Post by Izurat Karr on Jul 21, 2013 22:22:40 GMT -5
A rusty gate covered in overgrowth is our first glimpse into the world of Izurat Karr. As the aphids buzz and the crickets play their tune for the closing of another day, the town of Lone Pine remains fairly quiet, as is normal in the town. As the camera pans around, we get a better look of the 'city' of Lone Pine. A gas station/Carl's Jr. combo, a film history museum, and a quaint market section serve as most of the town, all accompanied by the titanic backdrop of Mount Whitney. Truly an average night, the sun sets ever so slowly upon a sky painted orange and purple, prompting the artificial lighting of street lamps and fluorescent signs to once again go about their duties, advertising to no one in particular. The crunching of dry grass can be heard as the camera crew makes their way to their destination, the entrance of the Paiute-Shoshone reservation. One of the crew, perhaps the sound guy, speaks.
“So, do we just walk in, or...”
“Nah, I think we gotta wait for him,” the man behind the camera answers, “I don't think these people are the type to just let anyone walk in.”
“Great, what hospitality.”
They make it to the entrance, a white wood-panel administration building, which seems to be the go-through to the actual reservation. Hesitant, the crew waits for a while, before the door opens. Out walks an elderly man, dressed in worker's clothes, and a bit confused as to why a bunch of people with television equipment are outside the rez.
“Oh, no, the pow-wow isn't until next week. I know the news wants footage but at least give us some time to prepare...”
The crew looks at each other, until one of them decides to clarify.
“No, no, we're here for, uh, Izurat. Izurat Karr?”
The elderly man's face lights up in realization.
“Oh, you're here for HIM! He just flew in this morning, follow me.”
He turns back around and holds the door for the crew, who enter single file. In the administration building sit two tables on either side of the room, one with a dated PeoplePC computer and info filer, and the other adorned with beanbag animals and assorted office supplies, already occupied by a young woman, who looks no more than twenty, busily jotting down on a notepad. The elderly man pauses, then turns to the camera.
“Keep to me, alright? Between the recent shops and 'eminent domain' nonsense the government's pulling on us, the locals aren't too receptive to outsiders.”
With that, he opens the door. At first, it's hard to make out the exact layout of the reservation, but as the group walks around a bit, it becomes clear. They are in a cul-de-sac, currently populated with late night walkers and kids playing. A few of the inhabitants stare at the crew, either with surprise, confusion, or no reaction at all. The crew walks a few blocks, between small ramshackle houses and weed-infested lawns, before coming across a humble little adobe hut. While a little out of place among the well-built duplexes in the town, it has its place.
“He built that on his own. Izurat did, I mean. Lived with his parents all through college until his mother told him to get off his lazy ass and find a job. Worked for some rinky-dink wrasslin' business in SoCal, called himself 'talent-enhancement' or whatever. Sounded like good work, but he wanted something more. He figured that if he could earn enough money, he could buy out that contractor and turn that eye-sore of a strip mall into something that actually fits this town.”
Sighing, the old man turns to the camera.
“They're gonna build a damned Hot Topic in that strip mall. It's hard enough getting these kids to embrace their heritage without them calling it 'stupid' or 'lame', but now they're gonna be lured in by a bunch of pierced swindlers to buy cheap t-shirts?”
He throws his hands into the air, before continuing.
“Either way, he's gonna need at least half a mil just to buy out the property. Then it's a matter of paperwork, dealing with the government's bullhockey, and getting both local government AND tirbal permission to build what he wants in its place. I tell ya, those chairshots are gonna be LESS of a headache than what he'll have to deal with after getting the money!”
He looks around a bit, before taking another deep breath.
“But right now he's the only person other than the elders that can stop them from encroaching on our land.”
A puff of grayish-green smoke suddenly bursts from the chimney. The cameraman makes an audible sniff, and the elder takes a deep breath.
“Every night he does that. Sagebrush, bit of cherry-wood, lights it up in his chimney before bed. Something his father did for him as a child, he tells us.”
Out of the corner of the camera, we can see a few kids scurrying home.
“Hm. The children use it as a sign to go home. On windy days it can carry over to about half the rez. Makes for a relaxing scent after a hard day, in my opinion.”
He shuffles around a bit, before walking over to the camera.
“Best not to bother him right now. Come back tomorrow, you have a hotel, yes?”
“Yeah,” the sound guy says indignantly, “but we were kinda hoping to get some vignette footage of his daily routine, y'know? Exercise, training, that jazz? We were gonna follow him around for a bit”
The old man laughs heartily, coughing a bit before continuing.
“Is that right? Hoo boy, well, you're gonna NEED that rest! Here, let me show you where you'll be going tomorrow.”
He walks ahead of the crew, before stopping in the center of the road. Ahead of him are the rocky peaks of Mount Whitney. Extending his arms, the elder adjusts himself a bit until both arms fully encapsulate the scale of the mountains, before turning his head to the camera, smiling. The sound guy walks forward, mouth agape, and simply mutters.
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“So, do we just walk in, or...”
“Nah, I think we gotta wait for him,” the man behind the camera answers, “I don't think these people are the type to just let anyone walk in.”
“Great, what hospitality.”
“Oh, no, the pow-wow isn't until next week. I know the news wants footage but at least give us some time to prepare...”
The crew looks at each other, until one of them decides to clarify.
“No, no, we're here for, uh, Izurat. Izurat Karr?”
The elderly man's face lights up in realization.
“Oh, you're here for HIM! He just flew in this morning, follow me.”
He turns back around and holds the door for the crew, who enter single file. In the administration building sit two tables on either side of the room, one with a dated PeoplePC computer and info filer, and the other adorned with beanbag animals and assorted office supplies, already occupied by a young woman, who looks no more than twenty, busily jotting down on a notepad. The elderly man pauses, then turns to the camera.
“Keep to me, alright? Between the recent shops and 'eminent domain' nonsense the government's pulling on us, the locals aren't too receptive to outsiders.”
With that, he opens the door. At first, it's hard to make out the exact layout of the reservation, but as the group walks around a bit, it becomes clear. They are in a cul-de-sac, currently populated with late night walkers and kids playing. A few of the inhabitants stare at the crew, either with surprise, confusion, or no reaction at all. The crew walks a few blocks, between small ramshackle houses and weed-infested lawns, before coming across a humble little adobe hut. While a little out of place among the well-built duplexes in the town, it has its place.
“He built that on his own. Izurat did, I mean. Lived with his parents all through college until his mother told him to get off his lazy ass and find a job. Worked for some rinky-dink wrasslin' business in SoCal, called himself 'talent-enhancement' or whatever. Sounded like good work, but he wanted something more. He figured that if he could earn enough money, he could buy out that contractor and turn that eye-sore of a strip mall into something that actually fits this town.”
Sighing, the old man turns to the camera.
“They're gonna build a damned Hot Topic in that strip mall. It's hard enough getting these kids to embrace their heritage without them calling it 'stupid' or 'lame', but now they're gonna be lured in by a bunch of pierced swindlers to buy cheap t-shirts?”
He throws his hands into the air, before continuing.
“Either way, he's gonna need at least half a mil just to buy out the property. Then it's a matter of paperwork, dealing with the government's bullhockey, and getting both local government AND tirbal permission to build what he wants in its place. I tell ya, those chairshots are gonna be LESS of a headache than what he'll have to deal with after getting the money!”
He looks around a bit, before taking another deep breath.
“But right now he's the only person other than the elders that can stop them from encroaching on our land.”
A puff of grayish-green smoke suddenly bursts from the chimney. The cameraman makes an audible sniff, and the elder takes a deep breath.
“Every night he does that. Sagebrush, bit of cherry-wood, lights it up in his chimney before bed. Something his father did for him as a child, he tells us.”
Out of the corner of the camera, we can see a few kids scurrying home.
“Hm. The children use it as a sign to go home. On windy days it can carry over to about half the rez. Makes for a relaxing scent after a hard day, in my opinion.”
He shuffles around a bit, before walking over to the camera.
“Best not to bother him right now. Come back tomorrow, you have a hotel, yes?”
“Yeah,” the sound guy says indignantly, “but we were kinda hoping to get some vignette footage of his daily routine, y'know? Exercise, training, that jazz? We were gonna follow him around for a bit”
The old man laughs heartily, coughing a bit before continuing.
“Is that right? Hoo boy, well, you're gonna NEED that rest! Here, let me show you where you'll be going tomorrow.”
He walks ahead of the crew, before stopping in the center of the road. Ahead of him are the rocky peaks of Mount Whitney. Extending his arms, the elder adjusts himself a bit until both arms fully encapsulate the scale of the mountains, before turning his head to the camera, smiling. The sound guy walks forward, mouth agape, and simply mutters.
“You gotta be shitting me.”