Post by Evan McCulloch on Aug 30, 2020 18:47:16 GMT -5
Participants: Evan McCulloch | Open
Open/Closed: Open
Location(s): Buckingham Palace, United Kingdom
Time of Day: Noon
Weather: Soothing sunshine and clean air
Summary: Crash a castle and depose a king.
Note: this has been completely rewritten from the ground up, only dialogue and premise has been reused
Have you ever been enamored by a childhood dream? Wrought with guilt at the mere thought of failing your cardinal ambitions and desires. The roots of your very being, abandoned, forgotten, lost. I find it quite loathsome, the thought of your childish inclinations being banished to the darkest recesses of the minds eye. It’s sad, really... Every child has those outlandish dreams and aspirations. “When I grow up, I want.....” this or that. To be an astronaut or to be president of the U.S. of A. Evan McCulloch was truly no different, apart from the fact that suddenly, inexplicably these thoughts resurfaced... In the face of his faltering and failings professionally, emotionally, and psychologically, those submerged expressions emerged from the watery depths of his lucid thoughts with a foul taste. The taste of despair. The taste of shame.
It might not seem as such now, but as a boy Evan McCulloch was an avid reader. In particular, he enjoyed the fantastical works of Tolkien. Dwarves and hobbits, man and orcs all those creatures wrought in a war for The One Ring. The horrific tale of Sauron, Agent of Morgoth and his vile conquest of some Middle Earth. The hopeful tale of Aragorn, Ranger of the West and true king of Gondor. The struggle between good and evil for the soul of Middle Earth. A king standing proud and strong against an unstoppable evil. Young Evan admired Aragorn, a childhood hero of his. The great and wise king, charging dauntlessly into battle. Charging through the gates of Helm’s Deep and into a horde of mongrel half-orc monstrosities and sieging the Black Gates of Mordor, silencing the Mouth of Sauron with naught but his own honeyed words. Aragorn was truly amazing.... A hero. Yeah, a hero... He had always wanted to be a hero like that. His throat welled up at the thought of it all... He had always wanted to be a hero, yet here he was... A C-List villain of Keystone. There was no grand and glorious kingdom of golden white. No towering castles shining a beacon of hope across the land. Not a jeweled crown with diamonds and sapphire as clear as glass. All there was, a buzzed creep slowly coming off an embittered high.
He was no hero, that much is for certain... But an idea struck. He could be. A hero that is... He could be a hero. He could be a king. Evan McCulloch, the Mirror Master, could be another young lads Aragorn, if he put his mind to it. Big brained master of mirrors that he was, came up with an eloquent equation: crown + hoity-toityness = King. Seemed logical, but where to get a crown? There was Burger King, but nah. Cardboard wasn’t very regal. Not to mention, he could never stomach sh!tty American fast food chains. No, Mirror Master aimed for bigger, better, prouder...
In the Tower of London, the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom glistened and shimmered Luke starlight behind a case of glass. Sparkling effervescent like few beauties known to Earth. The plan was absurdly simple, a hop and a skip through the mirror dimension. Meandering through miles of reflections, until... Two gloves fingers reached out, foiling around the jewels, crown, and all. He pulled them in, and just like that he’d stolen the English Crown Jewels. He knew a few blokes at the National Party which would be foaming at mouth in envy right about now...
One week later, news outlets and social media were set ablaze by this obstinate act. The trending articles lit up like fire, scorching across the Internet in a blaze like never before. From Fox, to BBC. From Facebook to Twitter. It was bold and brash, and would put even the greatest criminal in all of fiction, James Moriarty, arch-rival of Sherlock Holmes to shame. Shame in its simplicity, shame in its effectiveness. The world was all abuzz with this strange tale, the tale of a pair of hands scooping up the greatest treasure in all of the United Kingdom like a toddler scooping up clumps of candy in his chubby fingers.
What does it mean to be King anyway? There are tyrants and terrors usurping fame and fortune from all across history. Piggish looking man children like Louis XVI (who famously had his head chopped clean off by the guillotine), horrific monsters like Vlad Țepeș the blood sucking impaler of Transylvania (the inspiration for Dracula in fact), and so many more of different class and cultures. One of their ilk, a Queen actually, the Queen in fact... The Queen of England, Elizabeth II was amidst this conspiracy. Caught between this plot ployed by some unknown but nefarious n’er-do-well. Tonight, she was bidden to make a statement. To quell the unrest, and appease the peasants. In the halls of Buckingham Palace, glistening jeweled halls of the crown, there lurked a garrison of press, photographers, cameramen, and journalists. Shadows enveloped the throne room, inspire of flash photography, and deathly silence struck the air, in spite of of the clamoring of cameras. The room, a sea of velvet and gold was blanketed in the soft cushion of darkness and silence. Light was dramatically unveiled, guards pulling off curtains to unveil some small amount of illumination. An elderly fellow stepped forwards, gesturing to a throne enveloped in darkness.
A sextet of horns heralded the arrival of what should have been the Queen. But it was not the Queen. A shadowy figure, who lounged legs crossed lazily within the throne arose as though it were summoned. Stepping out of the shadows as the call of trumpets declared someone wise and wonderful. It was Mirror Master. An audible gasp from the crowd rumbled across the room, cameramen ogling at the regent of reflection on live television as he stood, proud and boastful for the whole works to take notice. Evan strolled down, large green boots gliding eloquently down the steps. A king in all of his ostentatious splendor. He shimmered in a magnanimous Orange glow, like the blinding light of god shimmering in the darkness. The boots, metal like a knight’s armor swaggered ever downwards. A garish cape green as grass and silky smooth like the coziest blanket imaginable gracefully dragged behind the clamoring of metal steps. Orange trousers creased with every strut downwards.
”Who... Who in the name of-!?” Some elderly creature dared to interrupt his grand entrance. Without a moments hesitation, the monarch of mirrors held a metallic green glove high into the air, a beckoning call to his servants. Minions of a dark lord, nine servants of the one. The windows within the throne room wavered like water, and suddenly the servants of the dark lord stepped out. Like the Nazgûl of Sauron, ringwraiths lurching out with a ghostly aura. Nine clones of Evan McCulloch, each one guised exactly the same. Orange sequin jackets with some green embroidery epaulets and buttons. Each one with a sword held out and lurching forwards, silencing all who opposed their master.
Their master, a translucent titan, the rajah of reflection, almighty master of the mirror, the alpha Mirror Master. Television sets across the world panned up, from glittering orange trousers bright as starlight. A green cape flourished dramatically, swaying in a man made breeze like a galant flag in the evening wind. Orange robes with gold and green embroidery sparkling like diamonds, proud and shimmering. A green belt with a purple jewel held the ensemble tightly together, the entire the entire silken attire bedazzled by rhinestones tightly accentuating his physique and figure. His right hand clenched a golden scepter, jeweled in only the grandest of stones, his left held a glass of whine, cupped within the palm of his hands. He held the glass high, as if to give toast to the rise of a new empire. A new day and age. A new dynasty.
In the halls of the usurper there lives a false king. I lowly peasant of the slums bedazzled in the jewels and crown of a true king or queen, the jewels and gems of a proper royal lineage. The minions of this dark lord, henchmen to a transcendent evil, held their swords close, bowing their heads in some unholy reverence. His voice boomed across his kingdom with the audacity of god. He flourished his cape with a dramatic flair, pointing the scepter of the Queen forwards out boldly into the heavens above. ”I am the Mirror Master of Central City!” The megalomaniac held his chin high, sneering below to the crowds of cameramen and paparazzi. ”’An I ‘ave stolen the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom!” The world could only assume such from the golden crown nestled atop his shaggy mop. But he was not here to state the obvious... No, this opulent lord had far more grandiose declarations. ”Oh, ‘an I kidnapped Queen ‘Lizzie~” The translucent titan lazily gestured to the glass chandelier hanging high above, a gorgeous structure filled with crystalline shards shimmering like stars sky high. Suddenly, as if I’m cue, a rope coiled out from one of the twinkling glass shards, at the very end was Queen Elizabeth dangling like a worm on a hook. But she was of little intrigue to the rajah of reflection. Nay, his ambitions far surpassed that of a deposed royal held hostage. The alpha mirror master cast aside his glass of wine, it shattered across the marble floor. ”With the Queen in the palm a’ me ‘ands...” he brought his right hand, scepter in tow, to the left side of his chest. ”An’ the Crown Jewels in my possession...” He brought left hand to the right side of his chest, crossing over his right arm, looking to the heavens in a pose quite similar to the pharaohs of Egypt. ”Now I ‘ave all I need... T’ ascend from boy, t’ peasant, t’ King!” A grin twisted into his lips like the gnarled branches of a tree, climbing high across his cheeks in an effervescent pride. ”Bear witness... TO MY CORONATION AS THE NEW KING OF BRITAIN!!!” A bold claim, that deep down he knew was insubstantial. Nevertheless, all was well with the world. His minions held their fists up high in salute to their master. ”All hail Mirror Master.....” He whispered, soft as wind but beaming with the pride and joy of a young boy achieving his lifelong dreams. To that, his minions gave way to a chant.
The heaving horde of the dark lord cried a unanimous war chant for whatever god to hear and fear. Fists raised to the air, feet stomping to the floors like tawdry caucus of monstrous board. The monarch of Mirror Masters felt a tinge of euphoria tingle down his spine. Goosebumps mottled his flesh and crept all across his back in glee. With the might of Zeus, the usurper king thrusted the scepter of kings up sky high, as if it were a beacon hope like the Statue of Liberty. Gold glimmering like the light of God, blinding eyes and cameras alike in its horrific beauty. ”All hail Mirror Master!!!” He hurrahed to the heavens, beckoning his mind guards to scream his glory once more.
Caught up in the moment, the glory, and grandiosity of it all, Evan swayed his hips about in a dance of delight. He brought a hand up to his ears just to listen to those yes-men cronies chant and scream the glorious name of their king. It felt good. Very good. A narcissistic pleasure like few would ever know. It was so victorious and gaudy, like a true king. A regal splendor which he did so adore. With a pelvic thrust he pointed back to his crown of slaves ”Let’s ‘ear it, lads!!”
Regrettably, all good things must come to an end.
”WHO DISRUPTS MY CORONATION!?!?”
| Open |
Open/Closed: Open
Location(s): Buckingham Palace, United Kingdom
Time of Day: Noon
Weather: Soothing sunshine and clean air
Summary: Crash a castle and depose a king.
Note: this has been completely rewritten from the ground up, only dialogue and premise has been reused
Have you ever been enamored by a childhood dream? Wrought with guilt at the mere thought of failing your cardinal ambitions and desires. The roots of your very being, abandoned, forgotten, lost. I find it quite loathsome, the thought of your childish inclinations being banished to the darkest recesses of the minds eye. It’s sad, really... Every child has those outlandish dreams and aspirations. “When I grow up, I want.....” this or that. To be an astronaut or to be president of the U.S. of A. Evan McCulloch was truly no different, apart from the fact that suddenly, inexplicably these thoughts resurfaced... In the face of his faltering and failings professionally, emotionally, and psychologically, those submerged expressions emerged from the watery depths of his lucid thoughts with a foul taste. The taste of despair. The taste of shame.
It might not seem as such now, but as a boy Evan McCulloch was an avid reader. In particular, he enjoyed the fantastical works of Tolkien. Dwarves and hobbits, man and orcs all those creatures wrought in a war for The One Ring. The horrific tale of Sauron, Agent of Morgoth and his vile conquest of some Middle Earth. The hopeful tale of Aragorn, Ranger of the West and true king of Gondor. The struggle between good and evil for the soul of Middle Earth. A king standing proud and strong against an unstoppable evil. Young Evan admired Aragorn, a childhood hero of his. The great and wise king, charging dauntlessly into battle. Charging through the gates of Helm’s Deep and into a horde of mongrel half-orc monstrosities and sieging the Black Gates of Mordor, silencing the Mouth of Sauron with naught but his own honeyed words. Aragorn was truly amazing.... A hero. Yeah, a hero... He had always wanted to be a hero like that. His throat welled up at the thought of it all... He had always wanted to be a hero, yet here he was... A C-List villain of Keystone. There was no grand and glorious kingdom of golden white. No towering castles shining a beacon of hope across the land. Not a jeweled crown with diamonds and sapphire as clear as glass. All there was, a buzzed creep slowly coming off an embittered high.
He was no hero, that much is for certain... But an idea struck. He could be. A hero that is... He could be a hero. He could be a king. Evan McCulloch, the Mirror Master, could be another young lads Aragorn, if he put his mind to it. Big brained master of mirrors that he was, came up with an eloquent equation: crown + hoity-toityness = King. Seemed logical, but where to get a crown? There was Burger King, but nah. Cardboard wasn’t very regal. Not to mention, he could never stomach sh!tty American fast food chains. No, Mirror Master aimed for bigger, better, prouder...
In the Tower of London, the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom glistened and shimmered Luke starlight behind a case of glass. Sparkling effervescent like few beauties known to Earth. The plan was absurdly simple, a hop and a skip through the mirror dimension. Meandering through miles of reflections, until... Two gloves fingers reached out, foiling around the jewels, crown, and all. He pulled them in, and just like that he’d stolen the English Crown Jewels. He knew a few blokes at the National Party which would be foaming at mouth in envy right about now...
One week later, news outlets and social media were set ablaze by this obstinate act. The trending articles lit up like fire, scorching across the Internet in a blaze like never before. From Fox, to BBC. From Facebook to Twitter. It was bold and brash, and would put even the greatest criminal in all of fiction, James Moriarty, arch-rival of Sherlock Holmes to shame. Shame in its simplicity, shame in its effectiveness. The world was all abuzz with this strange tale, the tale of a pair of hands scooping up the greatest treasure in all of the United Kingdom like a toddler scooping up clumps of candy in his chubby fingers.
What does it mean to be King anyway? There are tyrants and terrors usurping fame and fortune from all across history. Piggish looking man children like Louis XVI (who famously had his head chopped clean off by the guillotine), horrific monsters like Vlad Țepeș the blood sucking impaler of Transylvania (the inspiration for Dracula in fact), and so many more of different class and cultures. One of their ilk, a Queen actually, the Queen in fact... The Queen of England, Elizabeth II was amidst this conspiracy. Caught between this plot ployed by some unknown but nefarious n’er-do-well. Tonight, she was bidden to make a statement. To quell the unrest, and appease the peasants. In the halls of Buckingham Palace, glistening jeweled halls of the crown, there lurked a garrison of press, photographers, cameramen, and journalists. Shadows enveloped the throne room, inspire of flash photography, and deathly silence struck the air, in spite of of the clamoring of cameras. The room, a sea of velvet and gold was blanketed in the soft cushion of darkness and silence. Light was dramatically unveiled, guards pulling off curtains to unveil some small amount of illumination. An elderly fellow stepped forwards, gesturing to a throne enveloped in darkness.
”Announcing the arrival of Elizabeth the Second, Queen of the United Kingdom of England, Scotland, Whales, and North Ireland!”
Coronation - By Vince DiCola
Coronation - By Vince DiCola
A sextet of horns heralded the arrival of what should have been the Queen. But it was not the Queen. A shadowy figure, who lounged legs crossed lazily within the throne arose as though it were summoned. Stepping out of the shadows as the call of trumpets declared someone wise and wonderful. It was Mirror Master. An audible gasp from the crowd rumbled across the room, cameramen ogling at the regent of reflection on live television as he stood, proud and boastful for the whole works to take notice. Evan strolled down, large green boots gliding eloquently down the steps. A king in all of his ostentatious splendor. He shimmered in a magnanimous Orange glow, like the blinding light of god shimmering in the darkness. The boots, metal like a knight’s armor swaggered ever downwards. A garish cape green as grass and silky smooth like the coziest blanket imaginable gracefully dragged behind the clamoring of metal steps. Orange trousers creased with every strut downwards.
”Who... Who in the name of-!?” Some elderly creature dared to interrupt his grand entrance. Without a moments hesitation, the monarch of mirrors held a metallic green glove high into the air, a beckoning call to his servants. Minions of a dark lord, nine servants of the one. The windows within the throne room wavered like water, and suddenly the servants of the dark lord stepped out. Like the Nazgûl of Sauron, ringwraiths lurching out with a ghostly aura. Nine clones of Evan McCulloch, each one guised exactly the same. Orange sequin jackets with some green embroidery epaulets and buttons. Each one with a sword held out and lurching forwards, silencing all who opposed their master.
Their master, a translucent titan, the rajah of reflection, almighty master of the mirror, the alpha Mirror Master. Television sets across the world panned up, from glittering orange trousers bright as starlight. A green cape flourished dramatically, swaying in a man made breeze like a galant flag in the evening wind. Orange robes with gold and green embroidery sparkling like diamonds, proud and shimmering. A green belt with a purple jewel held the ensemble tightly together, the entire the entire silken attire bedazzled by rhinestones tightly accentuating his physique and figure. His right hand clenched a golden scepter, jeweled in only the grandest of stones, his left held a glass of whine, cupped within the palm of his hands. He held the glass high, as if to give toast to the rise of a new empire. A new day and age. A new dynasty.
”ATTENTION WORLD!! ‘EAR MY ETERNAL PROCLAMATION:”
In the halls of the usurper there lives a false king. I lowly peasant of the slums bedazzled in the jewels and crown of a true king or queen, the jewels and gems of a proper royal lineage. The minions of this dark lord, henchmen to a transcendent evil, held their swords close, bowing their heads in some unholy reverence. His voice boomed across his kingdom with the audacity of god. He flourished his cape with a dramatic flair, pointing the scepter of the Queen forwards out boldly into the heavens above. ”I am the Mirror Master of Central City!” The megalomaniac held his chin high, sneering below to the crowds of cameramen and paparazzi. ”’An I ‘ave stolen the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom!” The world could only assume such from the golden crown nestled atop his shaggy mop. But he was not here to state the obvious... No, this opulent lord had far more grandiose declarations. ”Oh, ‘an I kidnapped Queen ‘Lizzie~” The translucent titan lazily gestured to the glass chandelier hanging high above, a gorgeous structure filled with crystalline shards shimmering like stars sky high. Suddenly, as if I’m cue, a rope coiled out from one of the twinkling glass shards, at the very end was Queen Elizabeth dangling like a worm on a hook. But she was of little intrigue to the rajah of reflection. Nay, his ambitions far surpassed that of a deposed royal held hostage. The alpha mirror master cast aside his glass of wine, it shattered across the marble floor. ”With the Queen in the palm a’ me ‘ands...” he brought his right hand, scepter in tow, to the left side of his chest. ”An’ the Crown Jewels in my possession...” He brought left hand to the right side of his chest, crossing over his right arm, looking to the heavens in a pose quite similar to the pharaohs of Egypt. ”Now I ‘ave all I need... T’ ascend from boy, t’ peasant, t’ King!” A grin twisted into his lips like the gnarled branches of a tree, climbing high across his cheeks in an effervescent pride. ”Bear witness... TO MY CORONATION AS THE NEW KING OF BRITAIN!!!” A bold claim, that deep down he knew was insubstantial. Nevertheless, all was well with the world. His minions held their fists up high in salute to their master. ”All hail Mirror Master.....” He whispered, soft as wind but beaming with the pride and joy of a young boy achieving his lifelong dreams. To that, his minions gave way to a chant.
The heaving horde of the dark lord cried a unanimous war chant for whatever god to hear and fear. Fists raised to the air, feet stomping to the floors like tawdry caucus of monstrous board. The monarch of Mirror Masters felt a tinge of euphoria tingle down his spine. Goosebumps mottled his flesh and crept all across his back in glee. With the might of Zeus, the usurper king thrusted the scepter of kings up sky high, as if it were a beacon hope like the Statue of Liberty. Gold glimmering like the light of God, blinding eyes and cameras alike in its horrific beauty. ”All hail Mirror Master!!!” He hurrahed to the heavens, beckoning his mind guards to scream his glory once more.
Caught up in the moment, the glory, and grandiosity of it all, Evan swayed his hips about in a dance of delight. He brought a hand up to his ears just to listen to those yes-men cronies chant and scream the glorious name of their king. It felt good. Very good. A narcissistic pleasure like few would ever know. It was so victorious and gaudy, like a true king. A regal splendor which he did so adore. With a pelvic thrust he pointed back to his crown of slaves ”Let’s ‘ear it, lads!!”
Regrettably, all good things must come to an end.
”WHO DISRUPTS MY CORONATION!?!?”
| Open |
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