Tour of Legend/RiffTrax building

[J-Proof]

There is not much to see here at Legend Films, nor is there much to expect.

In front of me slumps a 24-inch monitor with the letters SYNO carelessly scrambled into a popular anagram about its flank. A wheezing hum murmurs aloft my keyboard, as the static of the monitor drifts forlornly through the hairs on my fingers, causing my palms to tremble with every futile depression their limbs impose upon the plastic alphabet that lies asunder.

Half empty stacks of blank DVDs lethargically sleep to my right and to my left; slowly but steadily decreasing in number as each week draws nearer to a new doom. As my eyelids flitter and lose focus, they are constantly revived by the sight of a murdered Chex Mix cracker whose neglected crime scene has yet to be cleaned or investigated.

Perhaps the only companion that the crumbs of the once delicious morsel can depend on is the blank, perpetually blinking gaze of a firewire drive which creeps within the crevices of my entropic desk. It is the only light which bears witness to the scene of Chex?s demise, for no sunlight is welcome in here.

Only the dim and heavy glow of computer monitors and reflective plastic cases may illuminate this barren and forlorn forest which I call home - fireflies of green and blue and red which flicker as if gasping for one last drowned breath to carry on the assignments of the taskmaster.

The hue of an area lamp in the corner wards away comfort, and is moreover unwelcome. It stands at a slant, as if drunken with sadness that the only attention it receives is once at the beginning of the day, and once at the end of the day. On. Off. Nevermore.

Posters about the wall seem to beckon for attention. ?Look at me,? they say as their eternal stare is forever planted on the back of my shoulder. They all wave pitifully at me ? William Powell, Abott and Costello, Vincent Price? And I avoid their taunts by focusing an exhausted gaze upon my wallet, which lies alone on a stack of crooked DVD cases. Empty. Deserted.

My cell phone dances as an incoming call is received, but no pens dance with it. ?They are busy,? I think to myself, ?busy practicing the modern arts.? For the pens about my desk lie face down upon the surface in random but tempting locations. Locations that seem to persuade the looker to touch and disturb, but at the same time ward away intruders?

There is no intrusion allowed here. This office is wholly and entirely unwelcoming to the pathetic philosophy of intrusion? And that is why nobody will be allowed to come visit us?.

[Pak-Man]

So like ANY job, then... 'Cept you get to eat Chex mix...

[Tarantulas]

Sound bleak..  let me see if I can dig up a pistol.

[Variety of Cells]

You sound like a depressed, caged animal. 

But we like watching depressed caged animals....

[gammer]

You sound like a depressed, caged animal. 

But we like watching depressed caged animals....

Thats right!

And no matter what, we'd like to come view the 'caged animals' in your 'zoo'. We can insert quarters in the little food dispensing machines that toss them at you in your cubicle. We can laugh and point at the monkees masturbating. Then on the way out we can get some 'zoo poo', as it makes great fertilizer for our gardens.

Ok, I might have went too far just now...

[Tarantulas]

You went way past "too far" and all the way to "creepy".

<shudder>

[mrbasehart]

There is not much to see here at Legend Films, nor is there much to expect.

In front of me slumps a 24-inch monitor with the letters SYNO carelessly scrambled into a popular anagram about its flank. A wheezing hum murmurs aloft my keyboard, as the static of the monitor drifts forlornly through the hairs on my fingers, causing my palms to tremble with every futile depression their limbs impose upon the plastic alphabet that lies asunder.

Half empty stacks of blank DVDs lethargically sleep to my right and to my left; slowly but steadily decreasing in number as each week draws nearer to a new doom. As my eyelids flitter and lose focus, they are constantly revived by the sight of a murdered Chex Mix cracker whose neglected crime scene has yet to be cleaned or investigated.

Perhaps the only companion that the crumbs of the once delicious morsel can depend on is the blank, perpetually blinking gaze of a firewire drive which creeps within the crevices of my entropic desk. It is the only light which bears witness to the scene of Chex?s demise, for no sunlight is welcome in here.

Only the dim and heavy glow of computer monitors and reflective plastic cases may illuminate this barren and forlorn forest which I call home - fireflies of green and blue and red which flicker as if gasping for one last drowned breath to carry on the assignments of the taskmaster.

The hue of an area lamp in the corner wards away comfort, and is moreover unwelcome. It stands at a slant, as if drunken with sadness that the only attention it receives is once at the beginning of the day, and once at the end of the day. On. Off. Nevermore.

Posters about the wall seem to beckon for attention. ?Look at me,? they say as their eternal stare is forever planted on the back of my shoulder. They all wave pitifully at me ? William Powell, Abott and Costello, Vincent Price? And I avoid their taunts by focusing an exhausted gaze upon my wallet, which lies alone on a stack of crooked DVD cases. Empty. Deserted.

My cell phone dances as an incoming call is received, but no pens dance with it. ?They are busy,? I think to myself, ?busy practicing the modern arts.? For the pens about my desk lie face down upon the surface in random but tempting locations. Locations that seem to persuade the looker to touch and disturb, but at the same time ward away intruders?

There is no intrusion allowed here. This office is wholly and entirely unwelcoming to the pathetic philosophy of intrusion? And that is why nobody will be allowed to come visit us?.

Examine cell phone.

Whoops.  I thought this was an introduction to an Interactive Fiction 

[Tarantulas]

J-Proof works in "The Lurkiing Horror"

[NCYDR]

Man I need to move to SD.  Fresno sucks.

The armpit of California.  Move, man, move!!!

[Mr`Death]

I would move to San Diego and work at a McDonald's simply to get to write one riff per movie.

[Cap'n UKRiffer]

I would move to San Diego and work at a McDonald's simply to get to write one riff per movie.

And ironically enough the only one of your riffs to make it into a movie is "you want fries with that?" and thus making you hate yourself forever more for taking that job at McDonalds...

[Tarantulas]

Well I was finaly able to go on a tour of the Legends compound the other day, at least they told me it was Legends.

The sheer amount of brooms, mop buckets, and sawdust for cleaning up "urpies" makes me think it was really a janitors closet.

YOU TRICKED ME DISEMBAUDIO!

[sarcasm_made_Easy]

i actually in all honesty dont think i would want a tour, might take the magic out of it. 

[Tarantulas]

"...Over here are the curding tanks, and right behind me you can see the whey conveyor..."

[gammer]

...we dont assemble the boxes here, thats done in Flint Michigan.