Project Proposal 1990-60: A Tragedy For the Ages

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Project Proposal 1990-60

Title: A Tragedy For the Ages by Quinton Elliots

Material Requirements:

  • Daniel Dunn. (Already in my possession, don't worry about sending someone.)
  • Nolan Bushnell's 1967 Chevrolet Camaro Z-28, bought and sold by the man himself at the dawn of Arcadia's heyday. Don't refurbish it, if it looks like it's seen nicer days, all the better.
  • A human femur, whittled to a knifepoint. I don't care whose it was. Better that way.
  • As much cocaine as your boys can find, preferably more than fifty kilos of the stuff to be appropriate. Throw in a couple bottles of good Cognac while you're at it.
  • Arcadia's "client book". If they're still the same guy I worked with back in '81, the Critic should know where to find it. I want to know I'll get an audience.
  • One of the Mob's "special bombs". I want to blow something straight to Hell with no questions asked on the receiving end.
  • A camcorder. (Also something I already own.)

Intent: I remember the day Arcadia died.

I think I'd always known in the back of my mind it was never going to be sustainable. All the drugs and booze and little bonuses you'd get once you walked into a bar. We were heroes, upper management. Dunn even let us go hog wild with our little personal projects back in the early eighties once we had the men in black behind us again. I was a demigod, Critic. Have you ever walked into a room and had everyone turn to look at you? To be awestruck that you're even walking beside them? I have, and it's intoxicating. Arcadia gave me that.

So you can't imagine how awful it was once Dunn's little self-righteous morality kick left us dead in the water. He fired me on the spot, y'know, after I walked into work plastered. I was one of the lucky ones, though. I never really left. Kept on trundling as an under-the-table consultant right until we finally collapsed in '89. The damage was done, though. We weren't heroes anymore. Just a gang of fucked-up losers hooked on whatever the latest designer drugs were.

Critic, you should have been there once the new CEO told us we were dead to the world. He looked at me like I was a nobody again. The way they always looked at me before. It was awful. We ended with a bang so insignificant it may as well have been a whisper. Now, that's not right, Critic. With your help, I'll make sure Arcadia dies the way we always lived.

Covered in blood and high off our asses in an orgy of violence and liquor.

Abstract: Sometime soon, I am going to take Daniel Dunn out of the back of my car.

I'll lock him in the driver's seat of Bushnell's old Camaro, done up in all its rusty, tacky glory. Then we'll share one last bottle of Cognac, like the old times. Maybe do a bit of cocaine. I doubt it though, ol' Danny's been clean since '85. But it won't matter, the car will be loaded with the stuff anyway. Just like in the old days.

I'll stab the book a couple of times with the bone, let our creditors know I want to see them one last time. I'll tell them whose fault it was that we screwed them over. I want the devils to know Arcadia doesn't go back on deals. I want them to have Daniel Dunn served up on a silver platter so they know who really fucked them over this time.

Once I've got an audience? Simple, I blow the car straight to Hell with Dunn inside. Let the old creditors fight over him. With that, we can start the real work. I'm going to bring Arcadia back from the dead. I want to be a hero again, Critic.

I'll give you the tape and you'll play it in every gallery.

From: The Critic
To: Quinton Elliots
Date: 07/13/90

What the fuck?

This isn't art, Elliots, this is a glorified snuff film.

Not only is this "artpiece" extravagantly fucked up; it would also cost us an insane amount of money to buy what you want. And for you to get your rocks off in your disturbing little revenge fantasy. There's nothing here for us to gain at all here. By the time you're reading this, I've probably come around to my senses and made an anonymous tip to the feds about you having Daniel Dunn in the trunk of your car.

Sorry, we don't exactly go around throwing money to every sociopath willing to commit murder in the name of "art". And unlike the old Critic, I'm not going to help you out due to old company ties. Want our funding? Make art worth looking at.

Piss off, Quinton. Don't write back.

Words From A Critic

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