Can someone please tell me why I’m still watching this show week to week?
The Walking Dead’s midseason finale aired this past Sunday, and boy was it terrible. This show has been nothing but wholly disappointing the last six weeks. At this point, I think I’m only watching still in order to see just how bad it can get.
I’m just going to ramble and rant (especially rant) about some major things that have happened in the show since I last wrote about the subject, which was after episode five of season six aired.
Let’s start by talking a bit about episode six of this season, which was that inconsequential and terrible Daryl/Sasha/Abraham episode. Possibly one of the worst scenes this show has ever let grace my television screen was in this episode. I’m referring to the scene in which Abraham wrestles a zombie that is impaled through the end of a fence in order to get the RPG that’s attached to it. Nothing about this scene made any sense. Like, how the zombie got in that position in the first place? Or, why Abraham decided to wrestle with it instead of just simply killing it? Yes, I understand that the show has been increasingly trying to show that Abraham has PTSD that comes from his time in the war and since the zombie was in a military uniform, it affected him. Still, this scene was awful. He got the RPG, though! So that means there’s going to be some terrible CGI explosion coming in the future!
Daryl’s side of the story was no better, as it basically made no sense and had no consequences (except, oh no, Daryl lost his crossbow again!). It featured three new characters who seem to be of little importance, though it has been revealed through The Walking Dead’s Twitter that one of these people shares the identity to that of an actual important character in the comics, but of course that was never explained within the episode.
I’ve been a fan of horror — and specifically zombie stories — since I was a young child. I grew up on George A. Romero’s revelatory “Dead” trilogy through my older brother. 28 Days Later is one of my earliest memories of going to the movie theater. Capcom’s Resident Evil series is partly responsible for my love of video games. As a nine-year-old, my first foray into the comic industry wasn’t with Spider-Man or Superman, but with the first two volumes of Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead.
Robert Kirkman’s initial pitch for The Walking Dead was that it would focus entirely on the life of one man — Rick Grimes — as he tries to survive in a world overrun by the undead. Almost 150 issues and eleven years since our first exposure to Rick Grimes and Co., The Walking Dead is still going strong, still offering up some of the most interesting content the series has had since its conception. The comic has had its fair share of bad and/or boring story arcs, but for the most part it has stayed consistently interesting since the first issue, and I always recommend it to anyone interested in graphic novels.
When it was announced that AMC had actually ordered a full season of a television adaptation of The Walking Dead back in 2010, I was ecstatic. Robert Kirkman was on-board with it, and Frank Darabont — responsible for adapting Stephen King novels The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile, and The Mist into fantastic movies — was also announced as the main showrunner, so I felt that the project was in good hands. The show has been going strong for five years now, and is breaking records left and right with the amount of viewers it gets, with it being the highest-rated cable television series of all time. Thing is, I don’t think it deserves the acclaim and viewership that it gets.
As we walked to the stools again, Sherlock picked up another blade and held it to the flames. Cleaning the air of the cold-blooded-scoundrel’s aroma with the stench of rotting flesh as he watched the flames, he took his time reaching for his cleaning rag and setting to work on another blade.
“I cannot now entirely see the steps of you reasoning,” I remarked, “As I know you to be the best judge, I would not question you in front of the guilty. Kindly explain sir.”
The steam again rose to cover his face. As the steam cleared he began, “Of course it is obvious from the first that this Master Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct,” Sherlock said as he tempered the steel.
“Very likely not,” agreed Sherlock, “the young Mistress was very decidedly carried away, and having quite made up her mind that her Master was away on patrols, just more frequently than before, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration from the Mother.”
Sherlock breathed in the smoke and then watched the vapors make circles in the air currents, “Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as if would go, if a real effect were to be produced.”
He began to list things by pointing his cigarette hand at the individual fingers of the other.
“There were meetings, and an engagement,” he paused at that finger, “which I do not think the Mother realized the implications of such a step,” then continued on with his explanations, “to secure the Mistress’s affections from turning toward anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up forever. These prolonged patrols were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the young Mistress’s mind, and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor or leaving the clan for sometime. Hence the vows of fidelity and also the allusions to a possibility of something ‘happening’ on the very morning of the wedding.
Obviously the concern of the whole outweighed any individuals but she said her worry aloud, “It was the time that Master Windibank happened to cross by our meeting place. He glanced in our direction as he passed. At that moment I was worried that he would see Fleet and most likely murder the swift lad, but he kept on his way. It was Fleet that surprised me. The boy could not speak for a few minutes, and he was as pale as a dying man. I told him to sit directly and handed him my personal flask.”
Sherlock and I were intrigued by such a reaction, from both Runner and Master, though we did our best to hide the strangeness of the encounter.
“He could not even remember the rest of the message Hosmer sent to me after that episode. I comforted him and gave him a can of beans and a slice of salted ham, and insisted that he eat a larger portion than usual before he handed it off to the other orphans.”
She had a small pleading look, almost muffled by her warrior instincts, at this Sherlock placed his hand in the air, “Mistress Sutherland, I shall look for the boy without another payment, he is a source I must question, I will inform him of your concern when I find him. Though I am sure he was just put on a different route.”
The insides had been stripped out and the watch was more like a charm box in which this angel resided. A mesh covering kept the object from falling out of its casing, from how it was all designed; both Sherlock and I could see that the entire contraption was made thusly with great care.
“He made this after the Gathering, and gave it to me at the ruins,” she said, “but that was only after he made sure that we had found haven again when he sent a runner.”
She then took back her trinket and placed it in her boot, as Sherlock asked, “I suppose that Master Windibank was cross and beat the foundlings two days later?”
Mistress Sutherland gave a small shake of her head, which surprised us both. She then said, “He was very good about it. I remember that he waved off Mother’s apologies and said there was no use denying anything a Mistress, for she will have her way.”
Sherlock gave her a curious look when he asked, “When did you meet Master Angel at the ruins?”
“Your Master?” Sherlock interjected calmly, “Your second Master, surely, since the clan name is different from your own Mistress.”
Taking no offense to the observation, she agreed, “Yes, my second Master. I call him my Master, though it sounds bizarre too. He is only five years and two months older than myself, and not even trained properly,” she added with in a slightly softer tone the last, were anyone to hear an admission of clan secrets.
“Your Mother is alive and unstricken then?”
Mistress Sutherland again agreed to the conclusion, “Mother is indeed much alive. I wasn’t pleased when she cast us into another clan so soon after my Master’s death. To a Master only self-named and lacking much clan credence.”
What could be considered an emotional reaction the memory showed her love for the lost master as well as the frustration with the new one, “Master was guardian of Tottenham Court, and trained by Shaolin monks that had ventured here to aid London when the plague was first reported,” which was but a repeat in our country’s history. The monks themselves had visited our shores every time our country had been in need. Through the Dark Ages as well as the reign of Robin Hood, the monks came to our aide as though they owed us a debt yet to be repaid for a favor that had long been forgotten in our history.
“Where do you suppose that Master learned those skills?” I asked Sherlock as a method of observation he usually appreciated.
“I have seen those talent before,” he said in response, “here she comes in person to answer our possible theories.”
I was slightly shocked at his mention of the Master’s sex, as women ranked in such high esteem and skills were still rare. Shortly after the slayer entered the building, there was a tap at the door Bitr, or the ‘Boy in Thick Rags,’ for that would be his name if we ever to call him by one, had exhausted skin entered to announce the woman’s name as Mistress Mary Sutherland. We readjusted the drapes and waited for the woman to slither into the room. She kept her back to the wall, eyeing the furniture and the general direction of our presence, as we had announced our whereabouts in the dimly lit room.
Her eyes were momentarily attracted to the weapons still uncleaned and lying on the floor. Like any decent Englishmen we had stopped everything but conversation for tea. As the weapons were near the fireplace she chose the bench close to the door. Nothing was present to interfere with the instincts should she wish to leave. Holmes sat immediately in front of her as she stood waiting for his acceptance of the spot. He welcomed her with the acute awareness to the etiquette of today. Keeping some of the courtesy he had possessed before the dismal misfortune that befell England. They then took on their customary roles of holding each other’s gaze.
After composing myself, I asked for further information, “Why were you even in that section?”
He looked guilty when I asked the expected, though he answered me anyway, “I had heard Irene was supposedly there, so of course I went to investigate.”
I nodded, as I had suspected that being a possible scenario, I was obligated to add, “Was she there?”
He started answering rather quickly, “Of course she wasn’t there. The proof was in the fact that the Holland street tribe had about twenty full bodied diseased on their doorstep.” He didn’t even need to mention how that was proof, because Irene was a woman that would be enjoying the slaughter. If she had been there, she would have been in the melee, possibly cackling. Women seemed to have acquired said trait rather quickly, something about the rush of cutting through a crowd. My educated guess was that they were not accustomed to hold their composer as men did, as they were fairly new to the battlefields.
He sighed, “I relieved the store of the demanding crowd, hungry for brains,” at this point he shrugged, “and they rewarded me.” He titled his chin towards me tea cup, as a question of great import crossed his lips, “Would you like another cup dear fellow?”
Sherlock’s soft reflective voice, for that moment of emotion, was then set aside as he stated the conclusion to his argument. “The only abnormal moment after the death of the man, was undoubtedly the returning breath. The wife most likely considered it a miracle up until he began to eat her face. A daughter did hear her mother’s explicative cries, and discovered the grotesque scene you did not bother to read through.”
He stood then, brandishing the newly honed blade in such a way that it would be but a pen pointed at a student of his past. He then checked the edge, looking down the end like any man would a site on a riffle. Nodding perfunctorily at his work, like a general to a cadet’s salute, he sheathed the blade. Walking across the room to a cabinet, that was recently nailed to the wall, so as to prevent from any of the guests from using the wood for fire; he pulled out the key that unlocked it. This key was at the end of a ring that was placed on a chain. The links were pristine, obviously because Sherlock himself cared for the treasure, a sentimentality that belonged only to Irene or his mother. As his mother was long past dead and not returning, I can only assume it was a gift from her. It looked similar to that of a pocket watch chain, now fashioned into a necklace. I did not bother to watch him further as I smoked my cigarette, as I was so familiar with the scene. Thusly, when the cabinet closed and his steps indented the floor with his slight build, walking towards me. I was only forced to attend him when he handed me a pristine bohemian tea cup and saucer.
“You will admit that those details are not likely to occur within the imagination of the average storyteller?” He questioned. I was in such shock of the small cup that I did not touch it, nor did I answer his question.