Much like Usher's Confessions Part I and Part II, Part II is where the steamy gets steamier. I haven't slept more than five hours in three days. This is the result of that. Good luck.
JULY VIII, MMXIV
A dark and stormy day had just passed—the meager sun hidden behind dense clouds which gave way almost gracefully to the night. It was dark, for it was night time and there was no moon, and stormy, for that is how most things happen in horror novels, and the fog rolled in thickly through the wet, marshy grounds of the Tortora Castle. The grounds upon which the Tortora Castle stood were bad grounds--peasants could not farm it, and carriages were often sent down into the very depths of the mud. But Lord Tortora, whose first name was Jonathan, built his castle upon this impure ground. Outside of the lands, in the territory known only as Sharks Territory, the peaceful people who lay beneath Tortora's reign were unhappy. Deeply, terribly unhappy.
For Lord Tortora had sent out a decree by raven, declaring all women of Sharks Territory worthy only of objectification. They were to take their finest Sunday clothes—heir church clothes—and mend them into crop tops—a form of clothing by which the belly of the women were exposed—to wear at all times.
"It would be for the enjoyment of the people!" Lord Tortora wrote on the decree. "The people—menfolk, I do mean—see the sexiness of the womenfolk: thus they come to the Castle, and thus they come to the Territory, and thus we reap the benefits of the profits."
And Lord Tortora was pleased by this. But the people of Sharks Territory were not.
The complaints came. All manners of servants came into Lord Tortora's study, throwing pile after pile of anything the people could write upon: calfskins, leaves, scraps of paper, stone. The materials bore the writing of the people, paragraph after paragraph, the true thoughts of the commonfolk written plainly before Lord Tortora's eyes. He sat at his desk, reading folded scrap after string of leaves after carved stone of complaints and demands, frowning boldly, frowning terribly, at every single paragraph he could see.
"Nay... nay!" Lord Tortora cried. "How dare my people declare my work unethical? How dare my people say, 'It's 2014, dude, you really don't need to sell womens' bodies in order to sell tickets!' For shame, o citizens of Sharks Territory! For shame!"
Lord Tortora flung the materials in every which way. A stone knocked the lamp off a nearby table. A calfskin rippled its way into the hearth, and smoldered weakly before catching flame.
"It is too much," Lord Tortora murmured, his face buried in his hands. "Mayhaps—mayhaps, I do wonder, if I have gone too far."
He sat in silence at his desk. The seconds ticked by, marked only by the quiet ticking of the clock in the room. The butler came and went, refilling Lord Tortora's goblet of brandy before retreating silently. It was nearly half-past eight. He had sat down to work at five past six. He was running out of time.
Suddenly, Lord Tortora stood, his chair tipping and clattering loudly in the silence of the study. "I've got it!" Lord Tortora declared. He pulled out a sheet of paper, his quill, and his ink. He righted his chair, sat upon the velour pillow, and began to work.
It was late at night when Lord Tortora finished, his eyes bloodshot and manic, but his work complete. He ran out of the study, the paper clenched within his fist, and handed it gallantly to his butler. "Take this to the printer," Lord Tortora said, regally, with a flourish only given to those in power. "Make hundreds of copies. Hundreds! And distribute them amongst the people. They must know, o the people must know, exactly why I do what I do."
The butler nodded and took the paper. Lord Tortora said deeply and flung himself on a 17th-century armchair he had purchased at auction. "My work is done," Lord Tortora murmured. "So the people shall know my deeds."
It was noon when the flyers were passed to all the people of Sharks Territory. The flyers said such:
Dear siror madam,
Thank you very much for taking the time to reach out to us.
As you are aware, we have announced plans to revise the current Ice Team to make it a more energetic and interactive part of our organization.
However, I do want to stress a couple points in regards to this proposed change:
Our revised Ice Team will serve as an addition to the marketing arm of the organization, providing us another recognizable asset to engage with fans on game nights, at team events and game-watching parties—as well as another resource to help the organization be active in serving our community.
- The Ice Team will be comprised of both males and females.
- It is expected that the team will have multiple uniforms, on and off the ice. No final decisions have been made in that regard. The photos posted online were mock-ups.
- We are creating our own vision of how this team will operate and interact within our organization. It is not based around the cheer teams of other Bay Area sports franchises or any other NHL team.
The re-launched team will be a modest shift for us and our goal is to have a suitable, co-ed Ice Team that amplifies our in-game experience.
Once all of the final details are in place, we’re confident the final version of the Ice Team will be very tasteful and appropriate for the city of San Jose and the Sharks.
Again, thank you very much for reaching out to us. We are very appreciative of the passion and loyalty shown by Sharks fans all over the world and your support is not something that is taken for granted.
With Best Regards,
John Tortora
Chief Operating Officer San Jose Sharks"The fuck is this," said one peasant, glancing over the flyer and frowning, her statement a rhetorical question.
"Fuck if I know," said the other peasant, scratching at his short hair. "Should we send in another complaint?" asked the first peasant. "I mean, because this is literally just something they copy and pasted to everyone who submitted something about the ice crew."
"Dude," said the second peasant. "We're just gonna get another copy and pasted message. Do you really think they care? Look, it says 'your support is not something that is taken for granted,' but they obviously take our support for granted if they're unwilling to even listen to what we're trying to say.
"Man," said the first peasant with a deep sigh. "What's the point? Do you think the Blue Jackets will be any good this year?"
"I think they'll be okay," responded the second with a shrug. "A lot of the players are really great people, I think. Plus Boone Jenner's really cute."
"Oh, that's good." The first peasant nodded, shredding the flyer and carelessly throwing the pieces into the mud. She wiped her hands on her frock. "He's like, an all-American farm boy or something."
Shortly thereafter, the peasants moved to Columbus. And they never heard from John Tortora again.
[CTSAI666 ETA 7/21/14 7:20 PM] I have been informed that Boone Jenner is not, in fact, an all-American farm boy and is an all-Canadian farm boy. While I regret this error, I will not move to correct it. Boone Jenner looks like a corn-fed Ohioan and thus he will remain in this fictional tale.
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