RoughKut Rd. 3 Promo 1

The sky is beginning to grey. Dusk is setting in and smoke is bellowing from the chimney at the House of Royce. A light rapping sounds out through the room, stirring Royce from his work. He raises his head and closes his book. Inferno by Dante Alighieri from the looks of the title, but the camera only caught so much. A look of irritation distorts Royce’s beautiful but aging face. The stress from this life has begun taking its toll on him. The toll has been wearing and his mental state has been in a detrimental state for some time. As the book closed slight clouds of dust riddled from the cover, only to disappear in the breeze of central air. As Royce approached the door another, much louder banging came from the other side.

Royce:` WHO IS IT!?!

No answer, only the resonating voice of Royce echoes through the home. Another banging came from the other side. But still no answer to Royce’s calls…

Royce: Fine, you want to be unknown then I have a present for you.

Royce reaches into the coat closet to his left and pulls a 28 inch wooden club from inside. He mounts it behind him as he slowly opens the door.

………

To his surprise not a soul is present in the doorway. The only sight is the darkening sky straining to spread even the lowest emission of light through the opening. The rays of light seem to try and escape into the house.

Royce: Is there anyone out here?

He begins to ask calmly. His surprise wavering as this has been an ongoing event for the last few months. Ever since his recent run in with the DEA in late November, his mind hasn’t quite been right.

He props the bat back into its resting place above the shelving in the closet and turns and walks away. He begins to head back toward his study with the door slamming behind him. Before he reaches the doorway a faint noise yanks his attention back toward the door. A low bitter tone, however very familiar.

Royce: Need I even ask?

Background: You need not…

A voice bellows from the doorway, Royce already knowing from whom it came.

Royce: Like clockwork, Ambrose. So back to toy with my head again are you Ambrose?

Silence grips the room. Royce begins to speak again, but is cut short.

Ambrose: Know, O waiting and chaotic soul, that is to fear which has the power to harm, and nothing else is fearful even in Hell.

Royce turns to face the origin of the voice and witnesses a familiar figure. The monster he describes that is to wake a youth from there dreams or cast a schizophrenic back to a state of sanity. The figure had eyes of black coal, a mouth of jagged ugliness. The rabbit features all too evident. The description holds for a perfect Halloween outfit.

Royce: So poet, you have any words of encouragement? I don’t see why I should need them, it seems I have nothing to fear here but a Jumanji rip off in Tarzan’s panties. I witnessed his lame attempt at evoking some voodoo hex on me last night. Not to impressed. I felt tingly yes, however the blame would probably go to the half dozen glasses of Vodka I consumed within the hour. Nothing like some old fashion drunk celebration after I bitch slapped Gideon back to that hell hold he calls a home.

The moment Royce finished an eye piercing screech jolted the room like nails on a chalkboard. Royce didn’t flinch, just as though the sound had never reached his ears.

The noise ended just as abruptly as it had begun. Once the sound ended, the voice spoke out again. In the mean time Royce had stepped into the shadow of the room. The lights had never been switched on, and Royce was not about to waste his time with it now. The darkness held a comfortable grip over his well being and even though his beauty could melt a model he still held it back. It was just one of those nights where vanity took back seat to a weekly emotional state.

Ambrose: Is there any one thing that this pigmy has over you? Do you feel hindered in anyway by his words?

Royce answered quickly and with a sharp resonance.

Royce: NO! … why should I. I plan on thumping out In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida on his skull. Tamu has no idea what tribal drums can sound like. The war beat sounding off, light at first but ever increasing. I have always heard such a tone; the rhythmic thumping on a human skull could wake the gods.

Royce spins around and his face appears from the shadows directly into the camera.

Royce: So you lowly ass want to be Pedro Cerrano. You… praying to some invisible deity, Jobu or something or other. How f*cking ridiculous, you know… I evoke the little cloud floating skank to join you in our match, for I promise you will need anything you can get. However I must commend you on one thing in particular, you did get the rabbit symbolism correct. Bravo young ghetto bushman.

Royce spins away slowly back into the shadows of the room.

Ambrose: Do you plan on actually taking this tournament?

… The voice resounding from the darkness raspy and harsh.

Royce: I will do what I need to do to stand on the pedestal above all others. I will continue my trek to the top here again with Taboo or Tamu or whatever.

Silence falls for a moment. A quick flick rings out as a flash lights up the room for if only for a second. The silhouette of Royce contrasts against the now grayed shadows behind him as the flame from his Zippo flickers. His shadow casting against the back wall dances, shrinking and growing with each flicker of the flame. He lights his cigarette and clicked the Zippo back shut directly sending the room back into deep dark shadowing covering Royce again.

Royce: The night moved in quickly. Didn’t you notice?

Silence…

Royce: Ambrose… no more wise words to play like ice picks in my ears?

Silence…

The cherry on the tip of the cigarette lights up bright as Royce takes a long drag inhaling and savoring every fragment of smoke. The glare casts a hazing light across his face, a sinister under shadow the likes of which Edger Allen Poe would write about.

Royce: I guess I must get back to work. Sleep tight Tamu the Jungle Book Tiger or however it is to go. I must leave with them one last comment. You say you will not underestimate me, well I have the same intentions. I may not know what your name is, or what your past is. But I do know what it is to be in the ring. One thing is a fact, you do not need to know the opponents life story to mutilate their very carcass in the ring, all while you make this ignorant bunch of fools in the crowd scream for more. The blood thirsty sons of b*tch’s want pain and violence. I have lived it. I know just how to give it right back out

Royce’s voice, echoing dark and cold, throughout the desolate house. He takes a final drag from the cigarette bringing more shadows to come into view. The red glow lays a orb of orange tint couple feet all around his face. As the camera pans back and starts to fade another shadow appears behind Royce across the back wall in place of his own. It grew momentarily and shaped into a rabbit like silhouette straight out of a midnight carnival horror show.

FIN