<Center>"Give them pleasure - the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare."
-Alfred Hitchcock-
Have you ever dreamed the same dream over and over again? No matter what you did you couldn't help having the same exact image appear in your mind? Every night I see it. See her falling. Ever falling. As if flying. Flying like a bird. Like an angel as if she will fly away into the nights sky. Then the ground reminds me and I scream...
*The camera opens on the image of a darkened room illuminated by a blazing fireplace and the crackling light of a morning sun peering through the heavy velvet curtains trimmed elegantly with lace. The pale alabaster walls accented with baroque patterns and fine carvings. Over the fireplace a hand carved mantle sits empty save for a set of candles and the painting of a woman above. Her skin is pale as porcelain, her hair as black as the night, with lips like blood curved with expert hand into a smile that haunts. Her eyes pale blue like the glistening sea stare; watching over the darkened room. Suddenly from the far end of the room the silence is broken. A sudden scream of terror and pain.*
Voice: NO!
*The figure in the four post bed sits up. Sweat glistening off the pale well toned flesh. His hair long draped like a curtain of platinum almost silver blond. His face stabbed in surprise for but a second revealing elongated canines hidden behind cold pale lips. He stares into the dark with green catlike eyes searching the darkness for his bearings. His deep panted breathing making chest rise and fall before receding into a more calm demeanor as he realizes the truth of his reality and tosses back the covers to greet the new day.*
So it is that with every morning I rise to greet dawn with the replaying agony of a dark memory. Long since taken from this world but no less missed. For what died in that moment of time was not merely a woman of exquisite beauty and grace but the last remnants of my own humanity. And so haunted by the curse of my own flawed inadequacy I rise eternal. My nights scarred with the torment of waking nightmares.
*He walks slowly in staggering deliberate steps. The cold bare wooden floor under his bare feet as he inches toward the marble fireplace. He leans in his hands upon the mantle letting hair drape about his face. He looks up then at the painting of the woman silently staring into the void as he brings one hand up to caress her cheek. his hands touching the brush strokes that make up her tender flesh as if trying to reach through the painting to feel skin long since cold and forgotten. he hangs his head a bit a solemn sorrow in his eyes.*
And so it must be that from this; this moment of sorrow and pain nightly relived..
*His head raises then but not in a gaze of sorrow anymore but one of grim determination, a dark smirk gracing his visage. The sudden switch unnerving as if the previous emotion were merely an illusion. As a talented actor switches roles before the camera.*
... that I became a nightmare unto others.
*The camera cuts to a shirt laid out well pressed though frilled with exquisite white lace. Alongside it sits a starched detachable high collar with folded triangular creases. A hand lays out a cravat neatly laid out with meticulous care. The camera cuts again to his well toned and muscular frame slowly being covered with the shirt as he buttons each button slowly.*
Thus now do I return once more. Once more into the breach. For lo have I waited till the moment is right. Many times have I returned from the dark places of men's thoughts. Some have known me as a tale to tell the young. Some have known me as a haunted memory of battle. But ever have I walked among you. A shadow waiting to be made flesh. The reoccurring nightmare of the squared circle. This I have been. This I will be again. For I am the name that men fear. The tale of warning to the frightened child. The waking terror which you dare not speak of less I hear it and sit next to you. I am the Fallen One, the Chosen One, the ONLY One. I am Sephiroth du Lac.
*He adjusts his sleeves, the fine lace wrapped about his wrist tight. The collar placed so tight about his neck much like a brace holding his posture in a stiff and refined manner. The cravat draped about his neck tied and knotted in the old style. The picture of Victorian and turn of the century style. Slowly he pulls his coat to him a black dark piece of fabric, black as pitch of a cloudy midnight. It's brass buttons etched with the image of a lion as he begins to tease and flair the the ruffles of his sleeve out. His image caught in the mirror that of a refined gentlemen. Like something from the days of the ripper. The quintessential picture of the true gentleman.*
And who amongst you I dare say would stand to such a man? Who amongst the cornucopia of talent would offer themselves in bitter sacrifice to quell the thirst which even now awakens my palate? A man. A wild man. Sophistication versus the crude blue-collar masses. A bit low brow for my delicate tastes. After all, can one truly compare a hot dog to the savory taste of a lobster? Or domestic swill to aged fine wine? No, it's a matter of quality and I am a man of quality.
*With simple motions and a black ribbon he ties his hair tightly back. A long slender ponytail that weighs down to the small of his back. He runs his hand across his face neatly trimmed and shaven. The small bowl before him wet with water as he sets the razor sharp barber's razor down next to the confirmation letter from the SCW offices. He then lays down his long fingers across the words of the contract savoring their welcome greetings. His face twisting in the mirror into a long toothed sinister grin.*
Tell me, Wallace, how do you sleep at night? Was it your dream to become a stepping stone for men greater than yourself? Did you wake up one morning and think to yourself that your ambition in life was to be culled by your betters? Do you even dream anymore? Do you aspire? The recklessness of youth slowly fading in each step. The agony of so many defeats and losses wearing itself upon your face. Etched in every wrinkle and scar that newly appears. Is this truly your dream? You struggle every day with it don't you? You stare in the mirror wondering where the years go. Another loss and another and another. Your dream. Your nightmare. The nightmare that you are exactly what we think you are. Nothing. Nothing but poor white trash desperately struggling to make the boyhood dream come true.
*He walks over to the decanter in the center of the room pouring a thick reddish ruddy liquid into a glass chalice. His hands delicately wrapping about it as he steps. He inhales it's scent delicately his eyes closing in ecstasy and euphoria as he savors the smell. His hands spinning the contents of the glass before raising it to pass through his cold lips. He simply smiles at it's treasure the notable thickness of the red liquid staining his teeth as he drinks deeper. Walking from his resting place lost in a thought that makes his cold flesh shiver with warmth.*
And so I arrive and behold I make everything new. A fresh chance. A new opportunity for you. A fresh start. A chance for the dream to once again take flight. But it won't. For you do not fight against a man but against powers and principalities no mortal mind can comprehend. You fight against the power of darkness. The power of a warrior who has stood the test of time. For over a millennia I have walked this earth and I have seen men like you. The long tanned face of the common rabble. The bitter anger of those who have nothing because they deserve nothing. You are a peasant. You are cattle. Nothing more than the mewling deer that men such as you hunt for sport and sustenance. For there is no outcome I can foresee that would place you as my equal. No gathering of stars or fortune tellers portents that could see your victory. You are without hope. And so it would be every time we faced each other. For this isn't the moment of your dream's renewing but merely the beginning of the SCW's nightmare. Of your own renewed reoccurring failure.
*He steps down the steps of an old manor. The well polished wooden wrapped staircase giving way to the Italian marble beneath his feet. Slowly he steps his movement barely a breath in the mass of the house. The stillness broken only by the sound of heavy shoes upon the stone. He reaches to the doorway grabbing a slender cane of black oak, it's head a raven's talon clutching a red spherical crystal. He pulls it close and sets it down hard. it's weight heard in the echoing of it's clicking upon the floor.*
And much like that nightmare that haunts your waking sleep I shall return. Night after night. Each beating fresh exquisite agony. As if a dream you've relived over and over again. Until you fear the former pleasure of slumber. I am that dream. I am that nightmare. The one you relive each time you close your eyes. And so it is with the ring itself until everytime you see my name. Everytime you glance at that marquee that hangs in bright lights over your head, like the sword of damocles, you will tremble. You will fear. You will pray and beg to God this time will be different. That this time you will emerge in great triumph over the evil that has plagued you from this coming night hence. You will pray and you will find it futile. You will curse and weep and chastise God with each utter failure. You will believe he has abandoned you. He hasn't. No...
*He turns staring into a nearby mirror the flashing of the image of a girl watching behind him. He glances back to see nothing but only smiles at this diversion. Turning back to reveal no one in the looking glass once more. No one but him as he adjusts himself one last time dusting off his finery. Before turning back and opening the front door. The sun peaks over the hills as the dawn rises and he turns from the light. Staring back into the darkness the feint hint of whispers calling as the camera pans to him staring into the void of the empty house.*
... for you see to you; I am God. I decide whether you live or you die. Whether you lose or win. I am the measuring stick. The scale to which all men measure their worth. I am the judgement that awaits you. That awaits ALL of you
*The camera closes in on his face as a slow sadistic grin crawls across it. His eyes sparkle with delight as the sun silhouettes him like a living shadow.*
And I am looking forward to our time together.
*The words echo in the audiences ears as he shuts the door casting us all into darkness as the scene fades to black.*
