and I can take it away. I can make it disappear forever."

Then the black fire soothed down to the usual red flame and the clown shrugged. "Fine," the clown said behind that ugly smiling mask. "I'll play nice."

And here we are now, all off the bus. The bus and Calypso are both long-gone, leaving us alone here in this empty parking garage. We're all waiting for one of us to speak, but all we really hear is "Daddy" and "Benny" and "Mm". It's early morning now, and we see the first rays of sunlight filtering through the windows of the garage.

"Huh." Someone says.

We all turn to look and it's the clown with the never-ending fire on his head.

The clown says, "This is my first time seeing the sunlight without that fucking cross."


Sweet Tooth
Sweet Tooth


"I know why you guys call me 'clown'." The clown says.

He looks like a clown now only because of that creepy mask. Before, he didn't look like a clown at all. His scalp is burnt completely black and charred and the never-ending fire on his head is still burning. The crackling of the fire, we can still hear it in the silence of the garage.

The clown's build is chiseled and lanky and tall as he slumps on one of the garage pillars. We watch, as the fire burning his scalp doesn't heat the cement. He looks each one of us in the eye. We can't see his face, but we can see it through his eye. That bloodlust… He's always thinking about killing us, any of us. We call him clown because of what he did in the past. We call him clown because he used to be a clown.

"You already know this. But I used to have a living making you assholes laugh."

The clown says.

It's hard to believe this man used to be a clown for the local Midtown fair. It's hard to believe he used to truly love children. He would wear makeup paint. He would have this gaudy clown suit and give out free ice cream treats at the end of his performances.

"I would look at those children in the stands while I did my thing. I would do all kinds of stuff only for them. If only I saw them for who they really were, just another thing to kill." He says.

The clown, in the days of old, smiling and laughing and doing acrobatic tricks.

The most well known in the Midtown circus, and all the parents are cheering along with their kids. The clown lights his head on fire and in the stands, we can hear giggling.

"This fire on my head." He says. The fire on his head causes laughter. And shouts of joy.

The fire flares up on the clown's fireproof helmet as he stares dumfounded in a comic expression as the fire starts to build up. Then it's funny. Then it's not. Then it's too much.

He says, "This fire on my head reminds me of my first screw up."

First it was laughter and shouts of joy. Then screams and shouts of terror.

He says, "What happened that day, it wasn't supposed to be like that."

The clown's entire head is on fire and this is all wrong. This was the clown's speciality act for years. What the clown did was have a kid from the audience come up to light his helmet. It wasn't dangerous at all because the helmet wasn't even on and the entire thing would be just for show. The kid would put a lit match inside a hole in the helmet and the clown would act like there was a fire brewing up under the helmet, moving away from the kid. Stomping his shoes and jumping up and down and puffing his cheeks, the audience would howl with laughter as he rolled on the ground. Then he would stand up, a cue for the backstage guys to start the helmet. The fire would explode from the helmet and cheers would explode from the audience. His speciality performance. The way it was supposed to go. The way it's been going for years.

He says, "I tried to save her and I don't even know why. She's dead though, good fucking riddance."

This time, the gas main on the helmet was already functioning. The backstage guys forgot to turn it off after a previous performance and this show, the little girl with the match and the clown realize that it's not the helmet on fire, but them. The clown tries to save the girl even while his face is burning. Screaming and yelling in terror and pain, the clown actually tries to save the little girl. He runs around and dumps the girl in a vat of water that the paramedics keep on stage; only he keeps her under for too long. As the paramedics blow out the fire on the clown with extinguishers, the girl's already dead. A thing like that, you can't walk away from it without having some serious traumas. The clown got the worst of them.

He developed a pure hatred for people and gained an uncontrollable addiction to killing.

"My first murder and I didn't even mean to do it." The clown says. "After that, killing was a dream. After that, killing was pure heaven."

He says, "And it's not an uncontrollable addiction. I just don't want to control it."

And he says, "I need to kill as much as I can before I die."

Because the clown always gave away ice cream after every show, his stage name used to be Sweet Tooth.

"And it's still my name", he says. "Don't ever call me 'clown' anymore. My name's Sweet Tooth."

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Bad_Ronald
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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #2 - 03/31/11 at 05:03:59
 
Curse
Sweet Tooth


It almost happened with that little girl. And you can't blame my urges because they're uncontrollable. It's like being hungry. Starving to death. You can't help but grab whatever you can eat when your stomach starts shrinking. I'm pretty sure one of you would know. The cannibal over there.

Look, that girl was going to be my last. Think about it. The strips of articles and pictures of crime scenes that I've been to. Those pictures of missing kids and people that I've done. All of them were mine. That girl was mine! In my basement, pressed up against that exact wall with the pictures and articles. It was the perfect day to quit. I had to, the cops were pressing up on me on every side of the glass. Even the Feds were getting involved, so I had to quit. Midtown, at least. Then I'd go to some other country and do my killing there.

But this girl, I had to have her. How could anyone resist? It was unbelievable. My knife in my hand, my mask on my face, my girl on my wall, it was exquisite and all mine. I milked the moment too much. I took too long, but I couldn't help it. It was the perfect moment. The most perfect moment, right there, ruined. I had it and I had it and I had it, but they still bust in just when I'm about to do her. I had to get her before they got me. I had to make her completely mine before they stopped me from doing it.

But I didn't. They took her away from me, and not only that, but they broke my mask. And my knife. When they got me, I saw it broken in half. I was taken away and all I could think was "What a waste! All those people I haven't killed yet."

And the rest is history. I'm sure you read the papers, the ones about me and the execution.

"Execution."

… I hate that word!

Why bother to pretty it up? I prefer the word 'killing'. More true to the form of art. Anyways, I got the chair, no doubt. They tried to electrocute me to death but it never worked; some faggot put a curse on me. Look at this fucking fire; that's how I got it! No, I didn't see who it was, the black bag was covering my face and this guy was speaking some weird language, but he's not important.

I don't give a shit about him. All I want is to get this fire off my head, anything it takes- anything, I want it out. That's what I'm wishing for. The head pains are getting worse each year. Its driving me nuts, and I'm going to kill each one of you to put it out.

Don't get me wrong, though. I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy. I'd rather kill you people close up with a knife. Old-school like, Cain and Abel. But fuck it, I'll do whatever works to get this shit off my head.

I'm going to kill you all.
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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #3 - 04/02/11 at 04:22:23
 
...

THREE.


We're still here and we're still waiting. And right now, the sun's up and the rays are blinding us. We never saw the sunlight this big in huge shining squares on the dark ground. In this dark garage, it's pillars of light. Reminding us that even though we're out, this is still something we can never have. We can never be truly outside and we can never be normal again.

So just pretend.

Just keep pretending this whole thing, right here and right now, isn't out of the ordinary. We're all normal people here, still, and we're all going to participate in this fun little contest. People do this all the time because it's healthy. There's the lottery. And there's sports.

And there's Twisted Metal.

Twisted Metal isn't a big deal, really. It's a fun, little healthy contest of killing each other off until there's only one left. Vehicular combat. Machine guns and missiles. Blood and death. And healthy competition. This is no different from the lottery or the sports you watch on television.

Right now, we're murmuring and whispering our entire secrets to whoever's listening. After the clown Sweet Tooth spoke of his past and his wish, we're trying to beat each other with our stories to justify the coming deaths. To justify killing each other for our wishes.

So if you were here, strange person of the world, you'd be hearing, "My story's worse."

And you would hear, "No, mine is."

And you would hear, "I was driven to this point. I lost everything."

And, "Try losing your mind."

And, "I already did."

It's a race to top each other with our own personal horror stories. Whisperings and murmurs of own personal sufferings and deepest desires, they're completely out in the open. We deserve our wish because of this and we deserve to die because of this.

Someone says, "It's funny."

All of us turn and it's the man with the skull on his head. Sitting on the ground, his back slumped on the wall, he looks at each of us.

The skull man says, "After getting out of that place, I'm not even hungry anymore."

The clown Sweet Tooth says, "That's no surprise, really."

Sweet Tooth says, "'Cause you'll be having your fill soon enough, old man."


Mr. Grimm
Mr. Grimm


He's a grizzled old man with no face. Instead, on his head is this ivory white human skull with blazing blue eyes glaring out from the sockets. He hates it when we call him the skull man.

So he says, straight off the bat, "My name's Grimm."

Mr. Grimm's build is strong and sturdy, but his bones are so ancient with age that they creak when he moves.

And his stomach is never full. He's always hungry.

Even though they fed us so-and-so in the asylum, we still got enough to eat to be able to shit it out later at potty time. This guy hasn't taken a decent shit in years.

"It's not that I don't eat the food," he says.

Mr. Grimm's stomach doesn't work like any other stomach anymore. He eats normal food, but it never truly digests.

"It's like drinking water," Mr. Grimm says. "It either goes straight to my fat and muscles, or I vomit it out."

His breath stinks as he says, "It's just that I digest food so fast, my stomach doesn't notice."

His stomach doesn't growl anymore, it roars. Even the Salisbury steak they used to serve us on Thursdays doesn't satisfy him. All that food we could've had went to waste inside his body.

"It used to be like this back in the shit," he says. "You'd be so busy fighting, you'd forget to even eat."

And Mr. Grimm's a war veteran. Back in Vietnam, he was humping the boonies and rattling out the M-16 at long grass. Down in the jungle, down Da Cong way, he was a soldier who was so wet behind the ears, the troops wouldn't stop calling him the "Fucking New Guy".

"And when you finally get some alone time with the rations, you had to keep looking to see if there was anyone evil enough to actually kill you while you chowed down."

He also has this problem with food. He'll never be able to survive on a vegetarian diet. Leaves and ranch, he'll vomit them out at the first chew. Even meat doesn't do it anymore.

"It's not my fault my stomach doesn't accept what I eat anymore," Mr. Grimm says. "It's just that they never put 'human meat' in the menu."

Survival
Mr. Grimm


Vietnam. 1967. Hot and humid, that place was death's playground. If you were a human being during that time, Vietnam was the worst place in the world to be. Every weather report from the comm were said to be, "Napalm-filled skies". "Bullet showers". "Agent Orange crush". Or "Crimson tides".

Everyone in their right mind was humming the Mickey Mouse clubhouse song and had a hard-on for Rachel Welch. Everyone else back in the free land were shitting on us and clogging up the streets. Telling us not to hurt the gooks. I think they were called "hippies".

I was still the FNG at that time. I was a stupid snot-nosed kid drafted into the war along with my friend. But Benny handled it a lot better. Benny was in the same platoon.

Because I was the FNG, my dream was to be as cool as he was. If you gave Benny a drink of hot water, he'd shit out ice cubes. He was the FCG, the "Fucking Cool Guy". We were the best of friends since kindergarten. We were best friends through the years, best friends in a war where friends died in another friend's arms every day. Strange that we even knew each other. Benny was lean and strong and I was plump with baby fat. Benny looked like a Greek god while I looked like a kid.

People kept dying off during our death march. It pissed the captain off something furious when our platoon turned out to be the only one left. When we were snaking through the long grass, marines were falling ten at a time. Some were being taken prisoner but most were being killed and butchered. Most were being hung on the trees or stakes as a warning to the next platoon. Leave now or forever be in hell. Leave now or be a shining example with a stake shoved up your ass and through your mouth.

When the day went by, we heard the dying and the screams rising. Nobody could help but notice that long grass was red, not from the sunset, but from the blood. Even at midnight, the screams still went on. Then it came down to Benny and me, back to back and plugging the VC. The M-60 was smoking near, so Benny went for it. Before I knew it, Benny was lying and dying in the red long grass.

It was all up to me but I screwed it up. It was all up to me but I was too busy cradling Benny's head and sobbing like a child. My knuckles were white because my hand was tightened on Benny's shoulder so he wouldn't bleed out.

Then some gook knocked me out. They should've killed Benny and me, would've been better that way. I woke up in a deep pit with Benny at my side. They didn't even fucking dress his wound. His chest was infested with maggots. There was no way out of this place. The VC let us live and I don't know why. Day after day was going by in that pit without any food. Benny was half-way dead, not noticing the flies that buzzed around him, and I was starving, so I screamed for help. The VC threw a knife down for us.

They said, "Make do with what you have."

I'm not going to mince words with you. You know exactly what they meant and so did I. You can't blame me. You've never felt this sort of hunger before. It's primordial and insatiable. You can't say I didn't try. I struggled with my conscience for days! I was delirious with hunger; I couldn't even pray for nourishment anymore. You have to understand- I didn't have a choice! It was a life and death situation, it was either I died or I survived.

So I chose survival.

Oh my God, Benny.

I'm so sorry.

Forgive me, Benny.

Forgive me.

A day after, the VC camp was completely cleaned out. The Marines pulled me out of the pit with bloody little bits of Benny in my teeth and between my gums and dripping off my lips. After that, I was committed, instant Section Eight. If only I held off my hunger. If only I didn't… crack. I've been in the Asylum for 35 years. Left there to rot. Now I've got this second chance. If I win this thing, I get a prize. If I kill all of you, I get anything I want and I know what I want.

I'm going to see you real soon, Benny.

...
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« Last Edit: 04/02/11 at 06:08:10 by Bad_Ronald »  

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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #4 - 04/02/11 at 06:19:31
 
FOUR.


Calypso's back and we're smiling. Calypso's brought back our old clothes. They're all folded up and stacked neatly in a big metal laundry bin and when Calypso opens it, our clothes give off an acrid old smell that fills the garage.

The smell reminds us of all those dead guards back in the asylum. Inside that bin is the smell of all of us before we lost everything. We can't help but smile because we finally have our clothes back. We've already lost everything else. All our families and all our friends. Our dignity. Our respect, and our sanity. When everything else was gone, all we had left were the clothes we had on, and even those were taken away.

Now, after years of straitjackets and black slacks, we can finally wear our old clothes before we march off to death. We can finally die with our identities intact.

As we line up, Calypso begins holding up these clothes one by one. He holds up this gaudy blue and black costume, pink frills and smiley-face buttons, so the clown Sweet Tooth snatches it out of his hand. He holds up a tattered olive drab marine uniform, silver dog tags pinned to the collar, and Mr. Grimm takes them and hold them like a baby.

He holds up a small red shirt folded with denim jeans with a cute little blue wristwatch on top and nobody comes up to get them. So he unfolds it. He holds it out. And still, nobody comes to get them. When we stare at the clothes, it's obvious they're too small for any of us. None of us here can fit in those things.

Then he looks at one of us somewhere and says, "Don't you want this back?"

He looks at one of us and says, "Don't you want your clothes?"

We barely heard the answer because it's so muffled and soft, but the answer is "No."

All of us turn to look and it's the Japanese doll facemask girl, curled up and sitting on the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees.

It comes out muffled and soft, but she says, "Keep them. I'm not good enough yet."


...


Dark Side
Dollface


The tiny clothes are hers. Imagine a glass doll chiseled into a curled up fetal position, it's so small. So fragile and transparent. That's how the Japanese doll facemask girl looks; this little ballerina glass figurine made in some exotic country. Her straightjacket and her face mask makes her look like one of those Japanese Geisha dolls. Her small fingers peek out like little buds from the unraveled cuffs of her straightjacket. This little thing. This fragile, but so beautifully crafted little thing.

We barely hear what she says because it's so muffled and soft, but she says, "Please don't say that."

We barely hear it, but she says, "I'm not beautiful."

A red shirt and denim jeans were the clothes she used to wear and a faithful daughter was who she used to be, with short hair and an unbreakable smile. She used to be this normal everyday girl until her mother died. Right now, watching this small and fragile glass figurine, we realize we still don't know her name.

We barely hear it but she says, "I'm being punished, so I can't have my real name yet. You can keep calling me Dollface."

So imagine this little girl feeling her parents' hatred through her bedroom walls. They love their little daughter so much but they can't stand each other. Her mom and dad live in separate rooms and they have separate lives. The only time they get together is when the girl's in the middle to keep them apart.

Still in the same red shirt and denim jeans, this little girl's staring at a blank diary and she's trying not to think about her parents. She's trying not to think about how every time she eats with her parents, they stare at each other with silent hatred. They never say a word unless she's there and even when they say something, it just happens to be carefully constructed so that it has a sort of insult, a hidden barb in a seemingly innocent sentence, for the other person. "How was your day?"

"Nothing you'd be concerned with."

"Oh, I just thought you were discussing work with your secretary last night."

"I have to, you see, because I do my job. I make the money in this family."

This is happening every single day and this is a terrible way to live. So when the tension becomes unbearably high and their dark glares starts to poison the air, this little girl begs them to stop. She wants them to love each other. She wants them to look at each other the same way they look at her.

This little girl. Their little daughter. This little girl who did nothing but whimper and slink away every time they glared at each other, she's finally showing them what kind of family they've become.

So they try.

It's hard to believe, but they try to change. It's hard to believe, but they do everything to become a normal family again. Her father starts acting like a caring loving husband and a caring loving father and her mother falls in love with him all over again.

We barely hear it but Dollface says, "We were so close."

"We were so close to being a family."

One day, her mother dies. That day, Dollface's playing outside the house and she happens to trip over the curb. It's not her fault. Stumbling out on the road, she just doesn't see the huge black semi truck until it's too late. She doesn't see it but her mother does.

First Dollface's on the road and then she's not. Then Dollface's tumbling head over heels and when she looks back, she sees her mother wedged between the giant tire axles.

We barely hear it but Dollface chokes out, "It's my fault."

"It's my fault mom died."

Dollface's father tried so hard to be this caring and loving man but in that instant, he's gone. His caring and loving replaced with hatred and fury; this is what's left of her father. And it's the same old horrible story. She doesn't exist to him anymore. He ignores her because she's practically died along with her mother. Every day, he's wasting away and she's smelling more and more of his upcoming death. This little girl, with her mother's blood permanently on her red shirt and denim jeans, she runs away before she can get dirty with her father's blood too.

We barely hear it but Dollface says, "I couldn't stand it anymore. Every day, he'd ignore me and he'd say it was all my fault. I wasn't there unless he needed something to blame."

"I couldn't stand it anymore, but I can't ever forget."

"I can't ever forget that I'm a horrible person, and I deserve everything that happened to me."

This little girl's used to wandering dark alleys. She's used to waiting at fast food restaurants for scraps they dump out in the trash every night. She's used to running away from confrontations. One day, she bumps into a man and his small antique wolf statue falls to the ground. When she tries to run away, the man holds her tightly on the arm.

He says, "Little girl."

The man says, "Little girl, where are you going?"

We barely hear it but Dollface says, "His name's Mr. Kreel."

"And he punished me."
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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #5 - 04/02/11 at 06:37:36
 

A Letter to Mr. Kreel
Written By Dollface


Dear Mr. Kreel,

I hope you're reading this right now. Mr. Calypso promised me you'd get this letter and if you're reading, I want to say thank you. I don't know if you know, but I'm out of that place now. I'm not sure how long I was there, but Mr. Calypso said it was seven years. Or even longer.

I should've really be in there longer than that. Right?

I've had a long time in that place to think about things. Things like what happened to my mom, or you and me. That place was a home for people who were no good, like me. All of them called me Dollface because of this mask you gave me. I'll wear this mask until I become good again. I'll keep wearing it until I'm forgiven. I'll wear it until I finish my punishment.

Mr. Kreel, I know why you put this on me. I defied you after you took care of me and I'm being punished for it. But I got a second chance! Mr. Calypso came to me and he told me that he needs help punishing bad people.

I told him, "Yes." I said I'll do it. I'll help because I know that you'd do the same thing, the right thing, and now it's my turn to do the right thing too. I'm so excited to be good again. I can't wait.

Mr. Calypso said that if I win, I'll finally be able to take this mask off my face. If I win, I'll finish my punishment. I'll be a good person, and I'll never, ever be bad ever again. The mask. Did you know that it's still crushing my face, even now? I can feel my cheekbones grinding against it each morning. I wonder if my face looks like the mask now. You know, I've learned to accept that constant pain for a reminder. Seven years of this mask on my face never giving way to anything. But that's a good thing.

They had to put a hole in my neck so I could have food. I almost didn't let them, but I know you'd want me to stay alive until I'm forgiven. I'll do everything it takes to be a good person again.

But Mr. Kreel, I've heard bad news. Mr. Calypso told me about you.

He told me that you've been a very bad person. He told me that you need to be punished, too, if I want to be a good person again. It broke my heart to know you've gone bad. It broke my heart so much. I cried for days thinking about you. How could you turn so bad, Mr. Kreel? Why did you become a bad person?

But don't worry. I'll change all that.

When I win, I'll help you. When I win, I'll help you become good again! I'll punish you just like you did to me. I know you understand. I know you regret the bad things you did, so I'll do it, Mr. Kreel, just for you. I'll win this contest, and I'll win my forgiveness, and I'll be a good person again. You'll be a good person, too, when I come for you.

I'll be there for you, Mr. Kreel. Just wait. Just keep waiting.

I'll be there for you.

Thank you for saving my life,

Dollface


...
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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #6 - 04/03/11 at 14:37:08
 
Holy shit man. That was fucking epic. Really awesome work Bad Ronald.

Welcome to TMA. Good stuff.
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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #7 - 04/03/11 at 19:37:40
 
Hey, thanks, dude! I'm glad to know someone likes it Cheesy

This place is pretty cool. I"ll definitely have more stuff to come.

Outlaw's next.
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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #8 - 04/06/11 at 01:48:22
 
Read 144 times, I would think more would give props but, don't sweat it.

So long as your willing to post stuff, keep rolling.
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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #9 - 04/07/11 at 02:16:32
 
I rarely come onto the Fanfiction wall, but I'm glad I did. This is amazing.
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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #10 - 04/08/11 at 22:01:06
 
FIVE.


http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/CalypsoSmile.jpgt=1302294776

"Everybody," he says.

Calypso's the father we've never had. All of our fathers looked down at us with distorted faces wrought in anger and terror. And disgust. And regret. But Calypso doesn't. He smiles instead, scarred face crinkling in that black, crispy crinkling way as he says, "Everybody, I know what you're feeling. I feel it too."

His face crinkles as he says, "That surging, heart-wrenching relief in your chest. That's what you can call the release of your true self."

He clutches the bundle of clothes on the dumpster, holds them close, spreading the pieces out, he tilts his smoldering gaze from our awestruck gaze to the ceiling.

His clean white teeth says, "Your true self, brutally chained down all those years, now scrubbed clean of its genuine essence during your incarceration. Everything comes back, and your clothes are only the first step."

He puts the clothes back into the dumpster, smiles that big beaming fatherly smile down at us again, and takes out the next pair of clothes. And we gasp at the clothes. The fire on the Sweet Tooth's head flares black. We stare at the clothes. Doll Face tilts her head, shakes it slowly, and mutters. We want to go up and rip the clothes to pieces, but we can't. Mr. Grimm crosses his scarred arms, scans everyone in the room. So we point at the clothes. Furiously.

http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/STARING.jpgt=1302294890

Calypso's smile, bright and cheery, melts instantly off his scarred face.

"Well, now," he sneers out. "Well, well, well!"

The rest of us move closer, his loyal congregation, except for one. His eyes burn like coals, beetled down into hard, squinting circles. He holds out the clothes and through all of us, like a single sharp wave through the sea, our breath is taken away, except for one.

The clothes of the enemy dangling from Calypso's grip fills our sight. The clothes are crisp, clean, painfully blue. In his hands hangs the blouse and slacks uniforms that plagued our memories, following us out of our homes, into the cells, then finally Blackfield. The uniform of the royal opposition.

The rusty badge pinned on the chest pocket shines magnificently in the sunlight, sagging slightly under its weight of authority. The nametag says ROBERTS.

http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/ROBERTS.jpgt=1302294916

We shuffle amongst ourselves. We look around, frantically, for the enemy in our midst. Searching for the person who looked like a cop. The person who looked like a ROBERTS. But we didn't have to look very long.

http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/wheresthepiggy.jpgt=1302294976


Outlaw
Officer Jamie Roberts


Sweet Tooth's the first to call out. He says, "Where are ya, pig?"

Sniffing around with deep whiffs, he laughs, "C'mon. Don't be shy! I'll find ya one way or another. I can smell fresh bacon a mile away."

http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/Shesrighthere.jpgt=1302295086

"Got a cold?" she says. "I'm right here." And there she is. She's the one.

We swivel our heads and glare across the room to get a better look. The pig. The enemy. This oppressor of ours. But she looks nothing like a cop. More like a wraith. Long unkempt black hair covers her face entirely, barely splits to show her steel, unblinking stare. Her straight-jacket hangs off her voluptuous form. Her face, graced with a permanent cold frown, would look absolutely stunning with a nonexistent smile.

Sweet Tooth's false face slowly revolves to regard her. "You're ROBERTS?"

He laughs. "For a pig, you're quite the looker."

Her gaze locks with the scariest inmate Blackfield Asylum has to offer, the most abnormal of us all dwelling in this dredge of normalcy. Without blinking, no quaver in her throat, she scoffs. Lowers her collar, reveals a sliver of that mean, nasty gash of a scar on her neck.

http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/SCAR.jpgt=1302295107

She speaks in grating, halting bursts. "Officer Jamie Roberts to you. Officer on duty. Fucking stupid clown."

For a moment, the clown's hands clenches, his arms flexes, his legs primes, and Sweet Tooth looks like he'll rush her. We hold a breath for the first rift in the communion. The clown steals a look at Calypso. Just a small look. But it's enough. Calypso's bloodshot glare sends chills through us, though it's only aimed at Sweet Tooth.

Grouped altogether, there's enough of our cramped numbers to fill a church, a cathedral, the kind that inmate Preacher likes. And we're the congregation of the Word of Calypso, split in the middle. We spread out to give the former police officer Jamie Roberts a wide berth. Every one of our baleful eyes takes her in, all of her, from head to toe. Head to toe because we want to remember her, to mark her, make her the first kill. This sacrificial pig, she stands alone in our seething midst.

Traitor.

Enemy.

In all her former glory.

Officer Roberts doesn't even spare us a single glance. The cop's eyes are only for Calypso, and what eyes they are. Blazing emerald green polished down to a piercing, emasculating glare and leveled straight at our savior.

Steel shining in her irises, she glares at him but speaks to us, "I know you all wanna do me. So painfully obvious. Me, the cop. Piggy piggy piggy. All of you, escaped convicts. Soon as this goes down, gonna make me sacrificial lamb. Tactically, in the battlefield, I have no chance."

She looks at her feet. Her long hair shades her eyes from our leering. She slumps forward a little bit, as if the weight of her realization, the weight of our pure unbridled hatred, presses down on her shoulders.

Then she strips bare in front of us. Her straitjacket hits the floor. She kicks off her black slacks. Our eyes scour every inch of that bruised peach skin of the PIG, our gaze running free over her scarred, self-punished, but still-luscious body. She puts on the clothes, stripping our gaze of each part, one by one, replaced with startling cop blue.

The wraith is gone from her body. She stops stooping and shuffling around. She stands up straight and tall. She changes. She becomes. On goes the utility belt. Up goes her hair in a frizzy ponytail. Spic-and-span are the shoes. And the badge, grim-filled and rusty, still shows her scorching golden authority. She's the pig. The enemy. This oppressor of ours.

http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/OfficerOnDuty.jpgt=1302295123

"Don't make me laugh," the cop stands proud, smirks at us. She's ghastly and we hate her, but she's so beautiful, we can't help but hate loving her a little. "Even if you assholes get along? Just for little old me? Won't be enough. Not even nearly."

"Wanna know why?" She preens, sneers. Her hands straddle her nightstick and pistol by her side. She plays her fingers along the empty gun. She gets unbelievably cocky in our seething midst.

"Because fuck the rules. Still a cop, but not one of them." The cop takes out her empty pistol, chortles in a croaky whisper. She cocks back the slide, classic Weaver stance, points the gun at each of us.

Click goes the trigger. The brisk snap of the hammer echoes through the parking garage.

Click. Click. Click!

"My jurisdiction."

Click.

"Not theirs."

Click, click, click!

"I'll do things you won't believe. And killing you? All of you? Easy.”

Click.

“So easy.”

http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/HERJURISDICTION.jpgt=1302295204

"Why?" It's hard to hear but we catch it. We turn around and dainty little Dollface tilts her head at the cop. "Why's it so easy? Tell me."

"You wanna know?" she roars, holsters her gun. "Wanna know what makes me tick? Wanna story time? Not me. I'm done telling. You ask him."

She stabs a thumb at Calypso. He just smiles, nods at her.

She says, "He knows everything. Probably made it all happen. No surprise, really. Ask him."

Calypso tsks-tsks again, sadly shakes his head. "My sincerest apologies, my dear. I can't possibly divulge upon your good nature. However, you are completely free to tell your own story. After all, it's your tale of woe, and we're all here for you."

She never stops glaring at him. "Don't want to. Waste of time. No one cares. No one listens. Nobody believes me."

Dollface says, "We will. Nobody believes us either."

She turns her eagle-eyed gaze over us; two emerald steel orbs of simmering with pure hate. She points specifically at Dollface.

She says, "After everyone fails at killing me... Gonna smear you off the road. Plug you up a few times to make sure."

http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y87/Bad_Ronald/Gonnamakesure.jpgt=1302307161
...

Dollface just stares. As do all of us.

The cop says, "Fine. Shut up. Listen. His name is Carl."

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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #11 - 04/09/11 at 00:46:55
 
...
Officer Jamie Roberts


ENTRY 1:
This is bullshit THIS IS BULLSHIT where is he where is he where is he WHERE IS HE it's not fair he can't be gone HE CAN'T my brother MY SWEET LITTLE BROTHER he exists i know he does HE EXISTS he exists CARL im sorry whyd it have to be you IM SORRY it couldve been me CARL it shouldve been me im so sorry It ShOuLDvE BeEn ME

ENTRY 2:
This is bullshit. Lock me up in here and gave me this stupid journal. I should be out there looking for him. I should be out there! I can't imagine where he is. I'm so scared for him. Wherever he is, he doesn't deserve to be there. It shouldn't have been him.

ENTRY 3:
Can't trust anybody. Can't trust my friends, Can't trust my fellow blues, can't trust the Chief. Especially not the doctors. Those white coats. Can't trust my family either. Not even them. They sent me these pictures. All these damn photos in this big book. Lovingly wrapped by mom and dad. Photos showing when I was a kid growing up to where I am now. I ripped them up, though. I tore them all to pieces. Why? Because they're saying he never existed. They show he never existed. NOT ONE OF THESE DAMN PICTURES HAS CARL IN IT. NOT A FUCKING ONE.

And that is BULLSHIT!

ENTRY 4:

The docs locked me up as long as I "pretend" he's real. But what's pretending? Staying in here. Not doing anything! Agreeing with them! I'll get out... only if I agree with them. All I have to do, they say, is just go up to the board and say I've had a... lapse of sanity. Heavy stress. That kind of stuff. NO. I refuse to pretend. He exists. Nothing they say will change my mind. I know him. He's my little brother. I'm supposed to take care of him. When Carl disappeared, my entire life went with him.

ENTRY 5:
Had a dream. Of that day. I hate it. Hate it, hate it HATE IT. Because in my dreams, he comes out of the bank fine. News cameras focuses on him. Mom and dad see him back home in their TV. S.W.A.T. captain prickhead scoops him up in his arms. Carl's fine. He comes up to me. He hugs me. Someone says "Thank God." Everyone sees him and he exists and he's THERE. And then I wake up. And I remember. I HATE IT.

ENTRY 6:
The bank, the bank, that fucking bank. Nobody knows what Carl was doing there that day. Nobody. He's just a kid, for God's sake! Just a snotnosed, but clever-fucking-brilliant 12 year old kid who wants to grow up to be Horatio Caine. That day was a slow day. Then the bank robbers came, and Carl was stuck inside with the rest. The gunfire caused a panic, but nobody could leave. E.T.A. from the precinct... less than five. We suited up, got in our prowl cars, and went to the scene.

ENTRY 7:
A hostage situation. They actually made a hostage situation out of it. Had demands and everything. The dickheads even wanted an escape bus, a helicopter to the Bahamas, the whole shebang. Our pussy negotiator whimpered back and forth with them. The S.W.A.T. jock fags kept getting in formation, breaking up, reforming, throwing hand signals at each other. Useless! Snipers nearby were neutered by the chief, no one fired until he said so. Everything was useless. Red tape. Jurisdictional conflict. So inefficient and stupid. I had to wait with the rest of the blue lifers. We were beat cops, had to huddle and stay behind our cruisers.

But then I saw Carl in the bank.

ENTRY 8:
SHOULDN'T HAVE STOPPED ME, I COULD HAVE SAVED HIM, I COULD HAVE SAVED THE FUCKING DAY, YOU MORONS! CARL WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN GONE AND DISAPPEARED AND THOSE WORTHLESS THIEVES AND THE HOSTAGES WOULDN'T BE DEAD IF YOU HAD JUST LET ME GO IN, I TRIED SO HARD BUT HE'S GONE NOW BECAUSE YOU WOULDN'T EVEN LET ME GO IN, NO INSTEAD YOU GET YOUR S.W.A.T. GOONS TO DOGPILE ME HALFWAY AND THEN CARL DISAPPEARS AND HES NOT THERE ANYMORE

ENTRY 9:

I can't take it anymore, Carl. I keep seeing you completely all right after the hostage situation, I keep seeing you go through the crowd like you didn't that day, I keep seeing you coming up to me like you didn't that day, and I keep seeing you hugging me. You didn't, that day. On that day, you were just gone. And nobody knew who you were. Carl? Who's that? HE'S MY LITTLE BROTHER, YOU DOLTS! It's so bad, I hate it, I HATE it because I want it to be true, I want you to exist, Carl, my little bro, I want it to be true SO FUCKING BAD

ENTRY 10:

ENTRY 11:

ENTRY 12:

ENTRY 13:
I had to pretend. I tried to get out but it didn't work, Carl. Mom and dad still don't believe in you. They keep sending these stupid pictures of us without you in them. I almost got out. Almost got it, Carl. And now I don't even need to try. He came, that guy running that big underground murder competition in the news, the Twisted Metal. That ratbag Calypso. He invited me into his little game. And my God, Carl, he gave me a picture of you. A PICTURE OF YOU. You had on a blue hoodie. You were laughing and flipping the camera off. I remember that time, you little brat, you sweet little snot. You stupid angel. He took it away, but YOU'RE THERE, little bro. YOU'RE REAL. Do I join, Carl? This is my last chance. I can't pull punches anymore if I do. I can't keep my firearm squared away. I'll have to do whatever I can. I'll have to do what it takes. I'll have to kill them all. But they're all bad people. They're all scumbags and the world would be better off without them. And it's for you. It's all for you, my sweet little brother. This is my last chance. Dear God, do I join?

ENTRY 14:

ENTRY 15:

ENTRY 16:

ENTRY 17:
FUCK THIS.

ENTRY 18:
Carl.
I'll save you.


...

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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #12 - 04/09/11 at 01:20:03
 
Mag... Magnum.... b.. belt him... now.
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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #13 - 04/09/11 at 01:39:52
 
Gonna wait until this dude is done. I know he said he's got more to come so, I'll be able to think of something in the mean time.

Keep up the great work Bad Ronald. This is some really good stuff dude. Great work.
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Re: TWISTED METAL.
Reply #14 - 04/09/11 at 01:48:00
 
Whoa, belt me?? LOL, am I doing something wrong here, or breaking rules or something? Cuz I'll fix that up if you want.

Next up is Hammerhead. You can see the driver in some of the pictures in the past chapters, it's pretty obvious who the guy is Smiley  Hammerhead'll take me a little while, but I'll have it done soon enough.

I'm writing and drawing as I go, so it'll take me a while, most likely a very long while to wrap it up. I don't have this story planned out, just FYI.
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