Three Steps Below

STEP 1: Motivate

“It was a dark 1998 night as I recall; nearing the December nativity scene, filled with little children playing around the parks and watching out for Santa’s sleigh or simply the food in their homes. A nice sweet meal you know, Noche Buena, laid out for the family, groups of people flocking to one family member’s house just to eat some of that sweetened Christmas ham.

“I’d remembered wishing for a bike for Christmas. Not just any bike, but the bike that I’d wanted so much; The Stumpjumper. We were well to do, and honestly, I doubt I would not have received my bike; I was a good little boy, mommy. I was good this year. Nevertheless it was something straight out of a movie, what happened, that fateful Christmas Eve.”

Croix Flores said, lighting a cigarette. The rich smoke dissipating before him, the slight hints of dried smells reminded him that he was smoking Marlboro’s. He hated them; one could see it in his eyes as they pierced mine through the smoke.

“Fuck. Ya have a Pall Mall, there, bro?”

“Here. Now, shut up about the cigarettes and tell me more about your fucked up shit, you goddamned son of a bitch.” I said, tossing him my pack of cigarettes. I’d already lit one up. It soothed me as I continued to listen to his testimony. We were on record.

“Alright. Now, where was I?” He said, placing the cigarette conveniently on the crease in the ashtray on the edge of the table. There was a glass of clear, cold water resting next to it, untouched.

“Christmas Eve.” I replied impatiently, blowing smoke from my nostrils like a bull, ready for the red flag.

“Oh, right. Anyhoot, it happened. A riot, for one of those labour unions tore through the small suburbia where I lived, just outside the streets of Paranaque. People were on an inhuman rampage, for some petty thing I can barely remember. The blood filled the streets, people were wailing, people were crying, people were dying right before our very doorstep. My father, bless his soul, had ordered all the doors locked. The maids, or as we in my homeland would call them, “Ya-ya’s”, followed the order, however, had failed to secure the back door in time. The riot had spilled into our house. My father took his double-barrel shotgun and began to fire at the rioters wielding knives and the local version of machetes; the “Itak”. It wasn’t enough. They’d gotten into our kitchen, and they had picked up one of the plastic chairs, flinging it at my father, causing him to drop the shotgun. They began beating him, and the others began harassing my mother.

“I was only seven. I’d picked up a kitchen knife. In a rush of anger and fury, I’d stabbed one in the back; the one that was on top of my mother. He turned around to face me, shock surging through his body. A deafening cry came from his lips and I silenced it by stabbing his gut. He’d later be declared dead on arrival by the ambulance that arrived through our doors. They saw and began to approach me; that was when my father, with no one left to hold him down, picked up the gun, and shot the one nearest me. The blood hit my face, and it felt great. The warm liquid of life felt good against my face. The others scrambled at the sound of the oncoming police car’s “wang-wang” as they called it. My father lay there, resting, relieved that the family was safe. My mother embraced me tightly.

“Now, you may say that’s fucking irrelevant, by your standards but let me tell you something.” He said pointing a pair of fingers at me, his cigarette lodged between them. His other hand was cuffed to the metal table, which was screwed to the floor.

“It stirred something in me, man. It really did; all the gore. I needed it. I wanted it. They’d kept me on pills for that, but somewhere along the line, I discovered cigarettes. A cheaper alternative, but it was good enough. Halfway through college, another riot came. This time, my parents never made it out alive. It was during the elections, and that was when I began killing again. I’d killed seven people in that riot. Someone from a local gang called “True Brown Style” saw my potential, and since I had nowhere to go, I accepted the offer. I was paid for my services, and soon enough, I left them because others needed me on international shores. The pay was higher of course, but the jobs were more complex, just the way I liked it. It gave me a professional sense of myself, a philosophical and necessary job in any society of humans, regardless of time or place. I became a PMC, in essence, but more profound; an assassin.

“You remember the 2016 elections for your country? I was the one that killed Sarah Palin. I’d gutted her 20 miles off the eastern seaboard, letting her innards spill into the sea. She was in shock, and I tossed her near-lifeless body into the pits of the ocean. I was paid by the millions for that job, and of course, I had a crew of 7 with me; all of them working menial jobs, right under the world’s noses. Take it from me, you’ll never find them.” He said, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Trust me, Flores. We will. We found you, didn’t we?” I replied, flicking my cigarette butt at him.

“I wanted you to. I need you to deliver a message.” He said calmly in his seat. I’d walked out of the room, a slight tinge of fear in my gut. Going over to the other side, where some of my fellow officers were observing, I placed my hands on my hips.

“They’d want him back in action; his employers would definitely not let him go. Sarah Palin with 7 others, that’s got to be a new world record in criminal study.” I said, feeling up my Ruger SR40.

“Yep. I want him on maximum security detail. He’d just admitted to the murder of Sarah Palin, and we’ve got him in our clutches for the death sentence.” My commanding officer, Ram Marino replied. I pulled up another cigarette pack from the nearby cupboard for electronics.

“Keep talking it out. We’ll get more what we need from him, and soon, we can pin most of the political murders to him. We’ve got the “circumstantial evidence” and he’d just given an open admission to the crime. We just need a few more, and the name of his employer.” The other man replied.

“Nightingale?” I asked.

“Yes.” They replied simultaneously.

STEP 2: Demonstrate

I took my leave, exiting their room. As I walked towards the door to Flores’ room, the janitor nodded to me, smiling as he began mopping the hallway floors. It was time. He passed me, dropping something in my hand; a small, handcuff key. I entered the room. I realized as I opened the door, that I nearly blew the whole operation out of proportion by mentioning the Tier 4 code “Nightingale”. I wasn’t supposed to know about it, I was only Tier 2. They could’ve been on to me from that very second. I’d never know.

“So, Flores. How do you suppose I bargain with you for more information? Say, a shortened sentence? I could give it to you, but I need that information. I could give you a day, maximum, since everyone else is after your head, bro. When will you come to a decision?” I asked, placing my hands on the table, near him. His hands reached mine, clasping them tightly as he replied with a faint whisper;

“Now.”

He took the key from the palm of my hand, and unlocked the cuffs. I’d swung open the door, and tossed him the silenced Colt 1911 Compact from my ankle holster. As I began attaching the silencer to my weapon, I saw that he’d caught the 1911, and without hesitation turned to shoot the two I’d spoken with in the adjacent room. The janitor had already pulled out his silenced Colt SCW, and began shooting suppressive fire down the hall with a 6 pack magazine bandolier slung across his back. He shot away from the stairwell, using the open door to our room as cover. Sure that the two in the opposite room were dead, he picked up the Pall Mall pack from the table.

Croix and I, using the janitor’s push-cart, which was modified with DragonSkin, had worked our way through towards the stairwell. He had fired all but the last bullet in his magazine, and I had already unloaded three magazines. The janitor had begun popping smoke grenades and switching places to cover for our retreat towards the stairwell. I had picked up the extra homemade Sten Mk2. silenced sub-machine gun, and began unloading the rounds down the hall. Flores had gotten the small tactical pack containing his change of clothes from below the place where the Sten was located. The janitor had taken a few hits, as planned. He wouldn’t receive his part of the cut, and the only way to certify Croix would get his money was to have me call our employers accordingly. We had begun our descent down the 9 floors.

The sounds of silenced guns were blazing above, in the smoky fury; the agents had begun to kill each other, thinking that they were killing a multitude of enemies. Somewhere on the fourth to the last flight of stairs, they’d realized their mistake and had begun to chase us down the stairwell.

STEP 3: Motivate Again

“You know, Croix, just a heads up. I’m giving up my job and good position for this. I know your employers pay you well, but they’re sure to pay me, right? We’re buddies, right?” I asked, as we bolted down the stairs, with me shooting at the oncoming agents; my former co-workers and friends.

“Yes, my friend. They’ll be sure to pay you as long as you follow your instruction package to the letter. With me, I don’t need to, since they know how I work. Your story is a different one… A completely different one.” He said, pulling another Pall Mall as he calmly, but briskly kept the pace. He changed his clothes with the small pack he took  from the push-cart.

As I turned around on our last flight of stairs, he reached into my pocket for the lighter, as he said, and took it. Walking down a few more steps I noticed something was odd. My pocket felt oddly lighter than expected, and as I fired one last load of bullets from the magazine at the enemies above, I checked for my cell-phone and the last extra magazine.

I had turned to face him as he pointed the 1911 at the point-blank centre of my chest. He was holding my phone and the extra magazine. I pointed the Sten at him and he simply winked with his insanely happy grin in reply, pulling the trigger.

I fell to the ground, letting go of everything. With a .45cal bullet in my chest, pain began surging throughout every part of my body. I didn’t even notice the bone-breaking fall down the last flight of stairs. He’d walked calmly, reloading the Sten and firing it blindly at the agents above us. The shells hit my face and I’d blinked several times, adjusting to the surroundings. He stood above me, smoking the cigarette, flicking the ash at my open wound. He dropped the phone and crushed it under his boot.

“You fucking idiot!” I tried to scream, but my voice was coarse and wheezing.

“Now we’ll both never get paid for this. You wasted all our time, effort, and money, man!” I tried screaming at him as he put on the pair of contact lenses and the shades that were in the pack as well.

He checked the pack and found another 2 smoke grenades. Pulling the pin off of one, he tossed it upward, causing the smoke to disorient the agents once more. Checking the hidden pouch for another pistol, he found another 1911. Placing the extra magazine I had given him earlier in the pack, he calmly searched for the alcohol. Taking the bottle and spraying both our guns and my open wound, he lit everything up, including the bottle itself, with the lighter. I screamed as he stomped the flames on my chest out.

I rolled to the side, pain doubling in intensity. He snickered as he put the baseball cap, from the pack, on his head. Finally finishing up with the pseudo disguise, he began his descent out into the open world where a silver, DragonSkin covered, Mercedes was about to pass for us. With all the energy my torso could muster, I forced myself to utter the word; “Why?”

“You see, my friend, movies are movies and the nature of killing another human being is actually, very unpredictable. Even detectives have a hard time with every single case. Now, what you failed to see, with me, my friend, is this; “I do not kill for money, I kill for the thrill of killing, and that’s what makes a man like me, dangerous.” I never really did it for the money. I did it for the sake of doing it.” He said, tossing the empty gun at my feet and opening the door as he walked into the blinding sunlight of the open street, three steps below.

DISCLAIMER:

* Any references to real life people, places, things, and events are fictional and are for entertainment purposes only.

*  There is no intention to badmouth, infringe upon any rights, or give a bad reputation to anyone or anything (particularly cultures, ethnicities, and etc). This is just fiction, for entertainment.

For Kyle Flores, my close friend.

(c) Anachronic Works 2013

3 Reasons Why Budoy Is A Counterproductive Television Show (Philippine Audience)

It has come to my attention that the TV show called “Budoy” on a local channel here in the Philippines called ABS-CBN (no correlation to CBN whatsoever, as of my knowledge), has garnered a great deal of popularity. From regular conversations, to watching the show every night it is available, to even vandalizing the tables of my University’s (University of the Philippines Los Baños) classrooms (I didn’t take the photo yet) with the astoundingly simple-yet-pleasing logo of the show (as seen in the opening photo for this article). Most talk that floats around where I study and in my circles of friends regarding this, are commonly reduced to mimicking the lead character, by the name of Budoy, when it comes to his linguistic wordplay. Now, I believe that there is a fine line between comedy or satire, and the actual thing that the satiric role suggests to criticize. The way I see it, people have been dancing around this as if it were a ballet performance. (Think Giselle, or any other ballet play, where they jump across the floorboards, tiptoeing as if it were actually beneficial to them to subject their toes to such harsh conditions.) This is why I have summed up 3 reasons as to why the show is rather counterproductive, in terms of the sarcastic scenario stated above. You can see the ABS-CBN Website’s page for Budoy, here.

Now before you go on telling me to watch it first, I already have (two or three times), and I still think that my reasons are legitimate. Take a read!

Reason 1: Television is a Medium for Knowledge

I personally don’t watch the show as often as I should, and almost despise the innate lack of grammar with the words he speaks. (No offense to the mentally challenged) It’s just that these things become infectious, and they are generally highly attractive to most commonplace people, thus allowing their minds to be manipulated in such a way that their grammar, instead of getting better through a very useful medium of communication, gets worse.

Herp Derp

“You may not know it, yet, but that’s a mind control device on his head.”

Television is a medium, and what do mediums do; they give off information, that’s what. If you knew how much horseshit mass media is feeding us, I doubt you’d want to shit your pants for a week. Maybe even ever again. Trying to find a needle in a haystack, substituted for truth in the lies respectively doesn’t do it justice. Trying to find that needle, in a mountain of shit; that sounds more apropos.

Horse Manure

“If you dig long enough, you can find the truth in there!”

If the television shows provided more educationally correct shows, then we would have less of a problem with our country’s innate lack of education for the children (which will hopefully solve our “corruption problem”). Since the children “are the future”, why not give them something to work with, rather than just grabbing the money and running, resulting in the catastrophe Peter Parker achieved in Spider Man 1?

Pfft...

“Dem robbers killz my uncle, but I haz powrz and cn pwnz yuz.”

Of course with the exception of the masses “pwning” the TV stations. Unless those bastards have hooked up DOTA to their database. That would be a totally different story.

Reason 2: Media Rules The World

It is the Age of Information, and more or less, everyone’s buying in on it. Ironically, this gave birth to one of the most idiotic generations humanity has ever seen, wherein people can’t even go outside to do a little exercise coz they’re reaching a new level on Skyrim. Either that or they’re waiting for their favourite TV soap opera to arrive. Or maybe some are just furiously masturbating to Next Top Model with Tyra Banks.

Skyrim

"WAAARGH!!! My burning hand and mythological creature educates you!!!"

Next Top Model

“Man, they’re so hot; I don’t even need to leave the house to exercise. I’ll just use my hand!” *fap fap fap*

The least those TV companies could do, would be to provide something educational. If they’re worried about ratings, then have all the channels carry the same intellectual background so that there will be no choice as to what stupidity the masses would prefer. They’d be forced to learn something new every time. Just think of it as Discovery Channel on every channel in your 100 station cable/satellite subscription; except with the option as to what you will learn.

Monkeys

“A new version of Humanity (2012.1.1) is available. Would you like to download it now?”

It’s almost a monopoly, anyway, so why not have the TV stations come to a decision that will help the future generations learn how to speak and communicate properly so that they may not have to go through the chaos that was The Tower of Babel in the Bible. (Just a reference, I am not religious, however I do enjoy reading the scriptures of various religions.) I’m just saying we need to grow the heck up as a race, stop thinking about ourselves, and save the generation that you claim are “the future” or the “brighter tomorrow”.

Reason 3: People Are Gullible

Going back to Budoy, it is said to be a wonderfully inspirational story. Although that may be true, people should be aware that this show is not meant to be re-enacted in everyday life. They should differentiate comedy or art altogether from reality. If they cannot find a way to let the viewers know this, then it is better off that they cancel the show altogether.

Nicolas Cage

“My boss just told me that I needed to work double shift on Christmas. I told him; ‘Fuck you!’”

If you want people to behave properly, then put proper TV shows on for everyone. Define what makes it artistic and what makes it comical, from the cold hard reality of life. People can hope and aspire to achieve a better life, but that doesn’t mean they have to do those bullshit things that happen in the movies/TV soap operas. That’s the whole reason why those poor folks keep living the way they do. They expect some “Prince Charming” or some “Wonderfully Placed Stroke of Sheer Luck” to arrive. What happens to them when it doesn’t? Nothing, and the TV stations make away with all that money.

I know it’s going to be very difficult to proceed with the aforementioned plan, but I mean, come on, at least Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men provided us with a sane interpretation of what would really happen to someone as odd as Budoy, or in the case of the book; Lenny, in the real world. (For those of you who don’t know, Lenny is shot in the head by his best friend as a form of mercy killing, since half the fucking town was out to kill the poor bastard.) If Steinbeck could do it, so can a big group of media-makers and talented people. Heck, even Forrest Gump contributed to a little bite of that reality sandwich.

Forrest Gump

“It’s not a sandwich, but it’ll do. I just hope nobody shoots me in the head.”

Although in spite of all of this, Budoy seems to be a heart-warming show, that, even though it causes such effects on children and the future generations, one can still appreciate the art involved with the simplistic love felt by the mentally challenged. Good day!

* This post shares only my thoughts and opinions on the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
** This post is meant for satiric purposes and not for offense to the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
*** This does not portray/represent the thoughts of all other critics on the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
**** This does not intend to badmouth the propagators and/or viewers of the shows mentioned.

***** Images are courtesy of Google Image Search.

****** This is just for fun, so just enjoy. Thanks!

(c) Anachronic Works 2011

Three Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Abuse Corny Love Quotations

Let me tell you of a little pet peeve of mine. Here in the Philippines, it is very much commonplace for the locals (myself included) to fall into romantic fits of rage, or to post corny love quotations (Referred to as RFR from here on end). Now, when this happens, it is also commonplace, (again myself included, although only to an extent) for people to broadcast what they feel through the internet. I know it’s in our nature to fall in love and such; it’s in everyone’s, but there is just too much hype over this emotion. I myself believe that love is the “greatest feeling ever”, but I don’t prance around my magical imaginary garden on my unicorn telling everyone about it.

Unicorns? How sweet! I must share this with everyone!

Unicorns? How sweet! I must share this with everyone!

Now, I wouldn’t mind some lyrics, or some well thought out and history tested quotations, but come on! This is ridiculous!

“Sweet words are easy to say;

Sweet things are easy to buy;

but sweet people are difficult to find.

Life ends when you stop dreaming.

hope ends when you stop believing.

love ends when you stop crying.

Friendship ends when you stop sharing.

So share this with whoever you consider special.

To love without condition

To talk without intention.

To give without reason.

And to care without expectation.”

(source)

“Der is a difference between goodbye and letting go…”

(source)

I wonder what issue of “UTTERLY OVERUSED BULLSHIT MAGAZINE” they found this on. Seeing that the first quotation states the obvious, I assume they got it from that magazine, although I could be wrong, it could have just been from Cosmopolitan Kids. By the way, the magazine with this post needs to hire a new proof-reader, and hopefully, they’ll get a grade school graduate this time.

Granted that there are cases where these may be of proper use to actually get the girl you love/like to smile, but please, DO NOT PUT MORE SHIT LIKE THIS ON THE NET. I did my research, and over 10,000 sites appeared, thanks to Google. I see this shit every single day, from looking at 9Gag to other websites. They’ve even found their way into pictures, and not to mention the countless videos on YouTube. If you think about it, when you’re the type to visit the internet for hours on end, you’ll see an endless barrage of advertisements regarding this particular retardation, which I instinctively call “RFR’s”. Status messages all over Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and other sites are loaded to the brim with RFR’s. I doubt there are more movies than these quotations that have lost their meaning throughout the lifetime of the internet.  Now, I’ll tell you three reasons why this shit is not going to work.

Reason 1:

I have a girlfriend and I get lovey-dovey with her too, however, I’d very much prefer to send her things I wrote myself, and it’s not that hard to say how you feel. For most people, they would resort to the internet, giving the inevitably unbeatable reason;

“I’m not as creative as you, and I find it hard to say how I feel, especially to my special someone. So I’ll just copy and paste from the internet and feel the same way everyone else does.”

Either that, or they just go for the less verbose way of saying this:

“I got that bitch a quote! Bitches love quotes!”

The point of the person being a “special someone” is that you find him/her more attractive and “special” compared to others. Don’t you think that they would feel even more special if you wrote something yourself, even if it’s just saying how you feel? Write whatever’s on your mind. Take some time out of the day to make it meaningful. Throw in a stuffed toy for all we care.  You don’t even need metaphors.

Self made metaphors? Fuck that shit!

Self made metaphors? Fuck that shit!

I can totally feel the sincerity. No, really.

RFR’s are easier to make.

Reason 2:

There is the reason of integrity.

With the ever-growing population using the internet, it’s not surprising that people would much rather scour the depths of Google, copy-paste, and press send. This is invariably true for most homework cases, and research projects. I myself am one of those people, except, I maintain a little dignity and paraphrase the whole damn text before I send it over. Of course, that would mean effort, and if you’re as lazy as any other bloke up and about on the internet, then you would probably think:

“Less effort; same grade. Why not, right?”

This is also true when it comes to the love quotes one can find on the internet. Copying and pasting is very much easier to do, and you’ll get relatively the same reaction from your “special someone”, so why work harder? This “special someone” is so special, that I have to copy and paste and share this shit because I’m too fucking lazy to compose three sentences. It’s just too much. Too much!

Son/Daughter, the school called. You got an F in Romance 101...

Son/Daughter, the school called. You got an F in Romance 101...

Again, I can totally feel this shit. There’s just so much meaning in the simplicity of these words.

Reason 3:

With the endless barrage of these RFR’s, it’s not that hard to spot several hundreds of your friends (if you have that many) posting these “heartfelt” quotations that get people “kilig” (as they say in Filipino) or charmed to the point of tension. There’s even the smiley for such a feeling.

Kilig Smiley

Kilig Smiley

Granted that one feels empathy or even sympathy for such cases, it is still rather irrelevant to you. Eventually, though, since you know that you want to feel that way too, you, like the person who first posted the RFR you saw, re-post the message and hope that people will like your status and copy the message for themselves, thus giving you the illusion of not being alone with the wonderful feeling. It spreads like a virus, numbing the minds of everyone who emulates the emotions. Then, we, the brain-dead users of the internet, will also spread this in the hopes of garnering our rightfully due 5 minutes of fame biting that tiny bit of your brain off. We then become the general population wherein each member says the same thing to each of our “special someone/s” making the term as bland as an average grunt.

Hopefully, those of us who still believe in heartfelt messages will survive this apocalyptic nightmare.

Pictured: The Side Effects of Love Quotations

Pictured: The Side Effects of Love Quotations

Summation:

When one writes a personal and heartfelt love letter to their “special someone”, it gives meaning to the said term “special”. Copying and pasting RFR’s are good; however, the innate abuse of such would lead to irritation among friends (which is why I wrote this) as well as the loved ones. Abusing quotations is very much comparable to copy-paste with regards to homework, which would definitely give you a failing mark on the field of relationships.

Using RFR’s may also lead to brain-dead love apocalypse. And when that happens…

Grandma, where’s my magnum?

Grandma, where’s my magnum?

* Photos are courtesy of Google Image Search. All are copyright to their respective owners.

** Quotations are courtesy of their source links. All copyright goes to their respective owners.

*** All comments here are opinionated and for “the lols”. This is not intended to offend anyone.

**** The magazines mentioned are nonexistent.

***** Enjoy!

(c) Anachronic Works 2011