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The Mask Preliminary Poll - Clown


The Mask Poll - Clown  

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Vote here for your favorite The Mask story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 5th at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to The Mask Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 10th round preliminary poll.

 

Choice #1:

 

The monotonous drone of marching sentries fills the air. I crouch in a dark corner as I wait for them to pass. Not impatiently, no, I cannot afford impatience. A little haste and the whole operation could be ruined.

Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m a spy and saboteur. My name is not important and you don’t need to know my affiliations. All you need to know is that this base contains the deadliest weapon in the enemy’s arsenal and we need to blow it sky high. If we can do that, this cold war will finally be at an end, the Antarctic will be restored to its natural beauty and the world will be saved. You know the drill.

It’s a tricky job. The sentries here shoot on sight and their weapons are specially modified lasers, designed to first freeze and after a few shots, kill. And if I get rustled out, my team has no chance. Yeah, I have a team. No, I don’t need to mention where the rest of them are.

Being a spy is complicated. You constantly have to maintain a mask behind which you hide your emotions, your ambitions - your very personality. As the leader, you cannot show the slightest doubt to your teammates, who rely on your judgment. You have to be perfectly impassive and suppress any internal turmoil when you do what’s necessary.

Fortunately, most agencies prefer their operatives to stun rather than kill. Equally efficient and fewer legal ramifications.

Quickly, I shoot the two sentries in my path, leaving them frozen for five minutes.

I advance towards the inner chambers, creeping from shadows like a lynx stalking its prey.

The door has a clever mechanism. It requires another operative in a separate location to operate a switch, which in turn can only be accessed by the cooperation of two other agents. All of whom are in danger of being detected by guards who will trap them and sound the alarm.

That’s why they choose us. We’re one of the most trained and cohesive teams in the agency. We’ve been working together for over ten years, well before this war even began. My agents are stationed right where they should be, so well-disciplined it’s like our team has a hive mind. I barely need to use the radio to signal Radia.

There, you see? She’s got the door. The epitome of a well-trained operative.

Silently, I slink forward and am about to finish wiring the explosives when-

“Go Dash! Wooohoo, we finished the game!”

Where on earth did that come from?

I look up at the ceiling and then straight out, at the wall opposite. No, I don’t believe it.

I, Dash, leader of the Alpha team, cannot be made a fool of like this.

This entire set-up, the fortress, the mission – it’s all an illusion, a form of entertainment for these untrained youth. My actions and this scenario form the veneer, the professional mask of espionage for a simple action computer game. Spy games evidently hold considerable glamour.

There are two children on a computer, treating me as a simple puppet. They tug their controls like a marionette’s strings. Whatever happened to free will?

Helplessly, to my immense frustration, I wire the detonator and leave the room. Safely outside of the fortress, I hit the button.

Kaboom. The fortress is gone, the Artic is safe and two children have won their video game. And all that it took was my disillusioned dignity.

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Choice #2:

"Dr. Acula"

I halted before the entrance to the dentist's office. I don't know, something about it just gave me the creeps. Maybe it was the old and rickety-looking wooden door, maybe it was the little cracks in the window-glass, or even the faint, eerie light that emanated from within. Something just didn't feel quite right.

Dr. Acula had just recently arrived in town. He came from a European country, I had forgotten which, but the reputation he had brought with him was phenomenal. People had been flocking to see him during the short few weeks that he had been here, and people were always ranting about the fantastic work he did.

Thus despite my trepidations, I boldly stepped forward and through the door. If I had been a little spooked before, now I was downright nervous.

Cobwebs hung from every corner of the room, and all the furniture was of an old Victorian-style, while the light I had seen from before came from from various candles around the room. There weren't any electric devices of any kind, as far as I could tell. On one side was a door, which assumably led to the operating room.

To one side sat a receptionist behind a desk. I must admit I found it strange to see that instead of a computer, a long piece of parchment sat before her, along with a quill pen and ink bottle. Her physical appearance seemed normal enough, her clothes seemed respectable and all, and she wore a nice pair of glasses. But did I only imagine that she looked a little pale? It was hard enough to see clearly by the candle-light, much less through the obscurity of recollected memory.

"You have an appointment?" she asked with a smile. Her voice bore a heavy accent, though I couldn't quite identify it. Dutch? Bulgarian?

"Y-yes," I replied. Something about the way she was smiling at me put me off a bit. "My name is Norville."

"Norville. . . Ah, yes, here ve are."

She nodded to me and then directed me to a couch. "The doctor shall be with you shortly."

I hesitated for a moment, my eyes darting unwarrented towards the door, before I obediently retreated to the indicated seat. It was old and uncomfortably soft, and a spring stuck into me, but whether by good manners or something else I didn't complain.

As I sat, I continued to find my eyes darting intermittently towards the door, almost without my consent and awareness. When the door of the inner room finally opened, I must admit that I jumped.

"Vell vell, our next victim has arrived?"

As the man entered the room, I finally recognized the accent. It was Transylvanian.

He stood tall but thin, and had a somewhat antiquated taste in clothing. The black pants and the jacket with its tails; the stiff, clean undershirt; the ruffed collar; and the high society shoes completed an outfit that I felt would look quite at home in a museum exhibit. Although I had to admit that it fit the atmosphere.

But strangest of all was his face. The high cheek bones and wrinkled forehead looked almost unnatural, somehow. It looked a bit stiff and artificial, to be completely honest. I also imagined that his hairstylist must be very well-paid, to put up with a man who wanted such an elegant and triangular cut, not to mention how much work and hair-gel must have been involved.

Somehow I managed to find enough of my voice to offer a greeting and extend a hand. "Dr. Acula, I am here for my appointment. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir." Somehow I felt obligated to apply my highest manners.

It was when he shook my hand that I got a close look at his eyes. Strong and penetrating, and was it just my imagination that made them look a little bloodshot? I hoped so.

"Yes," he replied. "Vell, the public will exaggerate. They vere probably 'under my spell' as it vere." With that he laughed, and the receptionist and I laughed with him, although after a moment I wasn't sure if I was laughing or crying.

As he led me into the operating room, I couldn't help but notice a small sliver of white skin on the back of his neck, as if the outer skin had been cut through to reveal a different skin underneath.

In that moment I wondered what in the world I had gotten myself in for.

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Choice #3:

"A Vigilante’s Mask"

Some call me a vigilante. By one definition of the word, they’re right. I seek out those who choose to break the rules, and I punish them accordingly. Only I do it outside the law.

Nobody knows who I am. Most of my victims are in no state to identify me when I’m finished with them. Few witnesses ever get more than a passing glance at me before I’m gone. The police search for me, in addition to those I hunt, but they don’t even know where to look.

But, most of all, nobody knows who I am because I wear the mask.

It’s a simple, featureless mask. Its sole purpose is to hide my facial features, and disguise my true identity. I made it with my own two hands, and I wear it when I embark on my missions. It is the mask I hide behind when I fight evil.

Oh, but don’t think of me as a hero. I am not wearing the mask to become some sort of symbol. There are criminals who know who I am, and others who do not. Some fear me, and some underestimate my abilities. None of them escape my wrath.

The mask is not a means of protection either, for myself or those close to me. I did not start my fight because a loved one was killed by the gangs who roam the street. My relatives live far away, and I am not close to them at all. I have no true friends or acquaintances. I was already a loner, and I have nobody to shield from the evils of humanity.

The mask doesn’t offer me any powers, any special abilities, any edge for a fight. The mask itself is barely important; it is my fists and knives that take down criminals. The mask has one simple purpose; it hides my identity.

But why must I hide my identity? I’m not hiding it from those I punish for breaking the law; I’m hiding it from the law itself.

Why am I hiding my actions from the law? Why am I fighting crime in the first place? Why have I embarked on a journey of vigilantism with this mask?

It’s not for some personal grudge or revenge. It’s not for some perfect ideal of right and wrong.

It’s because I like to fight. It’s the thrill of the conflict. It’s the pain I cause to those who deserve it.

I realize it’s not a healthy reason. It’s an adrenaline addiction; a crave I cannot help but give into. My morals are too important to me to take out my lust for battle on the innocent, so I do not engage in crime directly. But to join the police or the military stifles my actions and would not be enough. So I take matters into my own hands; I’ve found my own way to satisfy my needs, by fighting fire with fire in the darkest regions of the city.

I hide behind my mask, because it is the only way society will accept me for who I am.

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Choice #4:

"The Jester"

I wear this mask to hide my name,

Cover my face, cover my shame.

This painted grin, burden it's been;

A laughing glance, cover my pain.

I laugh and dance, I joke, I sing,

For peasant low, for queen, for king;

I make you smile, and all the while,

Deep in my heart, my soul crying.

I show the world a merry face,

I spread good cheer all round the place:

Ever after, behind my laughter,

Behind this mask, sulks sad disgrace.

Long years ago, I had nothing,

No paint, no lies to force a grin;

I walked for miles, wore joyous smiles,

Now that's all lost, slain by my sin.

Who knew a chain could be so weak?

One small blunder, my joy could take?

Hard to believe, that I should grieve,

For all this time, for one mistake.

One word let slip invokes a curse.

A desperate try tightens the noose.

For the stars sailing, all else failing,

All demons, worms, and fears let loose.

Buried beneath earth damp and cold,

Those eyes once bright, that heart once bold:

The remnants of my long-lost love;

Now laid to rest like pirate's gold.

Of joy and grief I've been bereft,

A hopeless void, an empty cleft.

I've danced and twirled, made laugh the world,

But in my heart there's nothing left.

I wear this mask to hide my tears.

The sun is gone, shadows are here:

This painted grin, burden it's been;

My sad heart can still offer cheer.

I wear this mask to play a fool:

A puppet and a broken tool . . .

Though I am dead, joy I can spread;

And make this world less dark, less cruel.

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"As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake." ~ Aimee Bender

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I had to choose between #3 and #4. I ended up voting for #3, because while #4 was impressively well written, as poetry entries go (significantly harder to write than prose, IMO), I didn't understand the backstory part at all.

 

Regardless, may the best entry win!

 

-Excelsior

Edited by Excelsior

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My writings:

The Toa Ekara - Visions A short story. Ga-Koro Mobs My entry for the LSO Comedies Contest. Team Extempore's entry for the LSO Epics Contest

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All of these were excellent. 1 brought back memories of playing the Alpha Team online games, 2 was entertaining and the writing was very good. 3 nearly got my vote, but I chose 4 in the end because even though the rhyming was a bit weird in places, when the poetry was good, it was very good, and the final lines in particular had a considerable emotional impact.

 

And all of those sentences are probably run-ons but whatever, it's 1 AM.

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