Interview with an emo - part two

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Flashy camera tricks and a catchy jingle greets everyone, along with plenty of applauds and cheering.

"We're back," the narrator announces as the camera focuses on him, "and we're better than ever."

A loud cough is heard from out of view, presumably from Shadow. Two seconds later, the camera's zoomed out slightly, and both of them are now in full view, however, the narrator's still shrouded in darkness.

"So, Shadow," the hedgehog doesn't look entertained in the least by the narrator's words, "have you ever been called a nigger?"

Shadow snickers, then strokes his chin with his left hand.
"Yeah, a couple of times," he starts tapping his chair's armrest. "Four fans insisted on labeling me nigger, probably because of my skin color. Two of them had me speak only ebonics, and constantly refer to the author-inserts as niggers. It was very offensive to everyone involved."

"I claim that all niggers are racists at heart," the narrator states it like it's a fact of life, and it almost looks like he's smirking.

"The ultimate lifeform concurs with that statement," Shadow almost whispers after a short moment of thought, then he reaches for the narrator's glass.

"It's good to know that you stand somewhere," another question slowly takes shape, and Shadow shivers once more. "How much ass have you tasted this far?"

"That's a very dumb question," the black one replies, hand clutching the glass. It looks like it could shatter at any moment, "but I'm compelled to answer it for the sake of closure. If, by tasting, you mean just tasting, then a lot - more than what should be possible during a single lifetime. The funny thing is that they all taste the same."

"Should we class you as a rapist, a pedophile, a fag, bisexual, a lesbian, or a generally perverted person?"

There's a snap, then small cracks form on the glass.
"Probably all of them," a machinelike movement brings the glass to Shadow's mouth. "I blame the fans for it."

The narrator pulls out a deck of cards from one of his pockets, then places it on the table between them.
"Want me to predict your future?" it's spread masterfully, in the shape of a fan. "It's free, painless, and accurate. Just pick a card, then show it to me."

The glass is drained, then dropped. It, too, shatters into fragments.
"Sure, why not," Shadow pulls the central card, then places it face-up. It's a pair of wings; one white, the other black. The feathers look like they're made of metal, and they flutter in an unearthly wind that should not be.

"The wingless, of course," the narrator declares. "You'll star in several new projects, and your attitude will change, until you're no longer recognizable. From rival, to antihero, to rebel without a cause. Just as the wind turns, so will you. Your image will keep shifting, and you along with it."

Shadow's about to say something, but the narrator interrupts him with a deadly glare.
"Art is dead. Art is no more," he withdraws a silver handgun from one of his pockets, and a round with arcane symbols etched onto the casing. "What do you want to say to the audience before we wrap this up?"

Shadow smirks. His hands reach for the gun and the bullet.
"I regret everything," he speaks as he loads the gun. It's slowly raised to his right temple, "and I do mean everything." A loud bang, then Shadow's head partially explodes in a mess of red, gray, and white that stains the floor and wall to his left.

The narrator is unfazed, and pay's Shadow's convulsing corpse no mind. It slowly slides out of the chair.
"We'll return in a moment, with another guest of honor."

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VT2 - 2006