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Lord Of The Rings Tape No. V429z0
Eowyn gets her shirt ripped and angrily starts heaving
massive stones over her head boobs exposed from a promonitory
in a blood-curdling vengeance with the wind blowing
wildly in her hair and has visions of the moons of middle
earth covered in blood.
Lord Of The Rings Tape No. V815c1
The Elven warriors who show up at Helm's Deep. Instead,
they show up fashionably late to the sound of a base
guitar instead of a blast of a horn. They are all these
young, strapping euro-boys pale as addicts but strikingly
cut, who when angered in the battle, suddenly grow vampire
teeth and bite into the orcii necks stripping off their
shirts. They start speaking in transylvanian accents.
Then there proceeds a sort of homoerotic trasfer of
elven vampire blood by sucking on each others arms and
dripping blood into each other's mouths, sneering in
pain and pleasure and writhing. Whereupon the orcii
turn into strapping, euro-boys who in turn pounce on
the nearest orcii. They use vampire telepathy to help
each other fend off any orcii so unlucky as to venture
between elven-turned-vampire and orcii victim. They
also have those mercury-lamp retinal reflections in
the firelight.
All to goth rock.
Lord Of The Rings Tape No. V156b1
The trombones are sighing... sighing...
Its dark, the roads are glistening but it is actually
not raining. The face has some skin ripped away. He
puts his sunglasses back on. He is speaking in latin
coughing up limbs. In the background sky the black hole
of middle earth swirls olaginously.
With a chorus of sighing trombones in the background,
and wearing ubiquitous sunglasses, the terminator could
be standing there -surrounded by silently lapping flames
with the maelstrom of orcii around him laconically and
dryly speaking in la-a-atin coughing up limbs, getting
his sunglasses knocked off, removing his eyeballs and
laying flat hecatombs of orcii, punching multitudinous
holes in shields with armour piercing shells from a
massive brushed-steel gattling gun. When he takes his
eyes out, it does not interrupt the visual targetting
system. He actually makes the eyes look at one another
and then sticks them somewheres safe.
It does happen that he gets impaled, but a screen appears
to indicate "alternative" and he switches on once more,
uncaringly swivelling about, somewhat oblivious to damage
but obviously crimped, speaking latin with a german
accent and coughing up limbs.
And the trombones keep sighing... sighing...
Lord Of The Rings Tape No. V156b2
It's the slickened parking garage under Helm's Deep,
where if you die, nobody notices much and the police
just take it as a matter of course that this is where
corpses are surreptitiously stumbled over and retrieved
and chalk marks are all that's left.
The flames lapped silently around the feet.
"Libera-a- a-te-meh" "Sa-a-a-alva-a-ate libera-a-a-te
ex infiris"
*Gurk-gurgle* Another limb gets coughed up, but notice
the disturbing fact that there are no eyeballs, reflected
by the shadowed-hollows created by the flash of gattling.
They are at the end of the gattling unit atop the end-sight.
Inside the eyeballs, there is obviously a line image-overlay
of targetting, but a pictorial underlay of grim, grainy
video images with poor horizontal resolution-control
depicting sado-masochistic horrors of.... sheesh! You
just don't want to see that. Somewhere a woman laughs
manaicially.
"Sa-a-a-alva-a-ate libera-a-a-te ex infiris" *cough*
*gurk* (A limb. where they come from is not disclosed).
Br-r-r-rt/ actually the feed of bullets is more like
B-z-z-z-t! (So many) Hollows. Eyes on gun sight. Not
a flicker of effort on the face, except dirty smudges.
Meanwhile, the ship which up until this time we had
forgotten is miles away orbiting but appearing to flow
through clouds like a pendulous dirigible reminiscent
of heavy-gun normandy pill-box architecture hanging
impossibly perilously over a fascinating gravitational
quagmire. A requisite flash of lighting for reality
because of friction. Then inside, the horror engine
of darkness flips on all of its lights and rolls over
with astrological significance. The skinny ghost-wives
have black eyes and look like they have spent several
weeks in a bathtub.
That's when a lengthy introduction of "Never Never Land"
slowly chimes in. Trombones fade.
Trolls appear controlled by heavy chains in the parking
garage stomping into view. They manage to carry off
a pillar or two and some '70s era cars in different
colours like beige, (a truly horrible colour under florescent
lighting), pale olive and burgundy scattering hubcaps
flipping them and concrete detritus causing the requisite
booming din through the theatre subwoofers.
"You will feel the wroth of Uhrukhai Trolls, man-meat-machine"
OOh-Rawaowrrrr!! You can see their smeg-for-breath in
the cool of the parking garage of Helm's Deep.
The flying concrete pieces carry off the terminator's
arm, dropping the expended gun. Recognizing his predicament,
he plucks his eyes back into his head and looks down
to his stomach, where he opens a hatch and draws out
an emitter.
It is a gorgeous in design and obviously Japanese or
something, with the most tasteful, unobstrusive, but
purposeful appearance. He barely has time to deftly
flick the switch before the Trolls are upon him, cleaning
him of flesh. The emitter clatters along the floor several
meters. Funny how the floor is now dry.
The terminator explodes with a brilliant flash, the
instantaneous bright rays catching in the dust up from
beside the Trolls heads before all is blown asunder.
It is obviously some kind of low-yield nuclear, somewhat
like the dangerous hand grenades on old-gen Star Trek.
The totality of the flesh in the immediate vicinity
of ground zero (a space of a few dozen meters) is sprayed
with scabrous flesh, all over walls, cielings, cars,
etc. The parking garage was made by Dwarves, no doubt
because it is still standing.
The tune "Never Never Land" is playing louder now, but
still in introduction.
Near to the emitter now emitting a solitary green glow,
four glowing orbs appear and cut parts of decimated
cars and a bit of the floor.
Out of the four glowing globes appear four hafling-hobbitinators.
Yes. They are naked. With hairy feet. And black.
They all look like four feet tall actors, they are all
Lawrence Fishburne totally non-plussed, buff, and about
to say something really choice.
They all laconically, dryly swear like sailors in unison
using customary street vernacular for impending violence
with a velvety german accent. They pick up leather jackets,
sunglasses and black jeans from the smashed-open trunks
of cars. .........And Glocks. But no shoes.
The ship is also now in close. Low altitude orbit.
Steve Buscemi comes out of the stairway looking for
his car and freaks out, with his usual facial contortions
and totally suburban whining.
Was the outcome ever in question?
"Never Never Land" is rocking steady...