The Game Plan

27-28-04

We fade in to see some type of foyer. To the left, a desk with reinforced glass ceiling it off from the main area of the foyer stands. To the right there are a few chairs sitting next to the wall, and a clock hanging up by a string. Besides this, the room is featureless besides a double door to the right. The floor is a patterned linoleum, the wall white and the roof matching it. From the right, the door opens and in steps Death Angel. He turns and looks at the camera, then moves up to the desk. He talks through a small hole in the glass, muttering some words we can't hear. he then nods, and he makes his way over to the chairs and sits down. He makes himself comfortable, then begins to talk.

Death: I wonder what it must feel like to be restricted…

He pauses.

Death: To be refined to a certain amount of space…to have borders imposed on you that are so small, it's a second long walk to either side of them…

He glances at another door to the left of the reception area.

Death: Straight through that door, there are men that have these types of borders. Every morning, they wake up and roll over, only to see three walls and a wall of bars restricting them from even moving. They stand up, go to the toilet - which is located next to their bed - and sit back down in their bed. They have nothing else to do. Their best hope is to wait until breakfast is called, and they get to make the walk to the dining room for a little bite to eat. Then they're allowed a little bit of exercise out the back, but besides this, lunch and dinner are the only other times they're allowed out. I wonder what it'd be like being in that type of life…being told what to do, where to go and when you can do things...it must be absolute hell.

He grins, then stands. He makes his way over to the door he pointed to before and pushes a little red button to the side of it. A buzz is heard, then the door's latch can be heard unlocking. Death Angel pushes the door open, and emerges into a security area. He moves over to one of the desks, where a fat guard is sitting.

Guard: Place all valuables in this box, sir, and they'll be returned to you upon your exit.

Death Angel pulls his wallet out of his coat pocket, then threads his wristwatch off over his wrist. He places them in a small plastic tub sitting on the table, then moves along. The guard opens a drawer below the desk and pulls out a sheet of paper.

Guard: Please sign here, here, and here…and print your name and details here…

He points to a few places on the sheet of paper with his pen, then hands it over to Death Angel. Death Angel signs his signature and fills out the information required, then hands it back to the guard. The guard studies it for a while.

Guard: Yep, this is okay…

He places the piece of paper in another drawer, then stands.

Guard: Sir, spread your arms at a vertical level.

Death Angel extends his arms out, and the guard moves over and frisks him for any objects such as knives, guns and mobile phones and the like. He finds nothing.

Guard: Please take off your shoes, sir, and leave them here.

Death Angel leans on the desk and pulls off his shoes, and places them in a rack next to it.

Guard: What size?

Death: seventeen.

The guard makes his way over to a shelf behind him, and browses through a few boot like shoes. He pulls a pair out, and hands them over to Death Angel. He pulls them on over his feet, then stands.

Guard: Okay, you're right. Go on through, sir.

Death: Thank you.

He turns and pushes another door open. On the other side of this door, a scary sight greets him. He looks up as the door closes behind him, showing a three story tall row of cell blocks. He looks around to his left and right and sees people just leaning on the bars, doing nothing but staring at him. He begins to walk slowly down the corridor.

Death: Look at this, would you…

He looks around at them further, his mouth open in amazement.

Death: Every single man here's life is just what I described. They don't move, they can't…they're restricted to a space of 10 feet by 7 feet, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week…

He moves up to a cell block and stares in. He tries to talk to the occupant.

Death: How's it going?

He grunts.

Death: Hard life, isn't it?

The man simply turns and frowns meanly at him. He rolls back over in his bed and tries to sleep.

Death: What an unfortunate place to be.

He continues down the corridor.

Death: But, then again…maybe they deserve it…they're all here for a reason. Some of them a thieves, some of them are murderers, some of them are terrorists…they're all here for committing a crime. So maybe this is what they deserve, being pent up in a space such as this.

He reaches the end of the corridor, then turns down another one.

Death: Look at this, it's an endless maze of trapped people…none of them want to be here, not one…they all want to be out playing with their children, hugging their wife, seeing their family…taking their sons to baseball games, buying their daughters a present…but they can't do these things. You know, there's one huge difference between the criminals in a place like this, and those who roam our streets, free. You see, the people in here have been caught…they were tried, charged and thrown in jail, some of them for life. Now, instead of being able to stop and think and realize what they're doing is wrong, they've already paid the consequences, and now they're in here for good. They regret what they did now, wishing they could be back out there with the world. Criminals on the outside, however, don't regret what they're doing, because they don't realize the consequences of their actions, and how much of a hellhole the slammer is.

He shrugs.

Death: But there's no time to think about that now.

He approaches the far corner of the massive complex. Two guards stand next to a huge, bolted door. As he approaches, they reach out and unbolt the door, pulling it open for him. He nods at them in appreciation, then walks through the door. On the other side of it is a row of more doors like this, with small glass windows. Through these windows we can see they are all pitch black inside.

Death: But these people are even worse…they have a smaller space, no lights, no toilet…not even a bed.

He leans against the wall, looking down the corridor of ten doors, five on each side.

Death: Connor O’Shannon, and after I beat you, I’ll take on Nick Ridicule again or Corey Casey again, as you all know. They're free. They don't have any restrictions imposed upon them. But during the matches, where each of us go to hell and back again, those restrictions are about to be felt…

He looks around at the doors.

Death: Cooped up, nowhere to go…nobody to visit, nobody to talk to…yet, this feeling will be shared by my opponents.

He smiles.

Death: You see in the past I would makes threats and warnings to every one but none would listen untell I ran right into "The God" of NLWF Brenton Cyrus and at the last Revolution in my match against the Greatest NLWF Champion Nick Ridicule you Connor O’Shannon had to come down and fuck every thing up.

He takes a deep breath.

Death: When my music hits at Revolution and I push my way through those curtains, a new side of Death Angel will be seen. No longer will I roll into the ring and give my opponent or opponents a little grin. You see, the person that walks through that curtain will have his eyes trained straight on you Connor O'Shannon. I can't go staring at the Global Annihilation Championship so early. That would do nothing but derail my efforts…so I must focus wholly on Connor O’Shannon before I focus on the next match and the person I will face.

He shrugs.

Death: It's up to me. If I'm focused, I can take out Connor O’Shannon out of the Global Annihilation Tournament then the next man. If I'm not focused, I can't.

He thinks for a moment.

Death: I've been talking about restrictions and restricting my opponents. But only during that match will my opponents realize how restricted they are.

He grins.

Death: Because every single attempt at overwhelming me will end up in them being restricted to a few cheap shots, nothing more. After that, they'll simply be thrown back where they belong…back down to the mat.

He slowly begins to move along the corridor. He stops at one particular door, and peers in. Nothing can be seen inside, but all of a sudden, someone's face emerges from the darkness and stares out at Death Angel. The look on the man's face is horrifying…he has tattoos all over his face, but blood trickles down from scratches all over his head. Saliva froths and flows out of the corners of his mouth. Death Angel backs back, then moves away. He looks into another cell, upon which a man leans on the window. He continually bashes his head against the window, creating a soft thump. Death Angel turns away and peeks into a few more windows.

Death: This is what is called solitary confinement…this is the be all and end all of prison systems. They roll around in their cells for days upon end, not being allowed out. Their only means of going to the toilet are by a bucket, which they can hardly see, located in the corner. This must be hell on earth…

He stops at the end of the corridor and turns.

Death: Listen…

He falls silent. We hear the repetitive thumping of the man hitting his head against the window, but we also hear different sounds…a man cries openly and loudly, wailing at the top of his lungs. From another cell, we hear continuous moaning, never stopping for even a breath…we hear screams from other cells, but nobody knows which cell they come from.

Death: You know, there's a saying...in space, nobody can hear you scream. But what about in a place like this? See, people can hear you scream…they can hear you cry, they can hear you moan, they can hear every single sound you make…but they don't know which cell these noises are coming from. This, simply, is a congregation of noises, made by the cesspool of our society…but nobody cares about them anymore.

He takes a breath.

Death: Their family stopped caring about them years ago. Hell, some of them don't even have family left…because they killed them. You know, this is like a full cycle loop. This is a perfect example of one of those. You see, these people commit horrific crimes, and in turn, it all comes back to kick them in the ass, because they're simply kicked into jail at the end of the cycle.

He grins, then pauses for a while.

Death: It's all part of society…some people are free, some aren't

He turns to the camera and looks directly at it.

Death: But Connor O’Shannon now get to experience what it's like to be detained and kept in a single place for a long time. These people can't move, they can't walk because there is nowhere to walk… they finally get to feel what it's like to be like these people in here…

He shakes his head.

Death: There's no possible escape. You can't hang yourself, you can't run away…you just have to deal with it. You Connor O’Shannon need to learn how to deal with it, because you'll be kept just how the name suggests…by yourselves, unable to move, unable to walk…restricted to your own world, which is crashing down on top of your head…

He smiles.

Death: And only then will you feel what it's like to be kept in solitary confinement.

He pushes himself away from the wall and makes his way to the door. He turns to the camera, the same smile still pasted across his face, before pulling the door open and disappearing. The door closes with a huge bang, and we are left staring down the very middle of the corridor. The moaning, screaming, thumping and crying can still be heard as we fade to black.

The Game Plan

The Game Plan

The Game Plan :: Comments