Watchmen, by Alan Moore- Geist's Podcast

Author's note: Felt like doing a podcast, since it's the hip and trendy thing to do. Never done one before, so sorry about the bad sound quality. I got 3rd for this piece at the Vermont Forensics League State Tournament, and like it very much. Hope you enjoy it. In the beginning and end of the podcast is the song "Lonely Souls" by UNKLE. Thought it fit the piece appropriately.

Wondering if I should do more of these. Any feedback is welcome.

-Geist

PS: Here's the text.

Hello, and greetings! This is Geist, of the YWP forums, here, well, because I want to be!

Actually, I got inspired tonight, and thought, Hey, wouldn’t it be cool to do a podcast with a forensics piece on it? I mean, reading pieces out loud is always different than just staring at them on a computer screen. So, what the hey. Consider this an experiment.

Well, I thought I’d try the prose piece I got third for in the Vermont Forensics State Tournament this year. It is adapted from Alan Moore’s Watchmen, a graphic novel in an alternate-history New York city where vigilantes, known as super heroes, help keep the peace in a Cold War about to go hot. One of these vigilantes, Walter Kovacs, alias Rorshach, who wears a mask with a constantly changing ink blot on it, is set up for a murder and brought in for a psychological analysis. What occurs is one of the most chilling exchanges, and also one of the strongest messages, I’ve ever heard. Hope you enjoy.

The door creaked open and Dr. Long strolled in, papers in hand. “Hello, Rorshach. How are you today?”

“In prison. Yourself?”

“Uh… fine. I’m fine.” He rustled about in his stack of papers for something. “I thought we’d try some more blot tests. How about taking a look at this one for me?”

Kovacs held it up in front of him, scrutinizing every detail. “Seen this one before.”

“Yes. I know. I… uh… thought you might have been holding back before and I wanted to try it again.” The doctor looked around uncomfortably. “Go on. Tell me what you really see.”

Silence.

“Dog,” he finally said. He put it down and slid it back to Dr. Long. “Dog with head split in half.”

“I… I see.” The doctor bit his pen. “And, uh, what do you think split the, uh, dog’s head.” He took a breath. “In half.”

Kovacs looked down. “I did.”

Silence again.

“Kidnap case. Perhaps you remember. Blaire Roche. Six years old. Kidnappers believed she was connected to Roche Chemical fortune.” He sneered. “Stupid mistake. Father was bus driver. No money at all.”

The doctor nodded slowly, mouth agape.

Kovacs plowed on. “Days dragged by. No word from kidnappers. Thought of little child, abused, frightened. Didn’t like it. Personal reasons.

“Decided to intervene. Promised parents I’d return her unharmed.

“Visited underworld bars and began hurting people. Put fourteen in hospital needlessly. Fifteenth gave me an address. Disused dressmakers in Brooklyn.

“Bad neighborhood. Smelled of damp plaster and stained mattresses.

“Arrived there at dusk. No lights on building. Something was making noise in wasteland at rear.

“Attack dogs. Two German shepherds, fighting over knob of bone. Didn’t seem interested in me. Decided not to use rear entrance anyway.

“Went in through front, like… respectable visitor.

“Place was trashed. Fabric all over the floor, female mannequins in every room. Walked into kitchen. Disgusting to look at, but smell was notably bad. It was coming from wood stove. Decided to check it out.

“Searched inside. Mostly ashes, until… fabric. Fabric with stuffed bears on it.

“Thought it couldn’t be possible. Looked up at cutlery hanging from the walls, just washed, at the cutting board with deep, nasty slices and fresh blood on it. Turned around, looked out window to see German shepherds playing with bones.

“I didn’t think a person could do that.

“Took one of the cleavers and went to meet German shepherds outside.

“Shock of impact ran along my arm. Jet of warmth spattered on chest, like hot faucet.

“It was Kovacs who said “Mother” then, muffled under latex. It was Kovacs who closed his eyes.

“It was Rorshach who opened them again.”

He was quiet for an instant.

“According to my informant, man using premises named Gerald Grice. Out drinking when I called. Returned to dressmakers at ten forty-five.

“Dark by then.” He chuckled. “Dark as it gets.

“He made a ruckus coming in. Was surprised when dogs didn’t come out to greet him. So I sent them to him.

“I threw first one through a window, suspect freaked. Started yelling that he didn’t do anything.

“Like I cared.

“Threw second shepherd in through door glass. Dog landed on him, sent him to the ground.

“Came over to him and said nothing. Started whimpering uncontrollably. I grabbed him by the collar.

“‘I haven’t done anything’ he said. ‘What are you doing to me?’ he said. I dragged him over to the woodstove.

“‘Look, look, I know what you think,’ he said. I took out some handcuffs.

“‘Oh, God, please, what do you want?’ he said. I chained him to the woodstove leg.

“‘You can’t prove anything. Where’s the evidence?’ he said. ‘You can’t do anything to me.’ I put a hacksaw of his next to his hand.

“‘Wait a minute, that’s mine!’ he said. I found some kerosene. Doused the room in it.

“‘Hey! Hey, you crazy? That’s kerosene!’

“‘Yes’, I said. ‘Shouldn’t bother trying to saw through handcuffs,’ I told him as I lit a match. ‘Never make it in time.’

‘What do you mean? What am I supposed to… Oh Jesus. No. You’re kidding. You have to be kidding,’ he whimpered. I dropped the match and walked out.

“Stood in street. Watched it burn.” Kovacs smiled. “Watched for an hour.

“Nobody got out.

“Stood in firelight, sweltering. Bloodstain on chest like map of violent new continent. Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat and God was not there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever and we are alone.

“Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from Oblivion, bear children, hell-bound as ourselves. There is nothing else.

“Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs.

“It’s us.

“Only us.

“Does that answer your questions, Doctor?”