Must Stay Focused
Go on, laugh. All a big joke to you. I’ve heard the whispers. Whispers I hear in between my ears every second of everyday. You’re all conspiring against me and I refuse to fall victim to it.
Must stay focused. Mustn’t be a victim.
Within an empty upstairs flat in a a rural part of Brooklyn, New York. Bare floorboards with no carpet and no other decor provided.
Presumably, freshly bought or even rented and it is in desperate need of some tender loving care. Holes, stained walls and a character trait of poorness can be discerned.
There, sitting in the middle of the room is a naked Jonny O’Dell sat on a steal chair. Words such as War Games (etched on forehead) and other historic names such as Reynolds, ICON, World are all scribed in ink all over his limp gormless body. Ink from head all the way down to little pinky.
All that can be heard is the power of raindrops outside. Little rumbles of a storm are heard sporadically.
You’ve lost two whole pounds, Darin? Wow, girl, that Richard Simmons workout DVD is really working out for you. Mate, I could legit go for a dump now and lose five pounds but I wouldn’t expect a gold badge for my efforts.
But wait, if I had two dumps in one day that’s ten pounds I could lose. And if I had four dumps in two days that’s twenty fucking pounds.
The sound of lightening suddenly hits and temporarily lights up the poorly lit room. During that small time frame, Jonny O’Dell adds numbers to an already huge equation scrawled in pen all over the wall.
When the lightening stops, then so does O’Dell. Meanwhile, he just sits emotionless back on the steal chair.
All you are is a copy and paste job. You’re comparing me to your match with Eric Dane and that’s fantastic if it gets the job done, Darin. Well done. I will be the first cat to stick my paw out and say ‘the better cat won’ on the day. But come on, Darin.. give me something else to play with. Add a ball to the cat scratcher and let’s have some fun, ay?
O’Dell breaks face and lets out a sadistic half smile. Only for a short moment, though. As he thunderously reverts back to an evil reverie.
You know, I used to have sympathy for you. It actually pains me to say it but I can somewhat relate to you. But you know the difference between you and I, Darin? Your personality screams victim. Because you’re a people pleaser. You’re a steady eddy. Middle of the road guy. You have memorized the HOW manual on what it takes to be a star for fuck sake.
Now, I’d like to argue if that actually does take hard work or maybe it’s just the case of you playing safe? Because, with the latter, you’ve got that down to a fine art my friend.
Lightening strikes a second time and within that small snippet of time, O’Dell creates art on the opposite wall (to the equation). This time, smearing the letter ‘W’ with a palm full of ink and a dastardly laugh to boot.
The lightening stops and O’Dell returns back to sitting on the chair. All the while, the transitions from chair to wall can not be distinguished due to blind-spots.
Be bold, Darin. Come on, lad.. you want respect here? Listen to the old man for once. I’d rather risk it for a biscuit then to die on somebody else’s dick. Stop being a copycat and break the mold. Because at the moment all you are doing is saying all the things you think you should be saying. Not believing them, and without any substance.
You wonder why the Hall Of Fame induction eludes you. Well… I could go on and expose the whole thing if I wanted to. My mind is currently conjuring up the biggest conspiracy ever for that very ceremony. But I will refrain. The immediate feeling I get is that there’s no place in the HOW Hall Of Fame for every other run of the mill guy. But… what does this crazy nonsensical bastard know?
One huge bit of drool drops from the corner of O’Dell’s mouth and onto his bare thigh. This, however, does not spark reaction as he ponders what he’s just reflected.
O’DELL: Thank you..
O’Dell slops his chops, and murmurs his words.
O’DELL: God. Thank you..
If I was to speculate then I’d say O’Dell is making up his own Hall Of Fame speech in the phantasm of his mind. His prestigious trophy being his medium-to-small sized penis as he clutches onto it.
Whilst doing so, O’Dell’s eyes widen as the grip tightens and there’s a real sense of separation there. The clear glaze of a psychotic sick man is pretty evident.
You’re the biggest walking-talking contradiction I’ve ever met in my life. Just throw shit at the wall and hope it sticks. In one breath you say you’ve never been more focused for a match against me and in the next one you are on a radio show throwing out open challengers. You look past me you twat, you’re going to get a shock. You all are. You just fucking watch.
Fuck, I thought I was meant to be the crazy mental conspirator here? But I can’t help but call a spade a spade here. Calling it exactly how I see it. I mean, not like my theories have ever been wrong before.
Immediate close up on O’Dell’s face.
O’DELL: Don’t mention past opponents, stay focused, always current opponents, don’t let them know the secrets, stay focused, tell them how driven you are, you don’t find Shane sexy, stay focused..
O’Dell, incoherently rambles. He repeats those same very phrases over and over again to perhaps mentally program himself.
I can see your seething, Darin. I like that. Because by your own admission you say your weakness is anger. So guess what, mate? I’ve already defeated you before you even step through that curtain and between those ropes. You damn right I’m the master of mental warfare and I’ve just set a grenade off in your pea-sized brain. Classic, Darin Zion… locking himself away from the world doing his little research on me, and blurting out his biggest weakness. Oh, don’t worry.. I’m going to exploit this very opportunity just so little Darin Zion can work himself up into a frenzy. Also meaning, Jonny O has your punk card, pal!
So, here’s a compiled list of all the things that you, by your own admission, Darin Zion – really gets on your very goat….
- Sad dogs
- Max Kael
- Illegal dog breeding
- Eye patches
- The ending of the movie Marley and Me;
- The decimation of the HOW manual by way of fire;
- Using a helpless poodle as bait in a dogfight;
- Scott Stevens
- The greyhound my mate Gavin is in a happy healthy relationship with;
- The hunting and maiming of Bambi;
- Cruella de Vil
- And finally, this particular scene from Air Bud: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hd2SNBQxIIs
Those truly being some of the few of my favorite things, mate.
See what’s happening here, Sweet Zion? Just like in the beginning when I first spoke out, don’t you see?! You simply got caught with your pants down, fella. Hear that… there’s someone at the door, you better go answer it. But hurry, pull up your pants before it’s too late.
I fucking prompted this reaction from you, just like Max Kael did when you squared off. We’ve talked about being bold, yeah? Well fuck me sideways, you need a nuke up your arse to get going. To get your arse back in the gym. Otherwise, if I’d of kept my mouth shut you’d have just lazed about. Fuck mate, you want this Hall Of Fame so bad? Make it on your own terms, brother. You got caught napping.
You profess that I’m taking you lightly and that you’re going to give me a hard lesson. Really, mate? Is that the best you can do? I couldn’t of spoken any more highly of you. Throwing your name into the debate as one of the greatest of all time is no mean feat is it not? I don’t know what else you want. I could give you something else, if you truly wanted it? Like… a royal kick up the backside.
Fact is, you weren’t napping. You’ve been in a deep sleep with your very own custom made Darin Zion blankey. Soon to be a coma when I nearly kill you with The Climax. And your tried and tested method of research is not going to work on a thirty year vet at the eleventh hour. But please, drink your raw eggs, read my bio, fuck my ex wife for all I care. Because it doesn’t matter, Darin Zion. Because you’re too late. I’m already living inside your head rent free, and I’m not leaving.
They say lightening doesn’t strike twice, but its struck a third time here in Brooklyn.
Jonny O’Dell screeches like a hyena and has the folded steal chair up over his head. There isn’t time to digest this imagery as he immediately jolts toward the camera and with a–
The camera is attacked.
Clock is ticking, dickwad.
Some Time Later. . .
Remarkably, the HOW feed is still able to gain a connection. Though, it seems pretty pointless with the image being fuzzy and dark. The faulted image plays for the duration.
Suddenly, the image picks back up. Granted, it’s a horizontal image but O’Dell aids by allowing some light into the room. Presuming it’s Jonny O’Dell that is, as all that can be seen is the bare bottom half of him. O’Dell, meanwhile, draws the darkened curtains back from the window.
The battery icon shows, which indicates the camera is losing power. The final image on the feed being the powerful buttocks of one Jonny O’Dell.
On said buttocks, on the left cheek reads ‘ZI’ and on the right cheek is the letter ‘N’.
O’Dell stands and waits, fully exposed looking out of the window. He then bends..