Manhattan Nocturne
Rorschach’s Journal: I’m a depressed and paranoid voiceover, giving up the correct film noir vibes, and setting up the transitions between scenes, while the main character taxies around. Maybe I should not blame the plot for such an escalation in cruelty that numbs me, but it’s stronger than me.
Private Detectives are too old-school and creepy, so I’m instead a tabloid writer, prowling the Big Apple looking for fresh blood.
I start off in that middle aged plateau in life. I had a nice enough job. Loving wife and kids. I’m good at what I do and I enjoy it too. My paper was bought up by some wealthy richie rich, but I’m way down here in the trenches, that does no affect me.
At a social event I meet her. She offers a visit to her apartment right away, even though she wasn’t alone in the party. She knows I wasn’t able to resist, even though both we know I was setting up my own fall the moment I sneaked into her bathroom while she “bathed” (with extra rubbing). I lunged into my death over le petit mort.
Afterwards, comes the catch. Her old hubby was some eccentric filmmaker with quirky tastes, always with games and tricks. It did not fell good from the start, but I was summoned by the new boss with an offer to play both sides. Caroline, you are tearing me apart!
Failing both ways, I’m roughed up by the Bossman’s goons and my children are shot, but survive. The gloves are now off.
The investigation moves along to the MicroSD card of doom! Which is comparatively tame, just the innermost secrets of some modern day Boss Tweed. Turns out there’s another MicroSD card of doom, this time justified snuff involving our Carol.
All of this revolving around a story of her youth with an horse. It is much worse than you can imagine… I’m back in the jungle now, prowling, but will drive by her house sometimes, to see what I have lost.
This is my place for ramblings about sequences of images that exploit the human visual limitation know as persistence of vision.