12-03-2017, 02:15 AM
Quote:Channel ? - Silent Hill Public Access - The Cecil Thomas Municipal Politics and Local News Power-Hour (episode ?).
Assuming anyone could successfully tune into this broadcast, this is what they would see:
A continuous shot, picture quality slightly grainy, of a basement room lit in shades of burnt sienna by a single flickering overhead bulb. The wallpaper is yellow and mildewed, and the carpet resembles the crust on a jar full of old milk. There is a dead ficus tree occupying a white plastic pot in one corner. A poster advertising the original Rageface film is tacked to the wall nearby, beside an Ikea bookshelf loaded with impressive looking (but in quite poor condition) texts on civics, economics, and the philosophy of government. An overstuffed burgundy armchair occupies the center of the floor.
There is a man in the chair. He is young, and slightly fat, but his skin sags in a way that suggests he was once much fatter. His hair and beard have the look of not having been cut or washed in a very long time. This man is wearing a flannel work-shirt with the buttons open in the front, allowing us a glimpse of a stained t-shirt with a faded insignia over the breast, now indecipherable. There is a sawed-off shotgun dangling loosely in his right hand. A pile of flash-cards lie scattered on the floor nearby, beside a smashed easel and a discarded laptop computer. Occasionally he blinks, or scratches chin. Otherwise, he doesn't move.
After several minutes a band of static crawls across the screen, like a damaged frame on an old VHS. A moment later the man starts talking, although his slack-jawed expression doesn't change; He doesn't even seem to realize he's doing it.
"Hey neighbors", he says, his enthusiastic tones entirely at odds with his vacant eyes, "and welcome back to the Municipal Politics and Local News Power-Hour. The sky is burning, and I see your face in the flames. I look into the shell of my broken camera and all that's inside is the stares of ten-thousand hollow eyes: an audience of counterfeit souls transfixed by dead air. What are our leading citizens planning on doing about this?"
He stops abruptly, staring unblinkingly into the overhead bulb for several seconds. The picture fuzzes, and in the frames between the bands of static the chair in the center of the room is occupied by a different person entirely. They're old and skinny dressed only in rags, dripping wet. The carpet looks moist, and there's a red metal gas-can on the floor instead of a laptop. The picture clears. Cecil continues talking.
"I'm not going to stand for it. Who do they think they are telling use we can't leave our own homes! If you're as angry about this as I am, and I know that you are, then let them know we're onto them. Write your councilman. Call the Mayor's office. Dig a hole - you'll finding nothing down there except more city - Silent Hill, all the way down."
The bands of static roll across the screen once more, providing a glimpse of a version of Cecil's basement which has been gutted by fire. There are pieces of a department store mannequin scattered among the ashes - and the ficus tree has been replaced in its now-melted planter by a healthy specimens.
When the picture transitions back, Cecil turns his head, looking directly at the camera. One of his eyes slowly rolls back in his head. "This city's leading citizens need to stand up and take responsibility for the economy, our rights, and for the happiness of our taxpaying townsfolk. Kill me. They need to know that we're not going to take this kind of treatment anymore. This has happened before. Hell. Thirty dollars for a dog-license?"
Jerkily, as though he's forgotten how and is having to figure it out as he goes, Cecil stands up from his chair and shambles over to the bookshelf. The shotgun slips, forgotten, out of his hand. There's a loud click when it hits the floor, but no shot. The man fumbles with the battered books, pulling one off the shelf, but failing to keep a hold. It thumps dustily on the carpet, but he doesn't seem to notice, turning back to the camera and waving his hand as though he were gripping a treasured volume with fervent gusto.
"According to John Locke, the dreamer is both creator and destroyer. Omni dreams the universe, and when he wakes the dream ends. The macroeconomic implications for our situation are obvious: we're all spiritual cannibals, dreams devouring dreams. It's inside of you already. To donate, call the number on the back of your eyelids, and with your help we'll be able to cause some real change in this town. This has happened before."
He returns to his armchair, sitting down unsteadily, and folds his hands in his lap. He immediately bursts into flames, burning silently. His jaw sloughs off and bounces on the floor. Somewhere, an air-raid siren begins to sound, and the walls and floor burn away, revealing a tresselwork of rusted iron. Throughout, the armchair remains bizarrely pristine, even as its burning occupant is entangled by barbed wire. The room is rapidly filling with smoke, obscuring our view.
"This has been the Municipal Politics and Local News Power-Hour. Time isn't real. I'm your host. Cecil Cecil. Until Thomas, remember that its all your fault. Paid for by the Silent Hill Tourism Development Bureau."
"We'll see you soon."