The Cobra Game

I begin a serene dance in the spell of the sounds thus emitted. 

In a storm of swiftness, I rob Vompatti and jump out the window.

I explode in a mushroom cloud precisely five point two seconds after making impact.

Dylan wakes in a dark room, tied to a chair. A single lightbulb swings on a chain from the ceiling. He tastes blood.

"Where am I?" he asks, thinking he had died the day before. "Is anyone there."

"Yes," says the ominous voice of an invisible oppressor.

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

"Wait...I know that voice," Dylan's eyes widen to the size of small planets as realization engulfs his consciousness. "No!" he cries. "It can't be!"

Stepping out of the shadows, into the perimeter of the light, is

Benito Mussolini swaggers in front of me, showing power merely through his movements.

Dylan's wounds heal fully within the year.

Fourteen months of being a prisoner of fascism, and given only a single amp and guitar in addition to a bowl of onion broth twice weekly, he trained himself.

A thin steam of yellow sunlight penetrated his window, and perched fiercely on his closed eyelids. He woke soundlessly and swiftly.

"It's time," he says solemnly. He lifts his guitar, straps his amp onto his bat-belt and attaches a massive extension cable to the power plug and approaches his steal door of confinement. Click goes the amp as he switches it on.

The power chord tore fractures into the space-time continuum, it rippled throughout the void, and crumbled the walls about him. Twelve shaken fascist Italians look up from their chicken broth blankly.

"YOU WANT METAL?" Dylan roars. He gives a solid performance of his grungiest strum and they are all instantly decapitated by the prediction written in this script. "Unfortunately for you, the author favours me."

"Is it you, Dylan? Or is your metal?" asked Mussolini. He comes gracefully stepping down the staircase, a sly grin slowly creeping on his hollow face. "Your powers have grown. Do you feel the hate that fuels your metal?"

Dylan pumps three distinct chords into Mussolini, but his willpower is substantial.

"You won't decapitate me so easily. Now, give me the secret chord! Let you anger flow through you!"

"No! Never! Die, fascist!" His power chords break on Mussolini's body like water on brick.

"Let your hate for me swell!" he growled.

In a climatic bubbling of fury, Dylan's fingers aligned themselves for the Killer Kord of legend.

It was then, before he could destroy his right-wing adversary, that the Italian sized his good hand and took a photograph of his fingers' placement.

"YES! MY POWER IS COMPLETE," He roars as he flies away into the night.

"I gave the evil of the world the ability to reign for eternity," Dylan says as he takes a knife from his pocket. "I cannot live with this shame."

Fade to black.

[End of Act 3]


Edited by Shakespeare - August 25 2008 at 01:27

Having fully completed the instructions given on the previous card, I await further orders.

Not bothering to pay attention I loudly proclaim: I DON'T TAKE ORDERS FROM ANYONE! Having said this I face the wall and slowly pour myself a glass of lemonade.

I suddenly feel very dizzy. I faint and collapse on Ian's corpse, causing it to twitch in 15/8 rhythm.

Um...