RD 1: PancakeBrah vs Richard Corey - RICHARD COREY WINS!

[PancakeBrah]

2025/Present Company



two hours ago

He picks a piece of lint from the logo on his left breast.

The camera is off. Tabletop granite, cement walls in a backroom.
David paces alone. "Do you know about ax wounds?
No, FUCK--no." Sitting down now, legs crossed, perfectly coiffed.
He mimics an uncapping, an imaginary tumbler to quaff.
"Do y-you understand ax wounds? FUCK YOU YOU STUTTERING TWAT."
Fist to the table jars the supposed glass, fumbling rocks.
"Great, and that's a waste of hundred year scotch."
A breath. "Composure. Confidence," muttering thoughts.
"It's easy. Just, easy." A breath. "...what else could you latch to?"
"Do. you. understand. ax. wounds?"

two months ago

"...and I've seen the best minds of my generation immersed in commerce
feasting in such coercive concert
who nod off in a sedative taper while signing off insurance
for medical favors. Non-emoting converts
who live in shining houses on hills so eldritch in nature
who beget. Then beget. In such eclectic behaviour
producing nothing at all. Who move in lockstep congress
in forgetting you and me, to dismiss us as 'nuisance' or 'lawless'
for easy eulogy. But. But and; I have a nuke in my pocket-"
Harris reaches in his jeans, holds in the air a translucent chip.
"We have a nuke in my pocket. For hope their movement skips
for one computer's blip against all sentient odds;
a hope against the present mirage."
Harris nods,
and exits the stage of the smoke filled bar to tepid applause.

two weeks ago

David hangs a portrait of four, in his double door entry.
A mumblecore sentry for a two story foyer. Built in
19-something last century. Thumb across a son's pictured brow,
a smile. He would sit awhile now,
to admire, in a contemplative whim, leisurely impaired,
in the absence of light his company pays to dim.
Farting once or twice in the leather of his chair.

--

"It holds some code, or some such."
Harris takes a bite from his waffle. "Guy called it a 'Numb Touch'.
Wipes out data, what have you." Both ate breakfast for lunch rush.
"Okay. But how did you come to have it?"
An extra dollop of syrup. "Well, I suppose, I'm viewed as a maverick.
You know, not much for the status quo. All for the chaos and madness."
"So, a hacker, or hackers, gave a low grade slam poet a, quote, "nuke" chip?
Because he's a 'maverick'?"
Harris looks towards the table over, pancakes with mousse whip,
playing a drumline on the edge of the table.
"Hello? Harris? I didn't call you asking for me to tape you..."
"Of course." A pause. Inhalation of maple.
"Look," a laugh. "Look at what a situation will make you."
"Digitized DNA. Course correction. Dog whistle eugenics.
All of it. Aren't you lost, now? A life writ as a Sentence-"
"Don't rhyme on me."
"Okay. Look around you. I hate these people. Their watches,
their phones, their need." Head follows a couple's leave.
"Okay, well, yeah, I wrote the code, everything." He continues as such,
she marks just as quick.
All hushed breath, with pregnant pause. Then
"Leslie, honestly, these waffles are shit."


two days ago

He walks the street, scone in hand,
in his broke-in Vans as the van pulls up beside.
The usual scene. Masks and grabs, fight for escape;
"NO BULLSHIT" "YOU'LL DIE." Etcetera right into fate.

now

"Fucking BREATHE, Harris."
as he drops the handle takes off the glove
sits at the table opens the bottle.
"C-Choke on the throttle! C'MON! Vigor for life now."
A quaff aimed for the middle of high brow.
"I don't enjoy this. I mean, well, I kind of do-"
answered in kind by writhing moves
by a victim of a sucking wound in nauseous react
"-sometimes, but, for you, I mean, what kind of nuke is stopped by an ax?
It's like a riddle. To me, this here just lops and debraids."

The camera is off. As they usually are when progress is made.



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