"We're all hypocrites, aren't we?"
Aug 15, 2021 23:07:44 GMT -5
Marcus Welsh, petervaughn, and 1 more like this
Post by Mack O'Connor on Aug 15, 2021 23:07:44 GMT -5
The two adversaries sit across the table. A single light illuminates the pair. One leans back in their chair with their arms crossed, a small smirk curving at the sides of her mouth. The other leans forward, his elbows on the table as he takes a drag from his cigarette. He exhales, blowing the smoke in the direction of the adversary. The smoke blows past her face, but she doesn’t move a muscle. If anything, it would almost appear her smirk gained strength.
He takes a sip of the beer in front of him, staring at the adversary with intent. He casually studied her, trying to spot some sort of tell on her cold face. She gave him nothing, calmly sipping on what appeared to be a vodka cranberry with some bubbles most likely due to the addition of Sprite.
Deeming that the existence of said tell was irrelevant, Mack O’Connor opens his mouth to speak.
So, I’m gonna be honest with you here, Miss Granger… When I told Poblano that you wanted me to fuck you, it was mainly me just fuckin’ around, ya know? Just talking some shit, get some laughs, the works. But, I gotta tell you… If I didn’t think that before, I definitely think it now. The reaction says it all. I’m far from a fuckin’ psychologist, but the over the top reaction was… Well, over the top. If someone claimed I wanted to fuck them when I didn’t, I’d probably just smile and go on with my life. You? You go on an entire rant on it. A monologue, if you will. For something that’s completely not true, it sure did seem to get a rise out of you. Not that it matters to me. If it happens to be true or not, means nothing to me.
He takes a sip from his beer again, letting out a smile.
Ah, but then again… I just went on a rant, as well. We're all hypocrites, aren't we? Must have meant something to me then, I suppose. Perhaps if only for a good laugh.
He releases a small chuckle.
And for the record… I never implied you’d trade out James for me. I agree that it’d be a bad call for you. James is much more submissive. Definitely a Beta Male. Nothing wrong with that, just a better fit for you. Also, I’m not very house broken.
Mack takes the final sip of his beer. He gives a wave into the darkness that surrounds them. As if on cue, a server walks into view and sets down another beer.
Thank you.
He takes another sip.
You’re very peculiar, Betsy… For someone so unique and talented, you seem to spit the same garbage everyone else does. “You suck.” “You haven’t earned anything.” Objectively stupid claims. I’m decorated. I’m an active Hall of Famer. When you combine OCW and GCWA, I’ve had an extremely successful career. To say that I “drunkenly fell into” this success is a ridiculous claim to make. This is not conjecture, this is fact. So when you attempt to make these points, you don’t look like a tough fighter: You simply look dumb.
Another sip.
“You’re an alcoholic.” I mean, sure. Fine. “You’re too drunk to even-“ whatever comes next. All red herrings, all distractions, all nonsense. We all tend to pick out each other’s’ weaknesses and vulnerabilities and attack them. Why not? It’s the easiest thing to do. But… How unoriginal can we get? You’re all the same. If I could count how many of my opponents tried insulting me over my alcohol use… I’d count zero. But go on claiming how unique you are. You’re just another rinse, recycle, repeat.
Another sip.
“You beat me before, but you won’t beat me this time!” Shut the fuck up. There’s a decent chance you might beat me: You’re a good fighter, and you’ve clearly improved. But get the fuck out of here with this cliché shit. “I’ve grown so much since then!” Blow me. We’re all growing all the time. And, let me beat you to it… “You haven’t grown. You haven’t changed at all.” Queen Cliché over here. More predictable than the boat sinking in Titanic. You’re like a cook on Hell’s Kitchen defending themselves: “I have so much to give, I’m not done fighting, I’m a fighter.” Meanwhile, Ramsay is probably thinking “How many more fucking times do I have to hear this drivel?” before calling you a muppet and sending you home. Oh, wait… Let me beat you to it again… “He wouldn’t send me home!”
Mack smiles again, taking a drag off his cigarette.
I do admire your tenacity, though. Game respects game. You’re a fighter, and you’ve given me a run for my money. I like that. What would be the fun if it were easy, am I right? Your mistake, however, is having a guaranteed outcome in your head. I go into every fight with confidence, but I know there’s a chance I won’t come out the winner. That doesn’t make me weak: That makes me realistic. That allows me to be prepared when things go south. For someone who has changed so much since our last match, you seem to be making the same mistakes. The only difference now is that you don’t think you’re making them.
A man walks in from the shadows. He has dark hair, a pale face, and wears a blue shirt with an embroidery of the United Federation of Planets emblem. He sits next to Mack.
He makes sound points, Miss Granger. It may be uncomfortable, but the points are logical.
Thank you, Spock. It means a lot.
Another man steps in from the shadows. Dark skin, a bald head, sunglasses, and a dark trench coat. He stands behind Mack.
I know its hard to accept, Betsy. But the truth is always hard to accept. But once the truth is accepted, you’ll open your eyes and they will never be closed again.
Spock looks up at the man.
True words, Morpheus.
Morpheus gives a nod as a woman walks into the light. She has on a military jumpsuit, with a Weyland-Utani logo embroidered on the breast. She walks up to the table quickly, slamming her hand on the table and pointing a finger in Betsy’s face.
Get away from him, you bitch!
Mack stands up.
Whoa! Calm down, Ridley! That’s not necessary.
Ridley steps away, taking breaths. She storms away. Mack looks to Betsy.
You good? You okay?
Betsy doesn’t move a muscle.
Mack pauses, taking in the scene as if for the first time. Mack looks at Morpheus and Spock.
This is sort of… Weird, right?
All things are weird when you don’t understand them.
No, not like that… Like… Why are you two here? Maybe not why… But how? How are you here? You’re not real.
Well, Mr. O’Connor, are any of us real? Perhaps you are just as fictional as we are.
No, I’m an actual person.
Are you sure? Maybe you only exist inside a network of computers. Perhaps your life is a simulation. Perhaps your personality is contrived from a man who sits at his laptop every now and then and writes out your daily life.
...the fuck...
What if I told you your whole life has been a lie? What if I told you that someone has created you for some sort of game for competition and personal entertainment?
Are you high?
Perhaps you are the one who is high, Mack. What was the last thing you remembered before coming to this bar?
I was… Gregory Poblano asked me over to talk about some business… And… And… Wait…
Morpheus, Spock, and Betsy all suddenly disappear. Mack looks around the room, dumbfounded.
Wait… no...
----------
Mack’s eyes snap open. He quickly glances around the room: He’s in what looks like a garage, he’s sitting in a chair, and his arms are tied down to the chair with rubber bands.
Oh God dammit!
Gregory Poblano walks into view. He is barefoot but has on white slacks, a doctor’s jacket with no undershirt, and his white fedora. He removes too surgical gloves from his hands.
He lets out a gleeful smile.
Mr. O’Connor!
What the fuck is going on, Poblano?!?!
Oh? You don’t remember? We were talking about you signing a contract so that I would represent you. And I cooked you some steak and mashed potatoes.
Steak and potatoes didn’t get me here!
Oh… True. I started smoking some weed, and you wanted some. So you took a few hits… And I restrained you so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.
Mack looks down at his arms.
With rubberbands?!
Poblano shrugs.
It was either that or aluminum foil.
Mack rips his arms out, snapping the rubber bands.
How long have I been out?
It’s been about eight hours.
Eight hours? What kind of fuckin’ weed did you give me? I had a conversation with fuckin’ Morpheus and Spock.
Poblano smiles again.
Morpheus and Spock? Great philosophical combo if you ask me!
I’m asking what you gave me! I’d have to be on some pretty gnarly stuff to believe that was real.
Poblano smiles again with glee, twiddling his thumbs like a giddy child waiting to be given a present.
Let me tell you, my boy! I gave you the ol’ Poblano Puffy Puff. Its like regular weed, but I put a bunch of the good shit in with it. Sort of like a psychedelic stir fry wrapped up in seaweed.
Mack stands up, stretching out a bit.
Poblano Puffy Puff... I don’t even want to know.
One time I finished a whole blunt to myself. I thought I was swimming in Willy Wonka’s chocolate river with Mona Lisa and George W. Bush. Ol’ Bushy was scooping up chocolate in an urn full of Atilla The Hun’s ashes, and pouring that sweet nectar directly into my mouth. And Mona stripped herself of her clothing and started doing the most beautiful synchronized swimming that was worthy of seven Olympic gold medals.
Poblano pauses, staring off into nothing. Mack stares at him blankly. Poblano then lets out a long sigh. He looks over at Mack.
Woke up on the Jersey side of the Hudson River, cuddled up with a homeless Norwegian woman and covered in shit. Well… At least I hope it was shit.
I’m leaving.
That’s fair, it’s been a long night! You just call me when you’re ready for me to push your career to all new levels!
Mack raises his hand as if he’s about to say something aggressive and profound. Instead, he just turns and walks away.
----------
Mack walks out of the house. Early morning light is starting to show over the horizon.
As soon as Mack hits the sidewalk, he makes his way down the street. He pulls his cell phone out and dials a number.
Mack: Pick up… I know you're always awake this early…
After a few rings, a voice picks up on the other end. The voice is upbeat and chirpy.
Hey Mack. A little early for a call. Or was it a late night?
Shut up, Treat. I need some help.
Advice? Hm… Professional help or friendly help? Because last time I tried being your friend, you made clear that we weren’t friends. And last time I tried speaking to you professionally, you made it very clear that I was no longer your manager and agent.
Mack stops walking, taking that in for a moment.
I just need some fuckin’ help. It’s been a really long night.
Ah, so a late night then. You would never wake up this early.
Whatever… Look, can you help me or not?
Maybe. What do you need?
I went over to fuckin’ Poblano’s house last night, and he…
Poblano? Greg Poblano?
You know him?
Yeah, I know him. We graduated college the same year. Brilliant man, but he’s a bit out there to put it nicely.
I’m starting to get that.
Why were you over there?
He wants to manage me. He said he’d provide dinner and booze, so I thought I’d hear him out.
And what did he have to say?
I don’t remember. We were having drinks and he was about to get to his pitch, but he gave me some weed and next thing I know…
Wait… Don’t tell me it was the Poblano Puffy Puff!
You know about the Poblano Puffy Puff?!
Who doesn't know about the Poblano Puffy Puff?!?! Where are you?! I’m sending a car!
Give me a second… I need to find an address…
Mack, never do the Poblano Puffy Puff. Smoke all the drugs you want, fine… But not the P.P.P.
Never again… Okay, taking a picture of the address and I’ll text it to you.
Someone will be there soon, Mack. Just hold on, okay? Hang in there!
Mack rolls his eyes and hangs up.
Fuckin’ P.P.P.
He takes a sip of the beer in front of him, staring at the adversary with intent. He casually studied her, trying to spot some sort of tell on her cold face. She gave him nothing, calmly sipping on what appeared to be a vodka cranberry with some bubbles most likely due to the addition of Sprite.
Deeming that the existence of said tell was irrelevant, Mack O’Connor opens his mouth to speak.
So, I’m gonna be honest with you here, Miss Granger… When I told Poblano that you wanted me to fuck you, it was mainly me just fuckin’ around, ya know? Just talking some shit, get some laughs, the works. But, I gotta tell you… If I didn’t think that before, I definitely think it now. The reaction says it all. I’m far from a fuckin’ psychologist, but the over the top reaction was… Well, over the top. If someone claimed I wanted to fuck them when I didn’t, I’d probably just smile and go on with my life. You? You go on an entire rant on it. A monologue, if you will. For something that’s completely not true, it sure did seem to get a rise out of you. Not that it matters to me. If it happens to be true or not, means nothing to me.
He takes a sip from his beer again, letting out a smile.
Ah, but then again… I just went on a rant, as well. We're all hypocrites, aren't we? Must have meant something to me then, I suppose. Perhaps if only for a good laugh.
He releases a small chuckle.
And for the record… I never implied you’d trade out James for me. I agree that it’d be a bad call for you. James is much more submissive. Definitely a Beta Male. Nothing wrong with that, just a better fit for you. Also, I’m not very house broken.
Mack takes the final sip of his beer. He gives a wave into the darkness that surrounds them. As if on cue, a server walks into view and sets down another beer.
Thank you.
He takes another sip.
You’re very peculiar, Betsy… For someone so unique and talented, you seem to spit the same garbage everyone else does. “You suck.” “You haven’t earned anything.” Objectively stupid claims. I’m decorated. I’m an active Hall of Famer. When you combine OCW and GCWA, I’ve had an extremely successful career. To say that I “drunkenly fell into” this success is a ridiculous claim to make. This is not conjecture, this is fact. So when you attempt to make these points, you don’t look like a tough fighter: You simply look dumb.
Another sip.
“You’re an alcoholic.” I mean, sure. Fine. “You’re too drunk to even-“ whatever comes next. All red herrings, all distractions, all nonsense. We all tend to pick out each other’s’ weaknesses and vulnerabilities and attack them. Why not? It’s the easiest thing to do. But… How unoriginal can we get? You’re all the same. If I could count how many of my opponents tried insulting me over my alcohol use… I’d count zero. But go on claiming how unique you are. You’re just another rinse, recycle, repeat.
Another sip.
“You beat me before, but you won’t beat me this time!” Shut the fuck up. There’s a decent chance you might beat me: You’re a good fighter, and you’ve clearly improved. But get the fuck out of here with this cliché shit. “I’ve grown so much since then!” Blow me. We’re all growing all the time. And, let me beat you to it… “You haven’t grown. You haven’t changed at all.” Queen Cliché over here. More predictable than the boat sinking in Titanic. You’re like a cook on Hell’s Kitchen defending themselves: “I have so much to give, I’m not done fighting, I’m a fighter.” Meanwhile, Ramsay is probably thinking “How many more fucking times do I have to hear this drivel?” before calling you a muppet and sending you home. Oh, wait… Let me beat you to it again… “He wouldn’t send me home!”
Mack smiles again, taking a drag off his cigarette.
I do admire your tenacity, though. Game respects game. You’re a fighter, and you’ve given me a run for my money. I like that. What would be the fun if it were easy, am I right? Your mistake, however, is having a guaranteed outcome in your head. I go into every fight with confidence, but I know there’s a chance I won’t come out the winner. That doesn’t make me weak: That makes me realistic. That allows me to be prepared when things go south. For someone who has changed so much since our last match, you seem to be making the same mistakes. The only difference now is that you don’t think you’re making them.
A man walks in from the shadows. He has dark hair, a pale face, and wears a blue shirt with an embroidery of the United Federation of Planets emblem. He sits next to Mack.
He makes sound points, Miss Granger. It may be uncomfortable, but the points are logical.
Thank you, Spock. It means a lot.
Another man steps in from the shadows. Dark skin, a bald head, sunglasses, and a dark trench coat. He stands behind Mack.
I know its hard to accept, Betsy. But the truth is always hard to accept. But once the truth is accepted, you’ll open your eyes and they will never be closed again.
Spock looks up at the man.
True words, Morpheus.
Morpheus gives a nod as a woman walks into the light. She has on a military jumpsuit, with a Weyland-Utani logo embroidered on the breast. She walks up to the table quickly, slamming her hand on the table and pointing a finger in Betsy’s face.
Get away from him, you bitch!
Mack stands up.
Whoa! Calm down, Ridley! That’s not necessary.
Ridley steps away, taking breaths. She storms away. Mack looks to Betsy.
You good? You okay?
Betsy doesn’t move a muscle.
Mack pauses, taking in the scene as if for the first time. Mack looks at Morpheus and Spock.
This is sort of… Weird, right?
All things are weird when you don’t understand them.
No, not like that… Like… Why are you two here? Maybe not why… But how? How are you here? You’re not real.
Well, Mr. O’Connor, are any of us real? Perhaps you are just as fictional as we are.
No, I’m an actual person.
Are you sure? Maybe you only exist inside a network of computers. Perhaps your life is a simulation. Perhaps your personality is contrived from a man who sits at his laptop every now and then and writes out your daily life.
...the fuck...
What if I told you your whole life has been a lie? What if I told you that someone has created you for some sort of game for competition and personal entertainment?
Are you high?
Perhaps you are the one who is high, Mack. What was the last thing you remembered before coming to this bar?
I was… Gregory Poblano asked me over to talk about some business… And… And… Wait…
Morpheus, Spock, and Betsy all suddenly disappear. Mack looks around the room, dumbfounded.
Wait… no...
----------
Mack’s eyes snap open. He quickly glances around the room: He’s in what looks like a garage, he’s sitting in a chair, and his arms are tied down to the chair with rubber bands.
Oh God dammit!
Gregory Poblano walks into view. He is barefoot but has on white slacks, a doctor’s jacket with no undershirt, and his white fedora. He removes too surgical gloves from his hands.
He lets out a gleeful smile.
Mr. O’Connor!
What the fuck is going on, Poblano?!?!
Oh? You don’t remember? We were talking about you signing a contract so that I would represent you. And I cooked you some steak and mashed potatoes.
Steak and potatoes didn’t get me here!
Oh… True. I started smoking some weed, and you wanted some. So you took a few hits… And I restrained you so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.
Mack looks down at his arms.
With rubberbands?!
Poblano shrugs.
It was either that or aluminum foil.
Mack rips his arms out, snapping the rubber bands.
How long have I been out?
It’s been about eight hours.
Eight hours? What kind of fuckin’ weed did you give me? I had a conversation with fuckin’ Morpheus and Spock.
Poblano smiles again.
Morpheus and Spock? Great philosophical combo if you ask me!
I’m asking what you gave me! I’d have to be on some pretty gnarly stuff to believe that was real.
Poblano smiles again with glee, twiddling his thumbs like a giddy child waiting to be given a present.
Let me tell you, my boy! I gave you the ol’ Poblano Puffy Puff. Its like regular weed, but I put a bunch of the good shit in with it. Sort of like a psychedelic stir fry wrapped up in seaweed.
Mack stands up, stretching out a bit.
Poblano Puffy Puff... I don’t even want to know.
One time I finished a whole blunt to myself. I thought I was swimming in Willy Wonka’s chocolate river with Mona Lisa and George W. Bush. Ol’ Bushy was scooping up chocolate in an urn full of Atilla The Hun’s ashes, and pouring that sweet nectar directly into my mouth. And Mona stripped herself of her clothing and started doing the most beautiful synchronized swimming that was worthy of seven Olympic gold medals.
Poblano pauses, staring off into nothing. Mack stares at him blankly. Poblano then lets out a long sigh. He looks over at Mack.
Woke up on the Jersey side of the Hudson River, cuddled up with a homeless Norwegian woman and covered in shit. Well… At least I hope it was shit.
I’m leaving.
That’s fair, it’s been a long night! You just call me when you’re ready for me to push your career to all new levels!
Mack raises his hand as if he’s about to say something aggressive and profound. Instead, he just turns and walks away.
----------
Mack walks out of the house. Early morning light is starting to show over the horizon.
As soon as Mack hits the sidewalk, he makes his way down the street. He pulls his cell phone out and dials a number.
Mack: Pick up… I know you're always awake this early…
After a few rings, a voice picks up on the other end. The voice is upbeat and chirpy.
Hey Mack. A little early for a call. Or was it a late night?
Shut up, Treat. I need some help.
Advice? Hm… Professional help or friendly help? Because last time I tried being your friend, you made clear that we weren’t friends. And last time I tried speaking to you professionally, you made it very clear that I was no longer your manager and agent.
Mack stops walking, taking that in for a moment.
I just need some fuckin’ help. It’s been a really long night.
Ah, so a late night then. You would never wake up this early.
Whatever… Look, can you help me or not?
Maybe. What do you need?
I went over to fuckin’ Poblano’s house last night, and he…
Poblano? Greg Poblano?
You know him?
Yeah, I know him. We graduated college the same year. Brilliant man, but he’s a bit out there to put it nicely.
I’m starting to get that.
Why were you over there?
He wants to manage me. He said he’d provide dinner and booze, so I thought I’d hear him out.
And what did he have to say?
I don’t remember. We were having drinks and he was about to get to his pitch, but he gave me some weed and next thing I know…
Wait… Don’t tell me it was the Poblano Puffy Puff!
You know about the Poblano Puffy Puff?!
Who doesn't know about the Poblano Puffy Puff?!?! Where are you?! I’m sending a car!
Give me a second… I need to find an address…
Mack, never do the Poblano Puffy Puff. Smoke all the drugs you want, fine… But not the P.P.P.
Never again… Okay, taking a picture of the address and I’ll text it to you.
Someone will be there soon, Mack. Just hold on, okay? Hang in there!
Mack rolls his eyes and hangs up.
Fuckin’ P.P.P.