[It's just a quick grocery run, he'd said. The dark clouds are all sound and fury, signifying nothing, he'd said. It'll be fine, he'd said.
And for a while, that was true enough. But then there was a terrible clap of thunder and a burst of lightning and the skies opened up to unleash the torrent of odd rain. Graham had tried to cover his eyes from the burst of light and sound, only to be weighed down by something heavy clutched in his right hand.
It was a wrench. The thing was almost as long as a human torso and probably weighed at least 30 pounds. And was that rust or... something else dark red stained into its metal? He tried to drop the weird thing and go about his business, but he found himself strangely compelled to keep it with him. He had to carry it. But the damn thing was so heavy, he wasn't physically capable of picking it up.
So now, if you happen to be walking down a particular street, you get to experience something out of a horror story. You'll hear the horrible ckk-shrrrk cck-shrrrk of metal slowly dragged against concrete. And if you look, there will be a young blond man, drenched and bedraggled by rain, pulling an impossibly long, more-possibly-bloodstained wrench behind him. And he doesn't look too happy about it.]
HEY, YOU! DON'T WORRY! I PROMISE I'M NOT A PSYCHOPATH! And yes, I do realize the inherent irony here, since that is word-for-word, beat-for-beat, and even screaming declaration-for-screaming declaration what a psychopath would say.
NETWORK - HANDWRITTEN:
[In hindsight, maybe the most recent echo was a doozy after all. He hadn't felt too strange at first. Hell, he'd thought that maybe he'd just acquired some new philosophical or poetic inspiration by finding beauty and pleasure in the idea of destruction. Stripping things down to their essentials, maybe? Finding joy in the component parts instead of just the whole?
But, no. Things seem to have escalated quickly. This new interest in destruction plus the older echo that made him more prone to dramatic mood swings has left him feeling kind of uneasy. It might be a good idea to look for some advice.So he pulls out his ideas journal and starts to write.]
At what point, hypothetically speaking, should one start to worry about their... 'obsession' is such a strong, loaded word with such negative connotations... so let's call it 'thoughts which completely consume their every single waking moment until they just wanna smash the alarm clock so you can look at all those wonderful broken gears or slam something into a brick wall over and over and OVER until red dust puffs out into the air or some bastard comes at you so you TAKE EVERY ONE OF HIS JOINTS AND THEN-
[It looks like Graham's pencil broke. The rest is written a bit shakily, as if he had to hold the lead between his fingers.]
I think you get the picture. Again, purely hypothetical.
[ooc note: Unfortunately, I'm traveling a lot over the next few days, so I'll probably be slow. I'll be free by New Years' Day, though!]
Graham Specter ~ Baccano!
[It's just a quick grocery run, he'd said. The dark clouds are all sound and fury, signifying nothing, he'd said. It'll be fine, he'd said.
And for a while, that was true enough. But then there was a terrible clap of thunder and a burst of lightning and the skies opened up to unleash the torrent of odd rain. Graham had tried to cover his eyes from the burst of light and sound, only to be weighed down by something heavy clutched in his right hand.
It was a wrench. The thing was almost as long as a human torso and probably weighed at least 30 pounds. And was that rust or... something else dark red stained into its metal? He tried to drop the weird thing and go about his business, but he found himself strangely compelled to keep it with him. He had to carry it. But the damn thing was so heavy, he wasn't physically capable of picking it up.
So now, if you happen to be walking down a particular street, you get to experience something out of a horror story. You'll hear the horrible ckk-shrrrk cck-shrrrk of metal slowly dragged against concrete. And if you look, there will be a young blond man, drenched and bedraggled by rain, pulling an impossibly long, more-possibly-bloodstained wrench behind him. And he doesn't look too happy about it.]
HEY, YOU! DON'T WORRY! I PROMISE I'M NOT A PSYCHOPATH! And yes, I do realize the inherent irony here, since that is word-for-word, beat-for-beat, and even screaming declaration-for-screaming declaration what a psychopath would say.
NETWORK - HANDWRITTEN:
[In hindsight, maybe the most recent echo was a doozy after all. He hadn't felt too strange at first. Hell, he'd thought that maybe he'd just acquired some new philosophical or poetic inspiration by finding beauty and pleasure in the idea of destruction. Stripping things down to their essentials, maybe? Finding joy in the component parts instead of just the whole?
But, no. Things seem to have escalated quickly. This new interest in destruction plus the older echo that made him more prone to dramatic mood swings has left him feeling kind of uneasy. It might be a good idea to look for some advice.So he pulls out his ideas journal and starts to write.]
At what point, hypothetically speaking, should one start to worry about their... 'obsession' is such a strong, loaded word with such negative connotations... so let's call it 'thoughts which completely consume their every single waking moment until they just wanna smash the alarm clock so you can look at all those wonderful broken gears or slam something into a brick wall over and over and OVER until red dust puffs out into the air or some bastard comes at you so you TAKE EVERY ONE OF HIS JOINTS AND THEN-
[It looks like Graham's pencil broke. The rest is written a bit shakily, as if he had to hold the lead between his fingers.]
I think you get the picture. Again, purely hypothetical.
[ooc note: Unfortunately, I'm traveling a lot over the next few days, so I'll probably be slow. I'll be free by New Years' Day, though!]