So, as I got to yet another flooded pub in Rapture, I started to wonder how this place isn't completely submerged by now.
I loved Sander Cohen - he just seems so awful, particularly after coming across his art and audio tapes. I mean check this one out:
I'm gonna talk about some of the audio tapes actually, but before that, did you guys kill Cohen? I certainly wanted to, but I didn't do it. I'd like to say that I was thinking something like "Rapture has seen too much death and destruction," but actually it was a little bit of fear and laziness combined.
I actually really liked the very first audio tape you come across in Fort Frolic because it highlights the fact that the bombing of the Kashmir Restaurant was really a turning point for Rapture. It would seem that until that point, people were somehow getting on fine in this utopian world, plasmids and all:
Diane McClintock:
Stood up! Again... Second time this week. Ever since my face was... Steinman worked on me, but it was never the same since the blast... Being alone so much gives a girl time to think. Who could hate me so much they'd ruin me like this? What did I do to them? I keep thinking of all them bandits and terrorists Ryan's got locked up in Apollo Square and I get so mad... sometimes I can hardly breathe... if I could only confront them, tell them what they did to me, how they're ruining everything for me, for Rapture... maybe I'd... well, maybe I'd feel better.
(At this point I decided not to talk about the audio tapes, because it would be too much to unravel, and instead I'll let them speak for themselves.)
Anna Culpepper:
Cohen's not a musician. He's Ryan's stable boy. Ryan's corrupt policies crap all over the place, and Cohen flutters around clearing it up. But instead of using a shovel, like you would with a proper mule, Cohen tidies with a catchy melody and a clever turn of phrase. But no matter how nicely it sounds, he can't really do anything about the smell...
Sullivan:
I worked the meatball beat in Little Italy, and even I'm shocked at the cold blood that oozes out of these artistic types. This broad Culpepper and that fruitjob Cohen are in some kind of feud, and Cohen's lookin' for MY security detail to pick sides. The next thing I know I'm called into Ryan's office to talk about the whole mess. Goddamn nutjob artists.
I just got the word to put the bump on Anna Culpepper. This isn't some gangster or hard-nosed political operative. We're talking about a dizzy twist what wrote a song or two that got under Ryan's wig.
Silas Cobb:
You wanna lock us in, old man? Oh, that's fine with Cobbsie. I used to love you. I used to think you were a musical genius. You know why? Because you paid my rent, you ancient hack! Come on to the record store, I'll show you what I think of your plinkity, plink, plink!
Jasmine Jolene:
That creepy Dr. Tenenbaum promised me it wasn't gonna be a real pregnancy, they'd just take the egg out once Mr. Ryan and I had... I needed the money so bad... But I know Mr. Ryan's gonna suss it out, gonna know I wasn't being careful... gonna know I sold the... Mr. Ryan's gonna be so mad at me...
Bill McDonagh:
Fontaine knew our blokes were coming. We were done over. Them Splicers come screaming out the woodwork. Burping fire, spitting ice... demons out of the Bible they were. Never seen nothing like it. It wasn't a business he was building, it was an army.
The good people of Rapture didn't sign up to see us government-types shutting down shops, killing their owners... even with a ponce like Fontaine. But he brung it upon himself. 'Stead of copping it on the chin, bugger gets into his 'ead that he's gonna go down guns blazing. Who does he think he is? John bloody Wayne? We can get on top of this. We can. Here's what we do: we find Fontaine's will and make what was his go to where it was intended - and not into the pockets of us that put 'im into the ground.
Sander Cohen:
I could have been the toast of Broadway, the talk of Hollywood. But, instead, I followed you to this soggy bucket. When you needed my star light, I illuminated you. But now I rot, waiting for an audience that doesn't... ever... come... I'm writing something for you, Andrew Ryan... it's a requiem.
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