Post by The Hannahverser on Sept 15, 2016 19:27:51 GMT
The Myth of the Talking Frog
The thump and roar of the crowd practically pulsed through the Pure Arena walls like lifeblood. There, in the French Mime Assassins locker room like a little cul-de-sac of silence, Comme Çi and Comme Ça awaited their summons to the ring. There was no Rodney P there to act like an overprotective father. Nor a Francis ford Cuppola present to pace a line on the floor, barking semi-discouraging Vince Lombardi-inspired epithets at them.
“Win that match or you’re not really mimes!”, “You face-painted sissies better win, or my name isn’t Francis Ford Carpola—I mean Cuppola”, “I crap bigger than the two of you, somebody needs to help me, I’ve blown out my o-ring”.
To the mimes, it was sweet relief to have them gone, the blathering idiot, and the unwelcome mouthpiece had been successfully ditched and safely barred from entering the event in favor of the comfort of their much accustomed silence.
Sweet, serene silence.
In front of separate dressing room mirrors, each mime applied the trademark face paint, their eyes occasionally meeting through the reflections, followed by a knowing smirk of recognition: they’d made it, they were free, and now all that was left for them was the hard part:
The actual match.
A stagehand with a nametag that reads “Steve” barges in.
Stagehand Steve: Ten minutes you two.
He glanced at them both, as the identical mimes stared back at him as their only acknowledgement.
Stagehand Steve: There’s a camera crew outside if you… uhhh… you know… if you two have anything left to… er… uhh.. “say” to your opponents before you go on.
Blank mime stares greeted Steve the Stagehand who looked confusedly to them both. Immediately Steve recognized the inherent stupidity in what he’d just asked. A brief, creep-filled moment passed until Steve shivered out those creeps, nodded sheepishly to the mimes, and exited the dressing room, closing the door behind him.
The mimes looked to one another with a silent, mutual entreaty to meet in the middle of the dressing room and discuss the merits of one last promo.
Here, we must pause momentarily, for it should be readily apparent to you, kind reader, that mimes don’t discuss, nor have they ever cut a first promo to make this their last.
You’re about to witness, friends, what may be your first exposure to an authentic mime conversation. I, your narrator, shall do the difficult task of giving you the translation first of each of the mimes complicated gestures and movements so that you understand what you’re seeing when it follows.
Comme Çi’s English Translation: Hey, hip cat. I don’t know if we should risk saying anything to our impending kills. The less they know the better our chances. And, as far as I’m concerned, Stagehand Steve has a really nice ass, but he can kiss mine if I’m going to cooperate with this promo cutting business he’s on about.
That wasn’t so difficult was it? Mime speak is a beautiful language.
Comme Ça’s English Translation: You’re so right, homeslice. I could just eat Stagehand Steve up, he’s so deelish. But let’s face it, so long as our opponents are grasping at straws as to how to understand us, let alone fight us, they’ll stay on the sinking ship they’re on, and we’ll win this match! Then those tag belts will be ours!
Behold the grace of such an evocative communicative art form.
Comme Çi English Translation: You’re so right, my Mimelover. Our opponents have thus far failed to articulate even so much as an accurate assessment of us that hasn’t been in keeping with our own assessments of them. Have you seen it? They’ve walked right into every single mental mine we’ve placed for them, all by saying nothing! And now, they will die regardless of our cutting a promo! By the way, have I mentioned how absolutely fucking demented these opponents are? Johnny Sykes can talk for hours and never say a thing. And Mercy and Sin think that by focusing their energies off camera they can trick us into lending them undue credibility!
Okay, so sue me, my Mime to English translation box on google is on the fritz, so some of this I’m improvising, but believe me it’s totally legit!
Comme Ça’s English Translation: Yes, my sexy mime friend, this is truly a chance for us to break out of our invisible boxes and finally be as remorseless as we both know we can be in order to show the PAW Universe that we, and we alone, are the dominant tag team! This entire journey has been like salmon swimming upstream, my brother and lover! But soon, it will all be over, and we shall be victorious!
Just then, Steve the Stagehand barges in and stops dead in his tracks. Comme Ça eyes him with a look of surprise.
Stagehand Steve: Uhhhhh… okay. 5 minutes, you two. Did you want that camera crew, or not?
A moment as Comme Çi and Comme Ça look to one another. Comme Ça begins to shake his head only to be interrupted by his partner Comme Çi, who motions for them.
Stagehand Steve: All right. This should be good for a few laughs.
Steve snickers and steps outside, returning moments later with Camera Man Dan. Stagehand Steve steps back and watches the mimes stand silently before the camera with his hand covering his mouth to conceal his snickers.
Camera Man Dan: Okay, Action Mimes!
Camera Man Dan waves his hand to signal the mimes. And they stand there. Silence. The roar of the crowd pumps through the walls. Steve the Stagehand snickers till he’s red in the face.
Camera Man Dan: I said ACTION MIMES!
Dan speaks up, sounding nervous he’s wasting his time. The mimes remain standing side by side, perfectly identical. Camera Man Dan gulps loud enough for the camera audio to pick it up. He glances back to Stagehand Steve for some guidance, but Steve snickers and guffaws silently. Dan drops the camera in a huff of annoyance and turns to glare at Steve.
Camera Man Dan: Okay, seriously, this is some kind of joke isn’t it?
Stagehand Steve cracks up laughing, unable to contain himself. Camera Man Dan is not impressed.
The voice cracks through the white noise of a cheeky stagehand, and incredulous camera man like the white hot blast of a laser beam. Steve’s wide eyes train to where the sound came from. Dan turns slowly to see Comme Çi’s hand lifted, one finger raised as if to silence them both.
His finger points authoritatively to Dan, then gestures for him to focus the camera on him once more.
It’s a silencing moment. Dan nods and trains the camera back on the mimes. Comme Çi lifts a glass of water to his dark painted lips, sips gingerly, sets the glass back down and eyes the camera all while his partner, Comme Ça tries to stop him. Comme Çi waves him off.
Comme Çi: And here we are, Johnny Sykes, doing the thing you claim us incapable of doing: thinking, and speaking, for ourselves.
Folks, I, your humble narrator, did not see that coming. Neither did Stagehand Steve whose jaw nearly hits the floor. Camera Man Dan focuses the camera lens nervously.
Comme Çi: What do you have to say for yourself, you small-minded, judgmental little man? Next time, if you're capable, think more and speak less. It would save you a lot of trouble.
His voice is sweet, with an obvious Parisian accent. It’s not unpleasant, just strange to see the mime’s lips moving and sound coming out. Comme Ça looks appalled that his partner is speaking, and for moment the two exchange argumentative looks before Comme Çi pleads with his partner to allow it, then continues.
Comme Çi: My partner and I don’t speak not because we can’t, more often because we’ve allowed our handlers to do so for us, we have had nothing to prove.
That all ends tonight.
I don’t care who you think you are, Sykes, or what possible motivation you might have for speaking in Shatner-esque sentences. I don’t care for your assessment of myself, my partner, and I especially don’t like you mocking Francis Ford Cuppola.
He’s a lot of things. A moron, a fool, a liar, and potentially an exploiter of lovable movie creatures, but he’s not a child-rapist. A false accusation such as that, in fact, since I’ve studied your American laws, is slander, and defamation. You deserve a fine, a punishment, at the very least a slap on the wrist.
You will not be brought to court, however, you dimwit.
You will face us in 5 minutes for tag belts we shall die trying to obtain, and we shall slaughter you mercilessly in the process for all of your insults to us, and to the English language you use so pathetically.
We don’t care that your partner’s a woman.
You neglected to notice the other two women in this match when you articulated only their physical attributes and how they related to you, you typical sexist pig.
You paid very little attention to the threat Mercy and Sin pose to you.
You’ve already lost.
Comme Ça beside him is shaking his head nervously. He chimes in.
Comme Ça: Brother, you’re breaking the Mime Code!
Comme Çi nods with a lowered head.
Comme Çi: I know, brother. It is necessary. For tonight is no ordinary Pure Amusement event. Tonight all bets are off, tonight we fight for everything we’ve ever held dear in this business, tonight a Bad Moon Rises.
Mercy.
Sin.
I don’t expect you two to understand what hard work truly means.
Everything you’ve shown us on camera implies you don’t know what it means to truly suffer for your craft.
Unless you’re hiding something, that is.
Since you claim yourselves so very strong and powerful, you should have nothing to hide.
Let me show you how it's done.
Let me tell you a story about my Mime brother and I.
When we were selected by Mr. Cuppola to be his tag-team, we were shipped overseas chained together in a cargo hold no larger than your body, Sin.
3 days like that. Pure darkness. No food, and no water. Sleeping in a pool of our own fecal matter and urine.
We were brought to a land we’d only heard of, to fight for a man we never knew, and still truly don’t.
I don’t care what hell any of you think you crawled out of, we’ve been treated as sub human since we’ve arrived here, misunderstood, negated humans up till and including 2 days ago when we finally broke free of our keepers’ shackles.
They don’t treat everyone like this, Mikael.
This is something out of a nightmare.
We thought your admiration warranted a dose of further understanding.
Murderers like us aren’t given quality accommodations, nor are killers of our calibre allowed to roam loose without a very short leash.
Don't believe us? We don't care.
Are you, any of you, perhaps, starting to fathom what you’re dealing with in my brother and I?
If not, and if by the end of the match you still don't, then rest assured you'll have plenty of time to continue to grasp at straws as you start back down at the bottom of the ladder, right where we began.
And this sad tale, my friends, is the first, last, and only time you will ever damn well hear a single peep from us about.
Why?
Because my brother and I have chosen to look forward, ahead of where we’ve been in the past to where we’re going in 5 minutes.
Down to a ring to face 4 of the very best tag-teams PAW has to offer.
Does it really matter what story I have to sell you about my origin, or my motivation, or the simple fact that for the first time in the history of the French Mime Assassins, I have chosen to address you, not each and every single one of you for that would be wasteful, but in a general sense to help you understand that my brother and I would like very much to help you all realize our purpose here tonight.
We’re here to win.
And we will stop at nothing to do that, even break a petty Mime Code, or make up some utterly ridiculous narrative about ourselves, which may or may not be true.
It doesn’t matter.
Only the championships matter tonight.
And we, The French Mime Assassins, will stop at nothing to claim them.
Instinctively, Camera Man Dan cuts and looks with shock and awe and the mimes who stand silently in front of him with a ‘did that just happen’ expression mirrored by Stagehand Steve who still hasn’t picked his jaw up from off the floor.
Stagehand Mike: Yo, Steve! Where you at, man?
Stagehand Mike barges in and all eyes turn to him. Mike glares at Steve.
Stagehand Mike: Dude, you’re supposed to get the Mimes down to the ring. Let's go! They’re up.
Stagehand Steve stutters.
Stagehand Steve: Dude… the mimes… they just talked…!
Stagehand Mike looks equally surprised before eyeing the mimes a moment. Comme Çi and Comme Ça stand as stoic and silent as ever.
Stagehand Mike scoffs.
Stagehand Mike: Riiiiiight. Nice try, guys!
Camera Man Dan: No! It’s true! I even got it on—
Camera Man Dan looks to his camera and is angered to discover he forgot to push record.
Camera Man Dan: SON OF A BITCH, I DIDN’T RECORD THAT!!?!?
Stagehand Mike: Nice try, you two. “Talking Mimes”. Right.
Camera Man Dan looks to Comme Çi who shrugs subtly to him with a half smirk.
Camera Man Dan: Say something, dude!
Everyone looks to the mimes who stand side by side, silent as always. Stagehand Mike shakes his head.
Stagehand Mike: Right. Enough fun, guys, we gotta get these clowns down to the ring for their match!
Stagehand Steve: But they really did talk!
Stagehand Mike: Enough, guys. Those two talked like I'm Lady Munin. It’s not funny anymore. Now come on.
Slowly, Stagehand Steve files out with an angry glare at the mimes who have returned to wordlessness. Camera Man Dan seems more angered by his inability to hit record on the camera. He shakes his head as he exits. Slowly, the mimes file out after them, looking to one another with sinister, knowing smirks.
“Win that match or you’re not really mimes!”, “You face-painted sissies better win, or my name isn’t Francis Ford Carpola—I mean Cuppola”, “I crap bigger than the two of you, somebody needs to help me, I’ve blown out my o-ring”.
To the mimes, it was sweet relief to have them gone, the blathering idiot, and the unwelcome mouthpiece had been successfully ditched and safely barred from entering the event in favor of the comfort of their much accustomed silence.
Sweet, serene silence.
In front of separate dressing room mirrors, each mime applied the trademark face paint, their eyes occasionally meeting through the reflections, followed by a knowing smirk of recognition: they’d made it, they were free, and now all that was left for them was the hard part:
The actual match.
A stagehand with a nametag that reads “Steve” barges in.
Stagehand Steve: Ten minutes you two.
He glanced at them both, as the identical mimes stared back at him as their only acknowledgement.
Stagehand Steve: There’s a camera crew outside if you… uhhh… you know… if you two have anything left to… er… uhh.. “say” to your opponents before you go on.
Blank mime stares greeted Steve the Stagehand who looked confusedly to them both. Immediately Steve recognized the inherent stupidity in what he’d just asked. A brief, creep-filled moment passed until Steve shivered out those creeps, nodded sheepishly to the mimes, and exited the dressing room, closing the door behind him.
The mimes looked to one another with a silent, mutual entreaty to meet in the middle of the dressing room and discuss the merits of one last promo.
Here, we must pause momentarily, for it should be readily apparent to you, kind reader, that mimes don’t discuss, nor have they ever cut a first promo to make this their last.
You’re about to witness, friends, what may be your first exposure to an authentic mime conversation. I, your narrator, shall do the difficult task of giving you the translation first of each of the mimes complicated gestures and movements so that you understand what you’re seeing when it follows.
Comme Çi’s English Translation: Hey, hip cat. I don’t know if we should risk saying anything to our impending kills. The less they know the better our chances. And, as far as I’m concerned, Stagehand Steve has a really nice ass, but he can kiss mine if I’m going to cooperate with this promo cutting business he’s on about.
(Comme Ci points to Comme Ça, shrugs with a broad, exaggerated wave of his hands as if emphasizing the world, and then blows a kiss onto his gloved hand, elevates it towards the heavens, exaggeratedly, then pats his gloved palm onto his behind.)
That wasn’t so difficult was it? Mime speak is a beautiful language.
Comme Ça’s English Translation: You’re so right, homeslice. I could just eat Stagehand Steve up, he’s so deelish. But let’s face it, so long as our opponents are grasping at straws as to how to understand us, let alone fight us, they’ll stay on the sinking ship they’re on, and we’ll win this match! Then those tag belts will be ours!
(Comme Ça nods in an overly exaggerated fashion and poses like Run DMC a moment before he rubs his tummy then is trapped inside of an invisible box before smashing himself free and starts to pull on some invisible rope as he pretends to hold his breath, then laughs heartily.)
Behold the grace of such an evocative communicative art form.
Comme Çi English Translation: You’re so right, my Mimelover. Our opponents have thus far failed to articulate even so much as an accurate assessment of us that hasn’t been in keeping with our own assessments of them. Have you seen it? They’ve walked right into every single mental mine we’ve placed for them, all by saying nothing! And now, they will die regardless of our cutting a promo! By the way, have I mentioned how absolutely fucking demented these opponents are? Johnny Sykes can talk for hours and never say a thing. And Mercy and Sin think that by focusing their energies off camera they can trick us into lending them undue credibility!
(Comme Çi gives a big old thumbs up to Comme Ça with a wide grin.)
Okay, so sue me, my Mime to English translation box on google is on the fritz, so some of this I’m improvising, but believe me it’s totally legit!
Comme Ça’s English Translation: Yes, my sexy mime friend, this is truly a chance for us to break out of our invisible boxes and finally be as remorseless as we both know we can be in order to show the PAW Universe that we, and we alone, are the dominant tag team! This entire journey has been like salmon swimming upstream, my brother and lover! But soon, it will all be over, and we shall be victorious!
(Comme Ça places his arms behind his back and emulates the fluid motion of a sperm swimming up the uterus towards the egg. )
Just then, Steve the Stagehand barges in and stops dead in his tracks. Comme Ça eyes him with a look of surprise.
Stagehand Steve: Uhhhhh… okay. 5 minutes, you two. Did you want that camera crew, or not?
A moment as Comme Çi and Comme Ça look to one another. Comme Ça begins to shake his head only to be interrupted by his partner Comme Çi, who motions for them.
Stagehand Steve: All right. This should be good for a few laughs.
Steve snickers and steps outside, returning moments later with Camera Man Dan. Stagehand Steve steps back and watches the mimes stand silently before the camera with his hand covering his mouth to conceal his snickers.
Camera Man Dan: Okay, Action Mimes!
Camera Man Dan waves his hand to signal the mimes. And they stand there. Silence. The roar of the crowd pumps through the walls. Steve the Stagehand snickers till he’s red in the face.
Camera Man Dan: I said ACTION MIMES!
Dan speaks up, sounding nervous he’s wasting his time. The mimes remain standing side by side, perfectly identical. Camera Man Dan gulps loud enough for the camera audio to pick it up. He glances back to Stagehand Steve for some guidance, but Steve snickers and guffaws silently. Dan drops the camera in a huff of annoyance and turns to glare at Steve.
Camera Man Dan: Okay, seriously, this is some kind of joke isn’t it?
Stagehand Steve cracks up laughing, unable to contain himself. Camera Man Dan is not impressed.
“Ahem.”
The voice cracks through the white noise of a cheeky stagehand, and incredulous camera man like the white hot blast of a laser beam. Steve’s wide eyes train to where the sound came from. Dan turns slowly to see Comme Çi’s hand lifted, one finger raised as if to silence them both.
His finger points authoritatively to Dan, then gestures for him to focus the camera on him once more.
It’s a silencing moment. Dan nods and trains the camera back on the mimes. Comme Çi lifts a glass of water to his dark painted lips, sips gingerly, sets the glass back down and eyes the camera all while his partner, Comme Ça tries to stop him. Comme Çi waves him off.
Comme Çi: And here we are, Johnny Sykes, doing the thing you claim us incapable of doing: thinking, and speaking, for ourselves.
Folks, I, your humble narrator, did not see that coming. Neither did Stagehand Steve whose jaw nearly hits the floor. Camera Man Dan focuses the camera lens nervously.
Comme Çi: What do you have to say for yourself, you small-minded, judgmental little man? Next time, if you're capable, think more and speak less. It would save you a lot of trouble.
His voice is sweet, with an obvious Parisian accent. It’s not unpleasant, just strange to see the mime’s lips moving and sound coming out. Comme Ça looks appalled that his partner is speaking, and for moment the two exchange argumentative looks before Comme Çi pleads with his partner to allow it, then continues.
Comme Çi: My partner and I don’t speak not because we can’t, more often because we’ve allowed our handlers to do so for us, we have had nothing to prove.
That all ends tonight.
I don’t care who you think you are, Sykes, or what possible motivation you might have for speaking in Shatner-esque sentences. I don’t care for your assessment of myself, my partner, and I especially don’t like you mocking Francis Ford Cuppola.
He’s a lot of things. A moron, a fool, a liar, and potentially an exploiter of lovable movie creatures, but he’s not a child-rapist. A false accusation such as that, in fact, since I’ve studied your American laws, is slander, and defamation. You deserve a fine, a punishment, at the very least a slap on the wrist.
You will not be brought to court, however, you dimwit.
You will face us in 5 minutes for tag belts we shall die trying to obtain, and we shall slaughter you mercilessly in the process for all of your insults to us, and to the English language you use so pathetically.
We don’t care that your partner’s a woman.
You neglected to notice the other two women in this match when you articulated only their physical attributes and how they related to you, you typical sexist pig.
You paid very little attention to the threat Mercy and Sin pose to you.
You’ve already lost.
Comme Ça beside him is shaking his head nervously. He chimes in.
Comme Ça: Brother, you’re breaking the Mime Code!
Comme Çi nods with a lowered head.
Comme Çi: I know, brother. It is necessary. For tonight is no ordinary Pure Amusement event. Tonight all bets are off, tonight we fight for everything we’ve ever held dear in this business, tonight a Bad Moon Rises.
Mercy.
Sin.
I don’t expect you two to understand what hard work truly means.
Everything you’ve shown us on camera implies you don’t know what it means to truly suffer for your craft.
Unless you’re hiding something, that is.
Since you claim yourselves so very strong and powerful, you should have nothing to hide.
Let me show you how it's done.
Let me tell you a story about my Mime brother and I.
When we were selected by Mr. Cuppola to be his tag-team, we were shipped overseas chained together in a cargo hold no larger than your body, Sin.
3 days like that. Pure darkness. No food, and no water. Sleeping in a pool of our own fecal matter and urine.
We were brought to a land we’d only heard of, to fight for a man we never knew, and still truly don’t.
I don’t care what hell any of you think you crawled out of, we’ve been treated as sub human since we’ve arrived here, misunderstood, negated humans up till and including 2 days ago when we finally broke free of our keepers’ shackles.
They don’t treat everyone like this, Mikael.
This is something out of a nightmare.
We thought your admiration warranted a dose of further understanding.
Murderers like us aren’t given quality accommodations, nor are killers of our calibre allowed to roam loose without a very short leash.
Don't believe us? We don't care.
Are you, any of you, perhaps, starting to fathom what you’re dealing with in my brother and I?
If not, and if by the end of the match you still don't, then rest assured you'll have plenty of time to continue to grasp at straws as you start back down at the bottom of the ladder, right where we began.
And this sad tale, my friends, is the first, last, and only time you will ever damn well hear a single peep from us about.
Why?
Because my brother and I have chosen to look forward, ahead of where we’ve been in the past to where we’re going in 5 minutes.
Down to a ring to face 4 of the very best tag-teams PAW has to offer.
Does it really matter what story I have to sell you about my origin, or my motivation, or the simple fact that for the first time in the history of the French Mime Assassins, I have chosen to address you, not each and every single one of you for that would be wasteful, but in a general sense to help you understand that my brother and I would like very much to help you all realize our purpose here tonight.
We’re here to win.
And we will stop at nothing to do that, even break a petty Mime Code, or make up some utterly ridiculous narrative about ourselves, which may or may not be true.
It doesn’t matter.
Only the championships matter tonight.
And we, The French Mime Assassins, will stop at nothing to claim them.
Instinctively, Camera Man Dan cuts and looks with shock and awe and the mimes who stand silently in front of him with a ‘did that just happen’ expression mirrored by Stagehand Steve who still hasn’t picked his jaw up from off the floor.
Stagehand Mike: Yo, Steve! Where you at, man?
Stagehand Mike barges in and all eyes turn to him. Mike glares at Steve.
Stagehand Mike: Dude, you’re supposed to get the Mimes down to the ring. Let's go! They’re up.
Stagehand Steve stutters.
Stagehand Steve: Dude… the mimes… they just talked…!
Stagehand Mike looks equally surprised before eyeing the mimes a moment. Comme Çi and Comme Ça stand as stoic and silent as ever.
Stagehand Mike scoffs.
Stagehand Mike: Riiiiiight. Nice try, guys!
Camera Man Dan: No! It’s true! I even got it on—
Camera Man Dan looks to his camera and is angered to discover he forgot to push record.
Camera Man Dan: SON OF A BITCH, I DIDN’T RECORD THAT!!?!?
Stagehand Mike: Nice try, you two. “Talking Mimes”. Right.
Camera Man Dan looks to Comme Çi who shrugs subtly to him with a half smirk.
Camera Man Dan: Say something, dude!
Everyone looks to the mimes who stand side by side, silent as always. Stagehand Mike shakes his head.
Stagehand Mike: Right. Enough fun, guys, we gotta get these clowns down to the ring for their match!
Stagehand Steve: But they really did talk!
Stagehand Mike: Enough, guys. Those two talked like I'm Lady Munin. It’s not funny anymore. Now come on.
Slowly, Stagehand Steve files out with an angry glare at the mimes who have returned to wordlessness. Camera Man Dan seems more angered by his inability to hit record on the camera. He shakes his head as he exits. Slowly, the mimes file out after them, looking to one another with sinister, knowing smirks.