Spumoni (very raspy now): Holy smoke!
::The lights once again move to where Salazar Ovid Spumoni had been trying to carry out his ACNN broadcast, keeping an eye on the throngs outside as well as the ceremony inside.
::They catch him as he departs the booth, and as “Loser” by Beck begins to play once more they see what the excitement and events have done to him. He had been using the ice again, trying to maneuver his head so that it covered both his scalp and cranium. He looks exhausted::
::Yet as he crosses into the theater proper he stops. He closes his eyes, and some nearby wonder if he’s okay. Slowly, very slowly, he changes. The weary expression is replaced by…a smirk. His familiar smirk grows across his face. He throws the bag of ice to the side, and in bold steps he proceeds towards the stage::
::Was that a chuckle under his breath?::
::In one long sweep he drives the exhaustion from his body, and as he approaches the stage the energy of the earlier part of the evening returns to him. He stops but once. Near Sweddie’s seat he stops and jokingly punches the fox on the shoulder::
Spumoni: Watch this.
::With his smirk as wide as ever Spumoni leaps up to the stage. Accepting the Golden Acorn he bows to the crowd, then speaks::
Spumoni: I didn’t write ‘The Rangerillion’.
::The crowd stops in mid applause. Dead silence reigns::
Spumoni: Seriously, I didn’t.
::Somewhere in the crowd weeping breaks out. Over on stage left, Indy whispers to Framwinkle, "Big winner shell shock. Seen it happen before."::
Spumoni: I…revealed ‘The Rangerillion’. I coaxed it out of the shadows of the Rangerdom. I gathered it from beneath scattered bits of plot and history. I traced its trails among the forgotten ruins of websites and discussion forums. I lured it out of pages of deep dark places in archives long undisturbed. I collected it, categorized it…laid it out to the light.
::Spumoni is walking back and forth on stage, gesturing with each word, pulling each word out of the ether around him and presenting them to those in the audience::
Spumoni: I wrought a mythology from the history that was presented to me. I placed it over the fires of my imagination and as a smith would I forged it to a shine. I took the story that had been written over decades and annealed it to a luster of luminous plot…yet the story was filled with its own light.
::He’s literally pacing the stage now, pleading with the audience to understand what he’s trying to impart::
Spumoni: And then I threw in some grammar errors to give Silver something to do and viola…an epic!
::He bows at the claps, and then begging for silence continues::
Spumoni: Guys, the story of ‘The Rangerillion’ began long, long, long ago. You know, the 90’s!
::A few laughs, he waits::
Spumoni: The story that began the first time two people came together to discuss an obscure cartoon from a children’s TV block continues down to today. Yes, we the proud few denizens of a tiny Internet community dedicated to a largely forgotten series are still part of that story. We call new passages into existence every day. We defy the odds and meet for another day. New paragraphs appear from the ether each time a new story appears, new chapters rise up with each new Rangerphile who comes down into Fanon and grows our culture.
::He looks up, past the crowd::
Spumoni: Three ages have passed since the story of ‘The Rangerillion’ began, and today a Fourth Age rolls on and on, and still we meet and talk and grow. How many more ages will we have? What profound event will it be that heralds the coming of the Fifth Age? The Sixth? The Twelfth?
::Spumoni smiles wide, and looks back to someone in the audience…[i]you[/i]::
::Spu points at you::
Spumoni: What will your chapter be? What will be written of you and you craftings? What will you do to continue ‘The Rangerillion’?
::He smiles widely at you::
Spumoni: I’m sure it will be eight different types of awesome.
::With that he suddenly lifts the Golden Acorn over his head, simultaneously saluting with the two fingers of his free hand. The crowd stands and cheers. With that he departs the stage, and though he vows to see the rest of the ceremony, a nap begins creeping up on the edges of his perception::