(Content Warning) Nickleman's Body Shop: The "Game"!
Nov 20, 2022 0:40:19 GMT -5
Derek Mobley and Harmony like this
Post by The Nickleman on Nov 20, 2022 0:40:19 GMT -5
Mummy don't know daddy's getting hot
At the body shop
Doing something unholy
At the body shop
Doing something unholy
A lonely mother looks out her bedroom window longingly as a child rests in her arms. A single tear slips out of the solemn woman’s eye and drips down her cheek, falling to the floor. A fitting soundtrack plays softly in the background of this immutably distorted scene.
Oh-ee-oh-ee-oh, he left his kids at
Ho-ee-oh-ee-ome so he can get that
Mummy don't know daddy's getting hot
At the body shop
We transition to a rustic shot of an abandoned garage. The words ‘CUT ER BODY SHOP’ are affixed to the top of the building, unbudging and unmoving forevermore. Something about this place seems uncanny valley, but you can't quite put your finger on it.
Doin' somethin' unholy
The camera slowly zooms in on the derelict garage, showcasing the ‘closed’ sign placed behind windowpane. The camera remains fixated on the sign for several seconds until a splattering of blood sprays across one of the glass panels. A muffled scream is heard from behind the door, but it only takes a few seconds for the sound of a sniveling bitch to be snuffed out for good. That’s when the guttural moaning begins. Another splash of blood hits the window.
The camera zooms in on the darkness behind the bloodstained glass, before suddenly the audience perspective shifts to be inside the body shop. The camera follows along the cracks on the concrete floor, moving past 11 buckets filled with red ichor as we explore the interior of the garage. Two of the buckets have been kicked over and are spilling their contents, but the other 9 stand tall. The only car part in sight is a bloody tire iron propped up against the far wall. We can hear the demented murmurs of a madman as the camera continues tracing the cracks in the concrete floor.
“I always feel so desperate, so defeated after a loss….but at least I’ll never feel alone…not as long as you stay here with me. I need you, all of you, to help me…to support me…to cheer for me…”
The camera suddenly stops on a dime as it comes upon the wooden legs of a workman’s bench. The camera rises until we see the wide variety of tools laid out across a cloth on the table.
“Life is pain, life is suffering, life is merciless….but life must go on. For me, at least….for you broads? Not so much. But at least you have a new, more fulfilling purpose here. Ever since I last tasted that burning sting of defeat, I haven’t been able to get it off my mind….I need a palette cleanser.”
The camera shifts away from the tormentor’s worktable and back towards the floor. The camera pans up from the 11 buckets to reveal exactly 14 morbidly obese bodies swinging on meat hooks overhead. Flies swarm around the hooks as maggots burrow into the fatty fleshbags. It is clear from the varying levels of decay that these bodies all turned cold at vastly different times.
“It was despicable, it was disgusting, it was no one’s fault but my own….that fat bitch just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I can’t let it happen again, I won’t let it happen again….the humiliation, the shame, the embarrassment…if I can’t live it down, THEN NEITHER WILL THE BITCHFORD!”
The rageful maniac suddenly burst into view with a threatening gait. He grabs the two freshest bodies and flings them off their hooks, tossing their insect-ridden corpses over towards a nearby counter.
“Now cleanse my palette! Show me what must be done to The Bitchford!”
The disgusting degenerate stiffly saunters over towards the equally stiff cadavers. He positions them for brutal mutilation before he begins yet another desecration.
The camera zooms in on the darkness behind the bloodstained glass, before suddenly the audience perspective shifts to be inside the body shop. The camera follows along the cracks on the concrete floor, moving past 11 buckets filled with red ichor as we explore the interior of the garage. Two of the buckets have been kicked over and are spilling their contents, but the other 9 stand tall. The only car part in sight is a bloody tire iron propped up against the far wall. We can hear the demented murmurs of a madman as the camera continues tracing the cracks in the concrete floor.
“I always feel so desperate, so defeated after a loss….but at least I’ll never feel alone…not as long as you stay here with me. I need you, all of you, to help me…to support me…to cheer for me…”
The camera suddenly stops on a dime as it comes upon the wooden legs of a workman’s bench. The camera rises until we see the wide variety of tools laid out across a cloth on the table.
“Life is pain, life is suffering, life is merciless….but life must go on. For me, at least….for you broads? Not so much. But at least you have a new, more fulfilling purpose here. Ever since I last tasted that burning sting of defeat, I haven’t been able to get it off my mind….I need a palette cleanser.”
The camera shifts away from the tormentor’s worktable and back towards the floor. The camera pans up from the 11 buckets to reveal exactly 14 morbidly obese bodies swinging on meat hooks overhead. Flies swarm around the hooks as maggots burrow into the fatty fleshbags. It is clear from the varying levels of decay that these bodies all turned cold at vastly different times.
“It was despicable, it was disgusting, it was no one’s fault but my own….that fat bitch just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I can’t let it happen again, I won’t let it happen again….the humiliation, the shame, the embarrassment…if I can’t live it down, THEN NEITHER WILL THE BITCHFORD!”
The rageful maniac suddenly burst into view with a threatening gait. He grabs the two freshest bodies and flings them off their hooks, tossing their insect-ridden corpses over towards a nearby counter.
“Now cleanse my palette! Show me what must be done to The Bitchford!”
The disgusting degenerate stiffly saunters over towards the equally stiff cadavers. He positions them for brutal mutilation before he begins yet another desecration.
The Barbarian Bastards Games logo flashes across the screen before the camera zooms out to reveal that the disgusting attack was occurring on a computer screen. In front of the monitor a grinning Nickleman is seated next to a clearly uncomfortable ginger. The ginger man is wearing a red polo that reads ‘2k Gaming’ while Charles is wearing a plaid jacket with a lot of red stains. The camera zooms out slightly more to reveal that they are in the middle of a bustling 2k development office.
“So I turned your revamped notes into some quick code and uh, needless to say this isn’t-”
“This is fantastic! Let’s fucking go, Brandon! Wow, it’s like I’m really in the body shop. The only change I’d recommend is to the lights inside the garage: they don’t actually work. No one’s paid for electricity since the old owner ‘died in his sleep’.”
The Nickleman winks as Brandon sighs and pauses the simulation. The incredibly life-like graphics suddenly go still.
“This is just perverted.…I don’t want to design this.…this isn’t really 2k’s brand…”
The Nickleman looks deeply offended.
“Perverted? What are you talking about? This is meaningful art! Are you too fucking daft to catch all the metaphors I laced in there? Let’s go back and watch it again, I’ll break down all the subtext for you so you can fucking understand it.”
Brandon turned away as his deeply held frustrations creased his forehead.
“I don’t want to watch a fantasy version of you r-word corpses again!”
“Hey, wait! Those fat bitches weren’t ‘r-worded’ they were just kinda slow because they’re so FAT!”
The Nickleman points at the desecrated corpses on the screen that are being powered by the unreal engine. Brandon, meanwhile, rubs his eyes to try and erase those images from his mind.
“And how would this even connect to the OCW2K game? This isn’t DLC, this isn’t a spinoff game, this is just garbage!”
“What?! This is anything you need it to be! The Nickleman is the fastest rising star in OCW, beyond the shadow of a fucking doubt, and this is a certified Nickleman life story! Sure, it’s lathered in metaphor and baked in my artistic experimentation, but this is a day in my life! A sad, painful day...but a day nonetheless! If you just don’t get it, then you don’t know what it’s like to be ME! To be the constant butt of the joke, to be the man everyone spits on, to be the fucking mutt no one’s ever wanted, to be that bum that isn’t even worth your spare change. That’s what it means TO BE The NICKLEman! THAT’S WHO I AM!
My life ain’t never been easy, so in return, I can never take it easy on the sniveling bitches in my body shop.”
Brandon looks taken aback by The Nickleman’s righteous fury.
“So the BODY SHOP is like a metaphor for the SQUARED CIRCLE?….huh.”
Brandon looks back towards the computer monitor and squints his eyes, trying to deduce the ‘artistic metaphors’ at work. A few seconds later he stops squinting and just shakes his head.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure this is JUST a fantasy of sexual assault and necrophilia.”
The Nickleman throws his hands up in frustration. As he raises his hands you can see that his fingernails are covered in scarlet grime and soot.
“No way! You have to look deeper! You have to read BETWEEN the lines!”
Brandon seems skeptical.
“I’m not like the Big fucking Bitchford, okay? I’m not going to lay everything out for you bare as bones, simple as horseshit, alright? I swear to God even the short bus kids can follow along Bitchford’s arc and not miss a beat. They might buy his merch and chant his name, but I don’t give a fuck about what THEY do!”
“‘THEY’ being the people who buy our games?”
Charles ignored him.
“The Bitchford just walks around PRETENDING to be a murderer, PRETENDING to be a billionaire, just like a corny batman villain come to life. But at least Bane was fucking ripped, right? And at least Bane was smart enough not to put all his fucking murders on a TV camera. That’s how I know The Bitchford is full of shit and he ain’t really a killa’ inside that ring: because real killas don’t do it on camera. I’m going to show The Bitchford how REAL KILLAS handle business next Massacre, how real goons can get it back in blood! If the fans watching your promo at home can solve a murder, so can the fucking DA. If that fatass was really a killa’ they’d have him locked up next to all those dumb-ass rappers that put confessions in their songs! I mean, what kind of idiot does that? Now watch me show some subtly, dipshit.”
The Nickleman sneers at Brandon as if he were The Bitchford himself. Brandon leans back in his chair.
“You should calm dow-”
The Nickleman leans into Brandon’s personal space with the word ‘aggression’ all but written on his forehead.
“The Bitchford should grow a pair of balls and come hang out with me after the next Massacre so I can show him what a real fucking crime looks like! There won’t be a real fucking trial afterwards, though: so I guess Bitchford and I have that in common. I’ll definitely be doing it ‘off camera’, which is a term punk-ass bitches like Betsy Granger and Betsy Bitchford seem to love so much! Or maybe they just cling to those words when their worlds fall apart by my hands, because after I expose these fakes and phoneys they never want to be seen on camera again! These made-for-TV criminals and scammers all want to travel back in time before they met The Nickleman, sooner or later!”
“He’s not even here right now, bro-”
“He wasn’t at the body shop two nights ago either, but that didn’t change the fact that -I- was there and his stain upon my soul still EATS at my conscience! So that FAT BITCH had to eat it, too! It’s an obsessive compulsion so I just can’t FUCKING RELENT, you know wha’ ahm’ sayin’? No one’s got any choice in the matter, this is just the shit that has to happen when….I’m made to feel so…..small and.…so insignificant…..I can’t live like this, with these thoughts running through my head, with this fire burning inside my chest: so I’m going to make HIM FEEL MY PAIN, too! Someone fucking has to!”
The Nickleman bites down on his tongue as he stares down with anguish into the trash bin, making wretched faces as if it were a mirror. The heat of a thousand burning suns flashed behind his glossy eyes. After a few moments Charles looks back to the nervous ginger.
“What is a loss? What does it mean to have been defeated?”
“Well, er-”
“To some people it’s just another Monday night, but to me, it’s a fucking awakening. It’s a call to warfare, myself against the world: because if I have fallen, it’s the world that must have tripped me. I set my standards high, I expect to win every match: and when I don’t, I know that everyone else is to blame. That’s why I dish out nothing but just desserts to the bitches trapped in my body shop…..or maybe that’s just my way of numbing the constant pain until I make things right.”
Brandon looked up with confusion.
“Make things right?”
“2 out of 3 falls, just like it should have been the first time! The referees count fast for the Bitchford in this league, and that’s just a straight fucking fact, so you’re going to need a couple bites at the apple on any given go. He’s the fan-favorite in OCW, we can’t pretend like the referees don’t play home-field advantage. Bitchford got me to a 2 ¾ - they counted it like 3, that’s what it means to be ‘Biff-ended’. But ⅔ is a bigger decimal than ¾, so in a 2 out of 3 falls match that son of a bitch is going to be seriously FUCKED! Just like I’ve been saying all along!”
Brandon tried to follow along with that math inside his head and simply couldn’t, it was too advanced. Meanwhile, The Nickleman pulls out a crumpled-up piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to the game designer.
“Here’s your next scene, I wrote it down from memory.”
“Memory?”
Brandon cocked his head to the side as he begrudgingly accepted the piece of paper.
“Yeah, I remembered what I wanted the next scene to look like and I wrote it down.”
Charles watched with a sinister smirk as Brandon flattened out the paper and read through the nefarious notes. Brandon's eyes almost popped out of his head as he started to realize what he was being asked to make.
“This is si-”
The Nickleman flashed a jolly smile as he placed a forceful hand on Brandon’s shoulder.
“Your boss promised me full creative control, because even fucking video game nerds can tell that I’m the next big OCW sensation. So I better get what I want…”
The Nickleman’s smile vanished as he stared unflinchingly into the terrified ginger’s eyes.
“Do you fucking understand me?”
Brandon can only nod his head ever so slightly, nearly paralyzed by his fear of The Nickleman. Charles stands up.
"Well then...I had better let you get to work! Let's go, Brandon!"
The Nickleman does a dumbass cheer to himself as he walks away. The game designer cradles his head in his hands as the scene fades to black.
“So I turned your revamped notes into some quick code and uh, needless to say this isn’t-”
“This is fantastic! Let’s fucking go, Brandon! Wow, it’s like I’m really in the body shop. The only change I’d recommend is to the lights inside the garage: they don’t actually work. No one’s paid for electricity since the old owner ‘died in his sleep’.”
The Nickleman winks as Brandon sighs and pauses the simulation. The incredibly life-like graphics suddenly go still.
“This is just perverted.…I don’t want to design this.…this isn’t really 2k’s brand…”
The Nickleman looks deeply offended.
“Perverted? What are you talking about? This is meaningful art! Are you too fucking daft to catch all the metaphors I laced in there? Let’s go back and watch it again, I’ll break down all the subtext for you so you can fucking understand it.”
Brandon turned away as his deeply held frustrations creased his forehead.
“I don’t want to watch a fantasy version of you r-word corpses again!”
“Hey, wait! Those fat bitches weren’t ‘r-worded’ they were just kinda slow because they’re so FAT!”
The Nickleman points at the desecrated corpses on the screen that are being powered by the unreal engine. Brandon, meanwhile, rubs his eyes to try and erase those images from his mind.
“And how would this even connect to the OCW2K game? This isn’t DLC, this isn’t a spinoff game, this is just garbage!”
“What?! This is anything you need it to be! The Nickleman is the fastest rising star in OCW, beyond the shadow of a fucking doubt, and this is a certified Nickleman life story! Sure, it’s lathered in metaphor and baked in my artistic experimentation, but this is a day in my life! A sad, painful day...but a day nonetheless! If you just don’t get it, then you don’t know what it’s like to be ME! To be the constant butt of the joke, to be the man everyone spits on, to be the fucking mutt no one’s ever wanted, to be that bum that isn’t even worth your spare change. That’s what it means TO BE The NICKLEman! THAT’S WHO I AM!
My life ain’t never been easy, so in return, I can never take it easy on the sniveling bitches in my body shop.”
Brandon looks taken aback by The Nickleman’s righteous fury.
“So the BODY SHOP is like a metaphor for the SQUARED CIRCLE?….huh.”
Brandon looks back towards the computer monitor and squints his eyes, trying to deduce the ‘artistic metaphors’ at work. A few seconds later he stops squinting and just shakes his head.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure this is JUST a fantasy of sexual assault and necrophilia.”
The Nickleman throws his hands up in frustration. As he raises his hands you can see that his fingernails are covered in scarlet grime and soot.
“No way! You have to look deeper! You have to read BETWEEN the lines!”
Brandon seems skeptical.
“I’m not like the Big fucking Bitchford, okay? I’m not going to lay everything out for you bare as bones, simple as horseshit, alright? I swear to God even the short bus kids can follow along Bitchford’s arc and not miss a beat. They might buy his merch and chant his name, but I don’t give a fuck about what THEY do!”
“‘THEY’ being the people who buy our games?”
Charles ignored him.
“The Bitchford just walks around PRETENDING to be a murderer, PRETENDING to be a billionaire, just like a corny batman villain come to life. But at least Bane was fucking ripped, right? And at least Bane was smart enough not to put all his fucking murders on a TV camera. That’s how I know The Bitchford is full of shit and he ain’t really a killa’ inside that ring: because real killas don’t do it on camera. I’m going to show The Bitchford how REAL KILLAS handle business next Massacre, how real goons can get it back in blood! If the fans watching your promo at home can solve a murder, so can the fucking DA. If that fatass was really a killa’ they’d have him locked up next to all those dumb-ass rappers that put confessions in their songs! I mean, what kind of idiot does that? Now watch me show some subtly, dipshit.”
The Nickleman sneers at Brandon as if he were The Bitchford himself. Brandon leans back in his chair.
“You should calm dow-”
The Nickleman leans into Brandon’s personal space with the word ‘aggression’ all but written on his forehead.
“The Bitchford should grow a pair of balls and come hang out with me after the next Massacre so I can show him what a real fucking crime looks like! There won’t be a real fucking trial afterwards, though: so I guess Bitchford and I have that in common. I’ll definitely be doing it ‘off camera’, which is a term punk-ass bitches like Betsy Granger and Betsy Bitchford seem to love so much! Or maybe they just cling to those words when their worlds fall apart by my hands, because after I expose these fakes and phoneys they never want to be seen on camera again! These made-for-TV criminals and scammers all want to travel back in time before they met The Nickleman, sooner or later!”
“He’s not even here right now, bro-”
“He wasn’t at the body shop two nights ago either, but that didn’t change the fact that -I- was there and his stain upon my soul still EATS at my conscience! So that FAT BITCH had to eat it, too! It’s an obsessive compulsion so I just can’t FUCKING RELENT, you know wha’ ahm’ sayin’? No one’s got any choice in the matter, this is just the shit that has to happen when….I’m made to feel so…..small and.…so insignificant…..I can’t live like this, with these thoughts running through my head, with this fire burning inside my chest: so I’m going to make HIM FEEL MY PAIN, too! Someone fucking has to!”
The Nickleman bites down on his tongue as he stares down with anguish into the trash bin, making wretched faces as if it were a mirror. The heat of a thousand burning suns flashed behind his glossy eyes. After a few moments Charles looks back to the nervous ginger.
“What is a loss? What does it mean to have been defeated?”
“Well, er-”
“To some people it’s just another Monday night, but to me, it’s a fucking awakening. It’s a call to warfare, myself against the world: because if I have fallen, it’s the world that must have tripped me. I set my standards high, I expect to win every match: and when I don’t, I know that everyone else is to blame. That’s why I dish out nothing but just desserts to the bitches trapped in my body shop…..or maybe that’s just my way of numbing the constant pain until I make things right.”
Brandon looked up with confusion.
“Make things right?”
“2 out of 3 falls, just like it should have been the first time! The referees count fast for the Bitchford in this league, and that’s just a straight fucking fact, so you’re going to need a couple bites at the apple on any given go. He’s the fan-favorite in OCW, we can’t pretend like the referees don’t play home-field advantage. Bitchford got me to a 2 ¾ - they counted it like 3, that’s what it means to be ‘Biff-ended’. But ⅔ is a bigger decimal than ¾, so in a 2 out of 3 falls match that son of a bitch is going to be seriously FUCKED! Just like I’ve been saying all along!”
Brandon tried to follow along with that math inside his head and simply couldn’t, it was too advanced. Meanwhile, The Nickleman pulls out a crumpled-up piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to the game designer.
“Here’s your next scene, I wrote it down from memory.”
“Memory?”
Brandon cocked his head to the side as he begrudgingly accepted the piece of paper.
“Yeah, I remembered what I wanted the next scene to look like and I wrote it down.”
Charles watched with a sinister smirk as Brandon flattened out the paper and read through the nefarious notes. Brandon's eyes almost popped out of his head as he started to realize what he was being asked to make.
“This is si-”
The Nickleman flashed a jolly smile as he placed a forceful hand on Brandon’s shoulder.
“Your boss promised me full creative control, because even fucking video game nerds can tell that I’m the next big OCW sensation. So I better get what I want…”
The Nickleman’s smile vanished as he stared unflinchingly into the terrified ginger’s eyes.
“Do you fucking understand me?”
Brandon can only nod his head ever so slightly, nearly paralyzed by his fear of The Nickleman. Charles stands up.
"Well then...I had better let you get to work! Let's go, Brandon!"
The Nickleman does a dumbass cheer to himself as he walks away. The game designer cradles his head in his hands as the scene fades to black.
