[Spotlights shine on the auditorium stage as the curtain rises, revealing a comically large blender without its lid set right down on center stage. It’s hard to tell just what it is at the bottom of it—the discerning might notice, in the brief few seconds before chaos unfolds, an axe, a couple of buzzsaws, some swords ranging from the distinctly medieval to a more interesting design, a long chain with links made of shining hearts, some...playing cards..??? Paintbrushes??????? Are those birds flying around up there? A theme existed here at some point.
There isn’t a lot of time to figure out what’s going on here besides “something bad,” though; a pulley on the stage makes a mechanical grinding noise as it lowers, revealing Ulaz, suspended in a set of wires presumably designed to hold a set piece and dressed in only the finest of Christmas suits, and keep him there only long enough to be noticed before dropping him in the blender.
The comically sized blender lid drops from the ceiling with the relatively comically small Raquelle holding onto it, scurrying away with a cackle as Tycoon runs in from offstage. Starting quiet and quickly reaching obnoxious volumes ringing over all of the school loudspeakers, the mood music the raccoons have happily provided for the evening plays while Ulaz comes to his feet, looking a resigned sort of tired, and just as Tycoon laughs and flicks the blender on.
Despite the paintbrushes streaking color against the glass as they rise with everything else and clatter against the edges, it isn’t any harder to see the weapons as they spin and crash and ricochet against the edges of the blender, Ulaz standing in the middle with an expression closer to “this shit again” than anything even as one blade stabs through his side and another pierces his shoulder, the chain catches his leg and a card bounces off his eye—but one of those glowing blue birds, fluttering near the blender’s lid, dives down towards him, shifts its form mid-flight into a sword, and pierces right through Ulaz’s chest in what we can only hope is the final blow, given that the rest of those weapons keep swirling and piercing and slicing.
It stills, eventually, letting its contents clatter to the bottom, but there is, of course, little at all left to cremate.]
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randangonpa2018-01-28 06:02 pm
Last words
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[ ...That's it, Ulaz, really? At least, it seems that's all he's willing to offer unprompted. ]
THE DOCTOR IS OUT
There isn’t a lot of time to figure out what’s going on here besides “something bad,” though; a pulley on the stage makes a mechanical grinding noise as it lowers, revealing Ulaz, suspended in a set of wires presumably designed to hold a set piece and dressed in only the finest of Christmas suits, and keep him there only long enough to be noticed before dropping him in the blender.
The comically sized blender lid drops from the ceiling with the relatively comically small Raquelle holding onto it, scurrying away with a cackle as Tycoon runs in from offstage. Starting quiet and quickly reaching obnoxious volumes ringing over all of the school loudspeakers, the mood music the raccoons have happily provided for the evening plays while Ulaz comes to his feet, looking a resigned sort of tired, and just as Tycoon laughs and flicks the blender on.
Despite the paintbrushes streaking color against the glass as they rise with everything else and clatter against the edges, it isn’t any harder to see the weapons as they spin and crash and ricochet against the edges of the blender, Ulaz standing in the middle with an expression closer to “this shit again” than anything even as one blade stabs through his side and another pierces his shoulder, the chain catches his leg and a card bounces off his eye—but one of those glowing blue birds, fluttering near the blender’s lid, dives down towards him, shifts its form mid-flight into a sword, and pierces right through Ulaz’s chest in what we can only hope is the final blow, given that the rest of those weapons keep swirling and piercing and slicing.
It stills, eventually, letting its contents clatter to the bottom, but there is, of course, little at all left to cremate.]
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