This is a story written by me starring several TTV Boards Members, who all signed up for being included in this topic.
Chapters will be posted when I have the time.
The Book of Ramblings
The implication given by the statement ‘sharpest tool in the shed’ is you are of exceptional intelligence in comparison with your peers, but still insinuating that you, much like your immediate peers, are cards in someone else’s hand. You have no power over your own exertion of energy, but are dictated by the intent and strength of the one holding you, laboring for their will alone, and isolated when beyond their grasp.
But what if you were the master of your own destiny? Would you have driven this instrument so violently into matter which entirely sustained its own existence until its violent separation from the host? Or with such excellent grace swept the skewered extensions of the organism so deftly punctured into the swirling mass of conscious thought and deed, effortlessly consuming the hard labour of the host organism which was performed in an attempt at self preservation? Surely all these deeds were for the preservation of yourself as well; the hunter swiftly eliminates the hunted, but if morality and selflessness were among the virtues you possessed, perhaps the cycle would not have been perpetuated.
Here, in a more simple setting, the expression cycled over. The tool in your possession expertly punctured the green vegetation at your command, and with the delicacy and madness of a greek god you dumped the edible material into what constitutes as an oral passage; your glowing, swirling, conscious mass suspended at two metallic rods designed with the intent of containing such a consciousness.
You stabbed two spinach leaves with your fork and stuffed them into your stupid, glowing face, while contemplating the deeper meaning of life because you’re a desperate loner with no friends. Seriously, who eats a salad with no dressing?
Regardless, your time for meditation on your sad dinner is officially at an end. The door clicked, there were murmurs in the direction of it. Approaching your table with an air of unease is someone so incredibly short he must be a child. His demeanor is not contrary to this assessment, for he glanced about with curiosity and a vague sense of dread, scanning you, the table, the seating, the window, and anything even remotely close to your location.
With a struggle he clambered up and onto the cushioned seat directly opposite to you, his yellow metallic face reflecting off the window. “Monopoly, I-”
“The name,” You spat, unconcerned with the wellbeing of your acquaintance, “is Mister Monopoly. And I feel we have much to discuss.”