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I can remember the Christmas of ‘96 like it was yesterday. Sometimes things happen in a funny way, a way that sticks in your head like a bad song or a tough level. But this was different from the time my little brother Johnny flushed my Final Fantasy Legend cartridge down the commode, or when Nick Bean up the street broke his leg getting the high score in Track and Field all those years ago. No, this was a different story altogether, one that’ll stay with me until I close my eyes for good. Every kid at school wanted a Nintendo 64 that year, and I’m not going to pretend me and Johnny were any kind of exception. Hell, it might’ve been my fault, the way I carted that issue of Nintendo Power around the school with all the 3D Mario maps and tips. After a week that mag was more dog-eared than my grandma’s bible. Johnny Archer (not my brother, the rich one) got one over the summer when they came out and would not shut his fat face about how great it was. “It’ll blow your eyeballs outta your head!” he used to shout over the lunch tables. I hated him so. The thing was, Christmas didn’t look so rosy for us that year. Dad’s sock mill over in Newton closed up in October and he’d been making ends meet bagging groceries at the Food Lion. Mom tried to pick up more piano lessons, but kids of our generation only had so much patience for that. They put on brave faces and told us Santa was still coming (even though we both knew all about the jolly fat man) but I remember how they would wince when Johnny or I told them we wanted a Nintendo 64. Must’ve broken their hearts. I was three years older than Johnny, and I like to think pretty mature for a middleschooler. That’s why I took it upon myself to save Christmas for us Anderson boys. In my childish mind I figured that one new game machine was just as good as another. There was no way we were getting a 64, but there was another system crowding the shelves that I figured I could lay my hands on. So on the fateful morning of December 15th, I set out with a backpack full of old games and electronic odds and ends to buy my brother a Virtual Boy. There was one game store in town, a Games ‘n Gadgets down on Main. I went on a Sunday, got Mom to let me skip church on account of wanting to surprise Johnny. Never pedaled so fast down those streets, aching to get there before I changed my mind about any of it. The place was run by a foreign guy named Boris, a real old country type. He started doing the whole used game buyback thing years before anyone else did. And boy, he would take anything. Busted controllers, frayed wires, you name it. Kids used to joke he’d trade body parts for games, and old Boris ate it up. “You want 64?” I remember he said when I flew in. “Normally arm and leg. For you, keep leg!” His car salesman smile beamed out from under his pushbroom mustache. No, I told him, I wanted a Virtual Boy, and up went my backpack onto the counter. He made a face like I’d just farted, but shrugged and started assigning values to my treasures. Twenty whole dollars for Earthbound! I’d beaten it twice already anyway. Ten for Mega Man X, I would miss that one. One by one, they scooted from my bag to Boris’ pile of spoils. My heart was pounding, but this was for my brother, I kept telling myself. Think of Johnny. “No good,” he droned, “you are fifteen short, boyo.” The beating in my chest stopped, replaced with a sinking sensation. He started firing off questions and I would shake my head sadly to each. Super Scope? No. Super Metroid? Lost it. Extra controllers? I still needed two. Street Fighter? I couldn’t give that up. How much did this man expect me to sacrifice? He upended my bag, and a black bundle fell out. “What is this?” he said in sing-songy tone for both of us. It was a Nintendo 64 coaxial connector. That was right, I traded Billy Bozeman for it back when I thought we would get the treasured system for Christmas. I heard our TV was too old for the new connectors, so Billy gave me a deal on one he didn’t need ‘cause his folks got a new cable box. Boris recognized it too, and his eyes lit up. “Very popular this season! These kids, the parents do not know about cables. Very sad! But I make them deal. And I make you deal. Cable and games for your Virtual Boy.” I gave the heaviest sigh of my young life. That connector was my hope for the future, that one day I would know the joys of Mario in three dimensions. But I was a good brother, and mature for my age. I nodded solemnly. Keeping that thing hidden for a week and a half was torture. I had a feeling Johnny knew something was up and kept an eye on me, but I was crafty. A few days before the big day, he disappeared. I asked Dad what he was up to, but all he would say was “Your brother’s a good kid,” in this funny, distant way. On Christmas morning I ran down early to surprise my brother, but he had beaten me there on every count. Sitting across his lap was a great big rectangular box. I was in near total shock, but he kept saying “Open it, open it, I got us a surprise.” Tears in my eyes, I tore the paper off my very own Nintendo 64. I couldn’t tell him what I’d done with the connector, so I just managed the best smile I could. He had found my gift as well, and there was no stopping him from shredding the paper. Feeling around the box, he called out “What is it? What is it?” The words were all caught in my throat. It took me a minute, but I forced them out. “It’s a Virtual Boy, Johnny.” We both sat there, dumbstruck. The cloth over his face was still as stone. After an eternity, he stammered, “But I traded my eyes for the 64.” “And I traded the coax connector for the Virtual Boy.” He rubbed at his empty sockets through the bandages. “I think maybe you got a better deal.” 1114 words
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Jan 9, 2015 17:43
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It looks like I won't be able to submit a story because of real life issues that popped up. You can take me off the list, sorry.
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Jan 9, 2015 18:22
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Zombie Samurai posted:I can remember the Christmas of ‘96 like it was yesterday. 
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Jan 9, 2015 18:51
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There's not enough poetry in here. In light of that and my constant need for self-harm, here is a (loose) villanelle composed of lines from the notorious Doom comic. A Villanelle for Your Guts (They Are Huge) By: Doomguy You are huge! That means you must have huge guts! Oooh here it comes! Here comes the night train! Rip and tear! Rip and tear your guts! Dig the capacity for violence! Might makes light! And I feel mighty! BANGBANG! You are HUGE! That means you must have huge guts! The humanity! My gun is out of bullets! Lord, I feel my temperature risin! I'm gonna rip and tear! Rip and tear your guts! Don't need a gun... Guns are for wusses! C'mere boys, I got somethin' to say: Choo choo cha! Boogie! Choo choo cha! DYNAMITE! You want a piece of me? Come at me with it! Cus there's nothing wrong that I can't fix... with my hands! Who's the man? I'm the man! You were huge! That means you had huge guts! I'll rip and tear! Rip and tear these guts!
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Jan 9, 2015 22:42
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Untitled 1140 words She set a high score on a low score day. There was still a glimmer of fright in her that day, a new place with confusing walls - warm from their uniform white paint, but cold and stoic as well. The walls were what stood out most - as though they had been purified in an autoclave heated by the weight of the stories to which they had born witness. They had gone to the cafeteria in an attempt to break the narrative, a step away from the modern times and modern troubles story that was the morning, an attempt to replace it with a more basic story, of the search for food. When things get tough, get simple, she had been told that day. Scanning all her surroundings, looking for something familiar, she had spotted it. Tucked away in a small and mostly ignored cubby in the cafeteria stood the great wooden box with it’s black mirror screen and lollipop handles. It wasn’t hidden, just somewhat at odds with the purpose of the place, not visible as you first entered and also placed opposite the large hanging menus listing comforting entrees at comforting prices. Unlike so many of the other visitors, she was at the age of dietary paradox: not picky enough to need to read the entire menu to decide, but picky in the way that children are - she knew what she wanted because it was what she always ate: a cheeseburger. So without the need like other first-timers to check and double-check the options, and without the desire of other visitors to focus deeply on something, anything, other than their current circumstance she instead just surveyed her surroundings until she spotted the box. She had to be tugged slightly as the line progressed, and nearly forgot to specify ketchup-only when she ordered. Pickles and mustard on any other day would be a nuisance, but today she knew even a minor upset might have tragic consequences for her state of mind. She ate quickly while staring at the flickering screen. Daydreaming about what fantasies were being spun out of dreamstuff and made tangible by that magic machine. It was only a few days later that she got close enough to put hands on it. The stern men with faces full of practiced calm needed a word with her parents behind closed doors. She was given a handful of quarters and told she would be found in a little while. Desire, and dread, propelled her to the machine. Appropriately so, as it became her lifeboat in the troubled ocean surrounding her. On most following days, you could find her at the machine. Two plastic chairs pulled up in front of the machine: one for her to stand on, one seating her backpack - her favorite storybooks in its belly and her best friend, Mr. Sam, in its unzipped front pouch. Some days while searching her backpack for just one more quarter to feed to the great box, she would see the torn desires in the eyes of the adults passing by on the way to lunch: a mixture of concerns, first for the safety of her platform, but also about the harm in disturbing her. The latter always won out and they would pass by without ever really approaching. As the days became weeks became months, a ritual evolved: Have a cheeseburger (ketchup-only!). Setup the chairs. Make sure Mr. Sam had a view. Slide in a quarter. Engage with a brighter, livelier world. One where outcomes might not be predictable but were at least controllable or, failing that, replayable. You got second chances, third chances, fourth. You could get better. You could always get better. The machine made noises, but they were musical and rewarding unlike so many of the other machines she spent her days around, which sounded functional, always reporting. She would play and play, and time makes experts of us all. There were days where she was able to remove the letters of legendary players, titans with scores she could hardly fathom, and replace them with her own letters. They were good days and should would save the rest of the quarters for the next, instead bounding back to report of her victory. It was immediately visible how this would brighten the mood, but it would inevitably darken again soon thereafter. This pushed her to climb higher and higher, play better and longer. Every day that she could say with a hug that she was number eight, number seven, it was beating the odds and that made her happy. So if she could spread that happiness, maybe she could also spread that luck. Her heart was filled to bursting with joy at having found this solution. It was so simple. It was another day, one amongst countless others and likely countless more to come, that she pulled up her chairs. She placed her backpack down on one, rotating and leaning it until Mr. Sam told her he could see. She had just been given a fresh handful of quarters so it took no time at all to find one at Mr. Sam’s feet in the bottom of the pocket. She slipped it into the machine, tapped a button, and took hold of her fate. She played with an unbreakable focus, she let the game drown everything else out, she didn’t even realize until the game finally ended that she had done it. She had finally taken the high score. She had won. As she began tapping lightly to enter her letters, she heard her name being called. She found the first letter and tapped. Her name again. She found the second letter, taking in the moment, savoring success. “Listen closer. You need to listen.” Mr. Sam said softly. She tapped the button but before she could find the last of her letters, she heard her name called again and knew Mr. Sam was right. He always was, he was her best friend and gave only the best advice. She hadn’t listened, really listened. She had to go. Her shoelaces like hollow butterfly wings flapped in time with floppy stuffed ears hanging out of a quickly and only partially zipped backpack pocket as she rushed away from the machine. She never went back, but always knew she owed a debt to that machine that had been her friend for so long, shielding her from the troubles around her, providing levity in a time of gravity. Thinking back to those days, her first memories were of joysticks and cheeseburgers - rather than the other, darker things that lurked at nightmare’s edge. In the electronic eternity that followed, the machine patiently waited for a final clarifying input. A last letter to inscribe on its digital ledger. It blinked its screen, again and again. Waiting. VM_ VM VM_ VM VM_ Cuntpunch fucked around with this message at 22:53 on Jan 9, 2015 |
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Jan 9, 2015 22:46
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A Bit of Recollection Many, many moons ago when I was just a tot. My love for gaming grew and grew until 'twas piping hot. It started with Nintendo with a system oh so super. I learned that death is not the end and how to be a trooper. I fell in love with Mario, his world, and all the thrills. I killed more turtles in that game than BP oil spills. I could fly and fire flames in the shape of balls. In the sequel, I took Yoshi into Bowser's halls. Soon after came a Mega Man who blasted foes apart. So quickly did he Mega Bust his way into my heart. The Robot Masters really tried to challenge little me, but I remember vividly the charging melody. Charging shots to take out bots gave me lots of joy Enemies were everywhere for me to go destroy. Dashing over obstacles and trying out new suits were giving me the Rush I craved for navigating routes. But when it came to fighting, I took it to the street. Guile's theme could win alone by using its sick beat. Sure I lost a ton of rounds, but practice made me better. It helped I read the manual, absorbing every letter. PC also played a role in how I came to game. It sung its sexy siren song and called me by my name. I started out with SkiFree and its freshly powdered slopes. It had me dodging rocks and trees while yetis dashed my hopes. Duke Nukem had me platforming my way across the gaps, collecting keys, and killing crap while circumventing traps. In those days, he wore no shades and saw the world as is. To heal his wounds and save his skin he'd open cans of fizz. At school they'd educate us by using the PC. We'd learn with Mavis Beacon and Reader Rabbit 3. The bell would ring and I'd head home to play something obscene. Mouse and keyboard granted me the life of one marine. Selecting “I'm too young to die” was not a shameful move. I needed easy demon spawn to help me find my groove. The double-barreled shotgun let my Doomguy pave a path. Secret rooms could spell my doom, but I could do the math. Closets filled with nasty things laid hidden all throughout, but armor shards and medikits made everything work out. Facing down a Mancubus and gazing at its girth, reminded me that all of Doom was really Hell on Earth. Gameboy games were likewise there, preventing any slumber. My days were filled with Pokemon and fighting MissingNo. Tetris had its Russian song which occupied my mind. I could handle every piece that Tetris had assigned. And here we have the Playstation which managed to delight. All the Final Fantasies were showing me the light, but when it came to co-op, there's one that took the stage. A game where you're the monster, known only as Rampage. We wrecked more homes and caused more grief than all those greedy banks. We fed upon the citizens while decimating tanks. We brought down buildings faster than the Russian Ruble's worth. We played until the night turned in and managed to leave Earth. Good times were had when we were young. 'Twas bliss that we oft miss. Nowadays we barely have the chance to reminisce. So take the time to breathe and think of moments that are dear. Share them with the ones you love and spread a little cheer.
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Jan 10, 2015 01:56
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I was three, possibly four, and at Sharon, my babysitter's, house. I was playing DuckTales Woo-oo! and my stomach felt funny. I was terrible at the game, but it was fun so I just kept playing, trying different levels and occasionally breaking new ground in one. I began to feel weird, and I wondered vaguely if there was something was supposed to be doing. It's the same feeling I get now when I'm on the bus and I think I may have left my work ID at home. The feeling I get while playing videogames ten before I smell the pizza burning. This was the first time I felt it. My roommate calls it overselective attention. If I'm reading a book or playing a game it takes a lot of extra effort to distract me from it. I've missed my stop on the bus because I was caught up in something I was reading. Something in me eventually says “Hey, weren't you supposed to be doing something right now'' and I'm hit by a wave of fear fear. As I've gotten older and better at managing my life it's a false alarm as often as not. But every now and then I'll be just arriving at work and realize I'm hungry, then remember putting a pizza in the oven an hour ago. The pizza ends up burnt, but I remember in time to prevent my house from ending up the same way. I was playing DuckTales and the feeling struck. I was supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else. But I was three… where the gently caress could I possibly need to go? I had no pets I could have forgotten to kiss goodbye when I left the house. There was nothing I was responsible for keeping track of, and I had no means to retrieve it if there was. My to-do list was a big list of things not to do. Don’t pet Lady, she might nip me and that would be scary. Don’t play too rough with Bear, he is old and it isn’t good for him. Keep my clothes on in public and don’t scream if I am unhappy. I have learned a lot about myself while playing videogames. I was always one of those kids for whom school came easy. The first time I actuallysuprisedmyself with a mental feat was playing The Legend of Zelda at age 10 or so. I had played it a bit as a child, but never with any coherent sense of what I was doing. Get sword, walk around, hit monsters. I was at a different babysitter’s house after school. A week earlier I had watched her eldest grandson beat Zelda. He was quite good at it, roaming the world, farming heart containers and rupees so he could start the first dungeon with the white sword and the blue ring. He found everything, every hidden room, every heart. I wasn’t trying to memorize it, but a week later, I did it too. I pooped myself. I don’t remember a lot of the details, only a warm feeling and instant realization what I should have been doing instead of playing the game. There was a lot of disappointment from both the baby sitter and my mother. I had been fully potty trained for long enough that this wasn’t a thing anyone was prepared for. My underwear was thrown away, and I was lent a clean pair of tighty-whiteys that belonged to her grown son. I never wore those underpants again, but they stayed with me for years. Every now and again while grabbing a fresh pair, there they would be. There was always a moment of confusion as to why I had such a large pair. I tried them on a few times, just to see if they fit, but I had never quite grown into them. As high school and gym showers approached I began the switch to boxers, and at some point all my old TWs were gone. I don’t remember throwing that pair away, but it feels like I should. I had never intended to actually wear them, but I held on to them out of some strange nostalgia. Then they were gone. 703 Words. All totally true. Also this is the first time I’ve written anything since my one creative writing college course ten years ago, so thanks for this.
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Jan 10, 2015 02:38
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The shore was a memory of wave and sand, of thousands of shells ground fine over millions of years. It had existed as part of the Earth for longer than creatures that could quantify memories evolved into being. Then, in a blink of an eye, it was gone. the creatures scooped it up with rumbling, grinding, belching machines. The sand of the shore was burned with a fire that rivaled any in nature. Heat and energy tore the very molecules apart that had stood for so long, erasing the memory of any bond and forming the sand into metal. Before humans there was no concept of memory. Creatures lived and died without any awareness of their actions. People, however, held memory dear. They expended fantastic amounts of energy beyond what any other creature ever did simply to survive. They took the seared metal from the shores, and regimented it in vast factories. They bathed it in light and acid, sculpting it with atomic precision into geometric patterns. The patterns were arranged, fused in place with hot solder and molten plastics which were torn from elsewhere on the earth far from the shores which were robbed of their sand. Memories were ingrained in the geometric patterns, memories of a number of humans, memories that never actually existed, yet were still so dear to humans as to have them written in thousands upon thousands of duplicated circuits. Most of these false memories were indelible, numbers and patterns that would be interpreted by numerous machines in the same way. Some of these memories were blank, however, their geometric patterns undefined and kept only in the variable flow of a steady current. These would become another humans memories, written over time to mark the progress of specific humans through the mass produced story contained by the rest of the circuits. The memories were placed in plastic shells, labeled, and boxed before being sent to all corners of the Earth. Once the memories were in the hands of the consumers, they became mixed and modified, taking on a life of their own, and given new meaning by their owners. The rewritable portions dutifully took note of these new memories, marking the progress of their owners through the story. Then, they were forgotten. Humans spent so much effort ingraining their memories in sand, only to forget about them for newer memories. The old was left alone to gather dust. "You know, I was just going to throw it out." The older sibling noted, gesturing towards the aging device found in the back of a forgotten closet. "What? Why? It's a classic, an antique." The younger responded, before approaching the device and picking it up. "Everything in this old house is an antique." Retorted the eldest, sardonically gesturing towards the nearby living room and it's garish leopard print decor. "Yes, well, we all get old eventually. Come on, I want to see if this thing still works." The younger quickly made their way to the living room, and began to hook the device up to the TV. Within moments life was once again coursing through the forgotten memories. Time, however, was not kind. The memories the siblings had put into the game long ago were gone. The power source that kept them alive had died, and the memories of their progress no longer existed save for in their own memories. Still, they played for a time, and remembered when the game was new. When the owner of the home was still alive. It was good to remember. It was important to remember. The cart itself was discarded shortly afterwards in the clean up. The memories of sand were sealed away, buried with other discarded things and covered in the earth. There they would remain, till the creatures that made them died away, and the memories imprinted on the circuits were worn away. Time would grind the circuits down, till one day they would once again become sand on a shore. 663 words.
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Jan 10, 2015 03:38
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We have  2.5 hours to post your storiesAnd I have a day to drink myself into judging these entries. Keep me in your thoughts, people.
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Jan 10, 2015 04:31
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I thought only the writer was supposed to get plastered. Have I been doing it backwards this entire time?
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Jan 10, 2015 05:16
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Spiced rum and Virgil's root beer if you like sweet stuff like me. Oho.
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Jan 10, 2015 05:30
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unwantedplatypus posted:It looks like I won't be able to submit a story because of real life issues that popped up. You can take me off the list, sorry. Yeah take me off as well please, I really wanted to get something up but life decided to poo poo all over me this week and I won't be finished by the deadline. 
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Jan 10, 2015 05:34
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Ban Goatman "It's Friday night, you sons of bitches" I say this to no one as I roll out of my bed and crash into the piles of bottles stashed in the drop zone. Six go into the 3 point mark of corner Baker and the rest haphazardly disperse themselves about the room. Preserving momentum, I tuck into as much a roll as I can muster and proceed down the runway of discarded clothing towards my command console. Hitting the hug pillows at speed, I successfully dock with the War Chair and masterfully flip up to come face to face with the most valuable thing I own. I open palm slam repeatedly the power button on my desktop till neon reds and blues splay forth across my face and ceiling. Chubby waifus dance across my 3 massive moniters as I buckle in my Razor headset. "U~guuuu, what is the password," the plus sized cat girls purr. "Chubby parade Dominos pizza ssj 420," my confident baritone dripping with hints of sophistication. "ERROR, INCORRECT." gently caress, I forgot the super secret Goatman password trick. I scramble for a bag of Doritos but all I am coming up with is fistfuls of empty bags. Finally, I find one that has still some chips yet remaining and cram the entire bag into my maw. "Churpby bwara Dwaamwuinos Purza esesjay furktweeni," I manage to utter while showering the keyboard in orange spittle and plastic. "U`guu," my angels dance away as thousands of icons flutter onscreen. I hunt for the ventrilo icon in the walls presented to me. "So the date with Becky didn't go so well..." Vigourous cursing cuts off my sentence and the occupants soon evicted me from their channel. Further attempts at other channels would only garner further scorn. Apparently I am still well remembered. "Jesse just would not talk to me for the whole game, I even bought her popcorn." Silence. It crawled through my ears and whispered a faint hope of success. "Oh good, you are here now. We can open up slot 8 for you," a women's voice cheerily informed me. Immediately a thick hispanic voice perked up, "Are we really going to let this rear end in a top hat play? All he does is piss people off and be a dead weight. He isn't even any good at this!" "This is the newbie game, Nep. Anyone is welcome to join regardless of skill. Besides, there is a mute button if he continues to be a problem," the women sighed. "Okay Che, but I want the farthest position away from him." "Nep, what are you wearing"? "Nothing you fat gently caress, what are you wearing" "I'm wearing out your mom." He is getting better. This week he muted me immediately. Last week I had at least 5 minutes before he hit the trigger. The rest of the players talk general "strategy" while I boot up AI wars. The game is this spaceship hybrid of RTS and grand strategy, like playing risk where the countries are individual RTS maps with everything happening real time. Everyone is teamed up against two super powerful Skynet-like entities with unlimited resources. Even just one Ai could wipe out everyone easily but in the beginning are too busy jerking off to care. Getting stronger by taking out planets and stealing ship designs piss them off and get them coming for your rear end. The problem is that a single match on a small-medium map can take up to eight hours easily. Rarely is a match ever finished and can be a boring slog. As such, you gotta make up your own fun. My goal is I have to get Nep to ragequit before the sun rises. My immediate situation is pretty tough. I am stuck with Che, Scrash, a newbie and Dills, with Nep, Dip and another newbie on a far branch disconnected from us. Che is too much effort to troll without being outright creepy to her. Dills gets me and thus isn't fun to screw with. Scrash probably spends more time drinking than actually playing; one game he left for an hour to get another 6 pack of beer. Because of this, he gives up shared control to everyone and thus is the perfect scapegoat. The newbies are too busy trying not to explode and don't deserve my wrath. Dip is like Nep, a player who is a perfectionist and kind of stiff but he just grumbles and just mutes and ignores me at this point. He always does these special forces style raids, so to get to him I would have to actually be good at the game too. Nep though, oh man, that is the good stuff. Somebody give this guy a MMO raid guild cause his comms would be legendary. Nobody rages quite as furiously and as impotently as Nep. Yet, he is on the other side of the world to me. Somehow, I would have to destroy him. Game starts with the usual base building and cracking out defenses. Sure, you can set up fancy set-ups with overlapping hardpoints and fields of fire but I like making swastikas and spelling words with my turrets. Of course you should be scouting all outlying systems for hostiles and goodies, but it is far more important to rename every planet to something stupid. This goes double for Nep's home planet, who probably spent more time changing names back than actually setting up. Besides, Che always does all the scouting anyway. "There is a research base on "My anus", as well as a advanced factory. We should hit that ASAP. There is also a lot of space train traffic between "Hitler was right" and "Nep's tiny prick", so be careful when you are in that area. Targets are as flagged with beacons," Che would read off as if reporting the weather. Within the three hours, we have expanded significantly from our initial position. I was able to sneak in extra planets by stealing bases while other players was busy mopping up. I needed more resources than anyone else on the map for one purpose, nukes. These things with one trigger would wipe out almost everything off the map, though taking forever to build and costing a fortune. Firing one off would annoying the AI significantly, firing 10 off would cause them to pound the alarm. We are going to nuke Nep's base with 20 of em. That would do it. So in a tiny corner of Scrash's base, I had 20 missile silos just cranking to produce my payload. "Yo Scrash, we got a breakout of bombers heading for you You there?," Che worriedly inquired. poo poo, the nukes just popped out and he probably passed out. The AI is going to bee-line for those things. I select all and mash to send them to Nep's home. It will take seven connections to get there and even though they are fast, they won't outrun the bombers. Maybe there won't be many and Scrash's turrets can take em. To my horror, 800 of the fuckers emerge. The other players have fighters crawling all over them but there are far too many. They maneuver ships to cover the homeworld but the bombers don't go there at all. They instead fly to the adjacent backwater and the next. I can feel everyone's eyes connect the dots and find my nukes fleeing for their lives. "Goat, what are those?" Dip did sarcastically ask. I tried changing the subject, "so I found this new beer I like that is really cool..." Nep keyed up, "What kind of loving retard builds nukes. We should loving ban Goatman next time." Oh man, they weren't going to make it. They got to Dill's homeworld, just 3 jumps from Nep till the bombers caught them. The screen flashed white violently and a loud boom echoed as the bombers and nukes went up in a chain reaction. What surprised me the most though was not the flash and thunder but rather that Dills' base remained, completely intact. "Goat, there is no friendly fire. Really, what were you thinking?" Dip sneered. "BLARP," a bunch of alarms slammed together to indicate multiple waves were converging within two minutes. The AI had seen the 20 nukes and was right pissed. "Umm guys, that is 20 000 ships heading to Nep's homeworld....," one of the newbies stammered. I don't need to tell you what happened next but I distinctly remember hearing the chair hit the wall and something shatter before Nep ripped his mic out of the computer. Laughter would soon follow. "Looks like Goat finally got to nuke Nep, see ya next week," Che sighed as she shut down the game. One by one everyone left the vent lobby till it was just me and Che left. "I am sorry I ruined the game tonight," I apologized. She laughed and told me, "If I wanted to win, I wouldn't be playing with Goons." 1486 words. Hypha fucked around with this message at 06:01 on Jan 10, 2015 |
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Jan 10, 2015 05:47
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“I hate the Chinese.” Statements don't get any more directly racist. Saying it in a early-2000s Bay Area Starbucks like I did earned a few odd glances my way. “You, uh, you might want to sya that you hate them in the game,” my Dad says with a bemused, if intolerant, tone. As right as he is, I did – and do – hate the Chinese (in games). The game in question then was Civilization III. Mao was up to his usual tricks, telling me about his “little red book” and spamming his cities as befitting the then-most-populous nation. The guy even took two of my city spots! I mean, how am I supposed to win on Settler without both having iron and denying it to all of my enemies? No, I hated the Chinese, and my Dad had to know that as we sat in the middle of the shop. My Cinophobia doesn't stop there, oh no. The classic Age of Empires II was a favorite of mine from an even younger age. This game was even worse; the Chinese had population bonuses, and their unique unit could fire so many bolts at my forces, that I specifically set up civilizations just so I would never get stuck with Chinese to play against. These were, however, childhood events. Games have gotten better since the early days of portraying them as the ubiquitous spambots, surely? Indeed they have. Instead, they are far more subtle now Roaming around in Fallout 3 was great fun for its time, but I jumped when, out of nowhere, my radio screams “BI SHENG! BI SHENG!” at nothing in particular, over a long-dead distress beacon. It turns out that here, too, China had reached into America's capitol, seemingly just for a cheap jump scare. His ages-old corpse didn't even have the decency to have decent loot on it. I can only barely begin to describe how stereotyped Chinese are in the MMO world, too - either shadowy rogues or strong, philosophical warriors, nearly every time. That's not them as a people and that's not them in other games; give us something else. I can only speak to my very sheltered experiences as a PC gamer, too. How much more can console warriors go on about Chun Li? Knowing the internet, that goes in a very different direction, though. Despite all of this, however, these experiences have resonated extremely strongly with me. Finding a way around Mao's strategies helped me think things through, and even the Chinese in Age of Empires could be defeated if I worked at it enough. Fallout has yet to be forgiven. Without the Chinese in games, I wouldn't have found them as compelling, maybe not continued to play them. That sort of speculation gets very tentative very fast, but it's an interesting thought exercise. So, as much as I hate the Chinese in video games, their addition is invaluable. ****** 488 words. I saw this too late, really. Also I want to make it quite clear that I don't hate real-life Chinese people. I've met only two, but they've both been really great people.
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Jan 10, 2015 06:22
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An Invasion--FROM SPACE!!! 1063 words Some of my fondest memories are of video games. They're also some of my only memories, thanks to the Xenogon invasion. In order to kill our will to resist, they tried to wipe out all our cherished memories. Family, friends, hopes, dreams--they sucked them all away with their Mem-O-Drain rays. Compared to lives of nothing but tedium, invasion almost seemed like a blessing. Earth was lost within months. They couldn't get all of us, though--the resistance made it off-world just in time. Every one who joined had something they held onto and wouldn't let go, no matter how many Mem-O-Drain hits they took. I didn't have enough time to meet everyone, but I remember the few I got to talk to as we boarded our ships. Clint had his family legacy of protecting America. Sam had her scientific lust for knowledge to keep her going. And me and Mike, two friends who'd stuck together through the Mem-O-Drain, we had video games. Mike had his space boots up on the console when I came in. He had Football in his hands, and it bleeped out a rhythm to the swirling nebula right outside the viewport. I listened to the electronic beep, and the whirr of the atomic battery we'd jacked in to replace the nine-volt, and the dull throb of our ship's engines vibrating through the hull. It wasn't silence, but it was just as hard to break. "I got an astrofax," I said. "It's from Clint." The bleeps continued, but Mike looked up. "Somehow the Xenogons impersonated Sam. Clint picked up fake-Sam in some wreckage. She tried to get him to tell her where our base is...he just says he took care of it. I'm betting that means out the airlock." Mike was going to say something, but then everything jerked up and to the left. My shoulder slammed into the wall and Mike's Football game went flying. Mike shouted, "They found us!" I got down into my seat and grabbed the joystick. Mike was ready at the guns. Nothing was getting past us while we worked together. Our ship reeled back and its engines revved with an atomic glow. A vector display popped up on top of the viewport, casting the alien ships as bobbing red wireframes against the green grid of space. "Three," Mike said. He glanced at me. "Two," I said. I held the joystick tightly, feeling the throttle, tightening my grip. "One," Mike said. A static crackle jumped under our feet. The ion blasters were armed. "GO!" we shouted together. We were such god drat nerds. The engines slammed into gear and the acceleration slammed us against our seats. The grid in front of us leaped forward. I pulled us through a wide arc, sending us toward the first ship while ducking around the direct fire. The flickering red lines on the display flashed off to our right. With a tender touch, I eased our ship out of the dodge. I pointed us straight at the Xenogon ship. Mike let go of everything we had. The ion blasters rocked our ship hard, jostling both of us against our seats. Having them on our ship was like having a cannon on a canoe, but nothing could compare to the blistering green-blue explosion puffing like radioactive popcorn in front of us. Now they were expecting us to fight back--but they were expecting us to be nimble. We'd dodged before, why wouldn't we dodge again? Because gently caress you. I revved the engines, letting the needles hover just below critical levels. I squeezed the throttle as tight as possible. The Xenogon weapons cut a broad swath of energy through space, protecting their flanks. But we weren't sweeping through on an angle. Full speed, dead ahead, ion blasters ready and primed. This time, the explosion rippled out in front of us, then around us, then behind us. We plowed straight through where their ship had been. The second wireframe ship disappeared from our screen. There was just one left, but now it was a gamble. They might expect us to dodge, they might expect us to ram. I had to guess which they'd expect, and do the opposite. I don't even remember thinking, just the feelings. There was the acceleration as we swung wide to the left. The force twisted around us as we turned. The floor crackled beneath my space boots. The ship shook as the ion blasters fired. The ship shook again, hard, fast. Crack. Ow. Nothing. "Wake up, man!" My ears stung. My back also stung, as did my face, and most of the rest of my body. Mike grabbed me, and I groaned. "You're awake! We destroyed the ship, but they put out a distress call." I pushed at his hand and grimaced. The ship was still spinning around me and all my thoughts were running in spirals. "We took some heavy damage. We've got to jump back to the base, and you're way better at jumps than me." Mike grabbed me again, and dragged me up into the seat. Muscle memory made me grab the joystick. I blinked at Mike. He looked back at me with anxious eyes. "Hey, man. Remember the time we were playing Space and we almost won?" I asked. I was slurring. Mike said, "Not now, jump us now!" "And like, right before you were gonna get the star. Right before. I killed you so I could get it." My neck cracked as I turned to look at Mike. Mike tried to push me toward the controls. "Later, man, let's go!" "And you forgave me cause we were such good friends?" I asked. Mike rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Good friends. Can we go?" I shoved my blaster pistol into his temple. "If you were the real Mike, you'd still be pissed off." I pulled the trigger and got green Xenogon brain-juice all over the side of the cockpit. Sometimes I take a gamble and it pays off. Fake-Mike got the airlock treatment. I didn't know where they'd taken real-Mike, but I was going to find him. When the Xenogons took away everything, every last thing we had left became infinitely more dear. Mike's Football game was still lying on the floor of the cockpit. I picked it up and flipped it on, and it started ticking out time with its little bleeps. Some of my fondest memories are of video games.
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Jan 10, 2015 06:25
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Growing up, I did not get along with my younger brother. Now, this is true of a great number of siblings, but with Dustin, things could get particularly nasty. We suspected developmental problems – he would destroy his toys, punch holes in the walls of our home, and minor disagreements could result in fistfights, cuts , and bruises. He would later tell us that this acting out was a result of years of abuse, but at the time, with no other explanation, his moods were a storm to be weathered. Often at the center of contention was the shared use of our Playstation; one or the other of us was hogging it, someone was screen-watching , or one of the other numerous breaches in the child’s code of fairness and honor would lead first to an argument, then to a knock-down, drag-out brawl. Multiplayer games were, at best, a shaky solution, an admirable attempt at getting us both to sit down, shut up, and get in our daily allotment of gaming, but given the competitive nature of most multiplayer options (or at least, in our options) it was not guaranteed to avoid conflict since Dustin’s feelings were often hurt should he lose, and he would have another violent tantrum. Our gaming continued in that vein for some time, but one Christmas, Dustin received the game that would change all that: NBA Live ’97. Neither of us were particularly big fans of basketball, but we were growing up in the suburbs of Chicago during that most magical time when the Bulls could do no wrong, and like so many other kids in that time and place, we were enamored of their success and the bragging rights that came with being a fan of The Greatest Team in the World. With that in mind, my brother and I ran to the basement, popped NBA Live ’97 into the Playstation, and eagerly awaited our chance to play as Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, Dennis Rodman, and all the other heroes of the day, but this was a tenuous peace. The game loaded and we loaded a multiplayer match when a realization dawned on us – if there were two of us, only one could be the Bulls! Neither of us wanted to be stuck playing as some inferior product; it was the Bulls or nothing, and so, before either of us could even play the game for the first time, a fight broke out. Somewhere during the scuffle, however, something beautiful happened. One of us hit a controller in the pandemonium and the icon for player two shifted away from the other team and on to the Bulls logo. We stopped our brawling and bickering and marveled momentarily at what we were seeing. We hadn’t considered that we could both play against the computer, that we could both control the moves of our beloved Chicago Bulls, but here was the proof before us. As though nothing had happened, we sat down, and started the match. Needless to say, we dominated the Seattle SuperSonics, our hapless opponents for that first match –after all, who could stand against the collective might of a team that, in our mind’s at least, had nothing but stars and did nothing but win? This is not to say that things were all peace and happiness after that, but my brother and I now had a game that we could agree upon, one that we could play together, bond over, and get our game time in without strife, from time to time. There were still other incidents, days where we wanted to play other games and butted heads about who got to play when, and if it weren’t NBA Live ’97, there would have been some other game, or some other activity over which we could bond and be happy, but NBA Live is what happened to come first, and with it, we started to get Dustin back. For that reason, a pretty crappy game about basketball will always hold a special place in my heart.
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Jan 10, 2015 06:37
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It was another one of history’s classic master and pupil relationships. Plato and Aristotle. Yoda and Luke. Mr. Miyagi and Daniel-san. John McClane and whatever Samuel L. Jackson’s character was named. Alec Trevelyan and Siberian Special Forces. Both had their respective lives outside of battle. Trevelyan was still working at the GAP. Siberian Special Forces was still in high school. Yet, like a virtual fight club they would meet everyday in the same place: A multi-tiered, warehouse-type building with secret green doors. Armed with only grenade launchers, they would battle to the death every day. Sure, the grenade launchers looked more like T-shirt cannons, but their explosions were so powerful they stuttered the very core of the landscape. Over and over they spilled their blood on the battlefield. Well, not really onto the battlefield, as that wasn’t possible yet (jumping wasn’t invented yet either). But, their clothes would turn a reddish hue after repeated attacks. The carnage was palpable. Trevelyan developed mind-blowing strategies to gain the upper hand: ricocheting grenades around corners, maximizing velocity by running at a slight angle, constantly viewing the Siberian Special Force’s screen. The Siberian Special Forces was no match. His body constantly smoldered from the grenades exploding at his feet. His deaths no doubt made more excruciating from the hooded parka and goggles he wore indoors for some reason. For a year they hunted each other ten deaths at a time. --------- Siberian Special Forces long since retired from the battlefield. He had finished his university studies and had returned to a life outside of grenade explosions. Thinking he had finally found an exposition that combined two favorite hobbies (collecting pennies and playing Pac-Man), Siberian Special Forces traveled with a group of friends to see what all the fuss was about. The latest technology on display bombarded his senses with flashing lights, sleek controllers, and scantily-clad women holding oversized plastic weaponry. But, what really caught his eye, in addition to the scantily-clad women, was a smaller room adjacent to the glitz and glamor. He peeked inside to find about 15 people huddled together over a table with a simple sheet of notebook paper on it. It read, "Goldeneye Tournament Sign-Ups." Initially reluctant, Siberian Special Forces was coaxed to join by the other people. Mainly because he was standing there and because they needed an even number. He couldn't resist. It had been years since he battled Alec; he didn't know if the sound of grenade bouncing around the wall would trigger any PTSD. He could hear the music begin and it was too late to turn back now. Clutching the mighty trident in his hands once more, he felt a surge of giddiness wash over him. It was no longer about a battling the other 15 to the deaths, it was about remembering the sheer joy of battling Alec. The rounds were a blur at first. Other kids talking poo poo to their opponents. Facts about the combat being strewn about as if boasting knowledge had somehow become a sign of strength. Siberian Special Forces ignored that and kept to the strategy his master had taught him: put bullets into opponents and obtain body armor. Also, watch their screens. Dear lord, keep watching their screens. That was really the key. Eventually, the competition dwindled until only four remained. "Next round, Stack. Grenade Launchers. Ten lives." Slack-jawed, Siberian Special Forces couldn't believe it. All those battles with Alec in that same setting, same weapons, same amount of lives. This wasn't a tournament, it was a reddish-hue-on-clothes-bath. Grenades were propelled with surgical precision around corners, off ledges, even bounced off competitors. What muscles were in his fingers memorized the angles and dealt a pixelated brutality previously unseen. "Final round, Facility. Throwing knives. Ten lives." After his previous unchallenged victory, he knew he wouldn't be denied victory. While being matched up against an opponent brandishing his own controller (seriously, who brings their own controller?), there was no doubt in Siberian Special Force's mind that he was going to carve up his opponent like a circus knife-throwing magic trick gone horribly wrong. Knife after knife chunked into his opponent's rectangular skull and white top hat. More hues of red plastered about like spilled tomato sauce. "Winner: Siberian Special Forces." It was over as soon as it had started. Siberian Special Forces couldn't believe it. He had been feeling such a wave of bliss while competing that he forgot it was a tournament. Sad that it had come to an end, he kept clutching the trident after the game was over. "How did you get so good at Goldeneye?" Siberian Special Forces, taken aback, responded matter-of-factly. "I played my brother way too much growing up." 783 words. gently caress Baron Samedi.
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Jan 10, 2015 06:43
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 That's all, folks! I'll be spending tonight and tomorrow judging, and you will have your judging before the new prompt on Sunday.The Penetrator, Unwantedplatypus and Hipster Occultist bowed out before the end of the deadline, mostly because of life. For them, I say: Don't you give me your drat lemons! What am I supposed to do with these? Do you know what this is? This is the contest that is going to pelt you! With the lemons! I'mma get my writers together, and we will verbally pelt you with lemons! Other than that, nothing against you guys. See you next prompt. Still, they had the common sense (or horrible life experiences) to fall back on before the deadline. However, widespread, Eyes of Widesauron, Paranoid Dude, Pladdicus, Hikikomori Bird and Toxxupation didn't even have the jimmies to rustle up a notice of failure. For this, they are OUT for the rest of the contest, or until such a time as they are seen fit for re-introduction to the wild. Rupert Buttermilk, you hurt me, bro. I thought I got you motivated to write again, but I didn't. For that, I blame myself. Now, some sleep before I get back to judging! J.A.B.C. fucked around with this message at 07:23 on Jan 10, 2015 |
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Jan 10, 2015 07:00
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J.A.B.C. posted:
My body is ready. My story, perhaps, not as much.
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Jan 10, 2015 07:37
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(Edit: poo poo, I'm late? I thought I had until sometime during Saturday. Oh well, I stand behind what I have below, even if I'm DQ) My gaming history started with the NES. I had gotten one when I was 6, but before then, my family used to rent one every few weekends from our local mini mart (which was/still is a Petro-Canada station, for any fellow Canadian goons). It would be such a treat to have this wonderful toy entertain us for hours, that I honestly can't tell you of any material thing since then that makes me as excited as it did. Now, I'm the oldest of three (my sisters would have been 4 and 2 at the time), so I didn't really have to share it that much; the youngest didn't even really care about it at all. It would be my parents, my sister, and I playing some of the games we rented with it, such as Ice Hockey, Zelda 2, Wrecking Crew, Duck Hunt, and the piece de resistance, Super Mario Bros. I can't tell you about what it was like to play it for the first time because I honestly don't remember. I don't remember learning what the buttons did, but I do remember one particular thing about the game; I remember when, for a day, my dad was completely obsessed with it. Now, no one here knows my dad, so I'll paint a picture. He was raised in a fairly strict Catholic home with 3 other siblings. His father fought in WW2 and his mother was a British war bride. He studied law for 7 years and became a lawyer for the energy company of our province. He did hard, stressful but honest work, brought us all to church every Sunday, and loves math (to this day, he sort of regrets never becoming a college math professor, as he loved how 'nothing would ever change with a job like that'). He likes raisin toast, long baths with a newspaper crossword, and the Eagles. He also used to be 'the strict parent'. So here's a guy who, every day, puts on a suit and goes to a job that I didn't understand, who is just taking in this incredible experience that is Super Mario Bros. He's moving his controller as he jumps, turning it to run faster, and whooping whenever he reaches that iconic peace-sign-stamped flagpole. He's in. He's in all the way. That same weekend during his obsession, he tells us that he found something out at work. I guess he had written it down but forgot to bring it home to us. We're curious as to what it could be, and keep asking him to tell us. I remember him saying something about being able to go farther that we ever have in the game. Keep in mind that I don't think we had cleared world 1-3 yet. He gets on the phone to his work buddy, Ian. Now, Ian and I, years later, would discuss many computer related things, because Ian was like my dad's nerd friend; he was the cool gadgets guy, the guy who explained DOS to me, who helped me get past some early form of copy-protection to play a game. Ian was THE GUY to talk to about Super Mario Bros. Well, I guess at work, Ian had been chatting about the game around the ol' water cooler, about something called a "warp zone". My clearest memory of all of this was my dad on the phone with Ian, both writing down and shouting out instructions to me in the other room on just how exactly to get up above the level (and to "walk in front of the score") in order to get to the warp room. When it finally happened, there was much cheering. Dad was right; he was able to get us farther than we had ever gotten. In the many years since, my dad's only shown a passing interest in video games. He's always been a fan of Arkanoid (that specifically, not Breakout), and a tile puzzle game on PC called "Sherlock" that deals with eliminating the impossible, and to this day is one of my favourite puzzle games ever. He's played a few racing games, though he doesn't really enjoy the Mario Kart series as he would rather race on a track that isn't littered with "cheese and crackers" (the items). The last time he got anywhere near the Super Mario Bros excitement would be a few times playing Wii Bowling, where he and my mother would wipe the floor with me, score-wise. It's his 61st birthday today, and I wish I was nearby to celebrate it with him, but I live 8 hours away in the next province over, though I plan on moving back soon. I hate thinking about it, but it's a fact of life that no matter what I do, I'll only have so much more time with him (and my mother). I'll always be thankful for having a great childhood, raised safely and happily by two if the greatest people I know. I would never say that having a memory like my dad getting excited over a video game made my childhood better than someone else's, but it is one of my fondest. I'm glad that it happened, because it's a story I can tell others. I'm typing all of this out on my phone while rock my five-month-old son to sleep. I can't tell you how dedicated I am to raising him just as well as I was raised, and it's scary to think that an alternative even exists. I'm hoping someday he can look back on a time (among many) where I'm just as into something he loves as he is. I've got a Lego Ecto-1 that I'm waiting to build with him, and more video games than I can count that I want to share with him. Maybe someday, he'll tell people about the time he and I stayed up all night getting through XCOM, or Batman, or when we set up an 8-player Minecraft LAN in our house for him and his friends, with little contests set up to see who could build what the fastest to win a prize. Really, whether it involves video games or not, I just want him to look back and smile, just like I can. Rupert Buttermilk fucked around with this message at 10:14 on Jan 10, 2015 |
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Jan 10, 2015 10:12
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WEEK ONE JUDGEMENTS! First off, let's start with the winner: Mercedes, with his tale of loss, recognition and pride over video games and family struggles. Send me your Steam ID, and we'll go over what you win. Honorable Mentions go to, respectively, Soul Reaver for what appeared to be a personal apocalypse, DJeser for an action-packed sci-fi romp where memories were more than memories, and Jamfrost for an epic poem over the ages of games. Send me some Steam IDs! Dishonorable Mentions go to Sighence about a boring story on game racism, Zombie Samurai for ripping off the Gift of the Magi and not even doing it well, and a runoff to the bottom between how me a frog and our loser ends with him pulling back from the edge. Our loser for today is Mr. Tastee, who wrote about game urban legends in a way that turned me off of a Celes/Terra bath scene. You, good sir, have been put down by GamerDome. Kraven Moorhed and Vengarr are Disqualified for not using the prompt and for using a Youtube link, respectively. You are still welcome to come back for the next prompt, but remember that you are writing for a prompt, with a wordcount. See you all tomorrow for the next prompt!
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Jan 10, 2015 20:27
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Neato! I'll probably be the rhyming dude and hopefully have time for a different formula for the next prompt. My Steam ID: http://steamcommunity.com/id/Jamfrost/ Edit: Now to reread some of these entries.
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Jan 10, 2015 20:41
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Disqualified for not following the rule you just made up, shucks, I guess I'll be back next week 
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Jan 10, 2015 20:43
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quote:it was the best of times, it was the worst of /watch?v=blimb78um1fibbly
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Jan 10, 2015 20:49
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A thousand years of shame upon your house.
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Jan 10, 2015 20:55
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 So I usually reserve this for Thunderdome winners and honorable mentions, but I'm feeling very generous right now. Soul Reaver, Jamfrost and Djeser I invite you to my Prize Vault. Instructions are inside. Hit me up on either Steam at http://steamcommunity.com/id/elravennegro/ PMs or IRC at #thunderdome. Mercedes fucked around with this message at 22:34 on Jan 10, 2015 |
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Jan 10, 2015 22:11
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Thank you J.A.B.C., I'm really happy the story left an impression! My Steam ID is http://steamcommunity.com/id/masterreaver/ Mercedes, you are cool. Very touching story too. I'll get in touch with you via Steam.
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Jan 10, 2015 22:47
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Didn't win, didn't lose. Survival is enough. Looking forward to the next prompt.
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Jan 10, 2015 23:33
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Thanks again, Mercedes. Thank you, JABC. Games make everyone all write. (I'm so sorry.)
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Jan 10, 2015 23:57
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Yep, saw that coming. This style of writing is completely foreign to me; I'm more used to academic writing, but knew that wasn't wanted here and tried to adapt, with the result of... well, that. The way I focused in on a already mediocre topic just cemented everything. I like this challenge, though. I'll be back for next week's, hopefully with something less awful.
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Jan 10, 2015 23:57
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J.A.B.C. posted:Our loser for today is Mr. Tastee, who wrote about game urban legends in a way that turned me off of a Celes/Terra bath scene. You, good sir, have been put down by GamerDome. That's fair. I didn't have as much opportunity to work on the story this week as I thought I would.
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Jan 11, 2015 00:13
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Sighence posted:Yep, saw that coming. This style of writing is completely foreign to me; I'm more used to academic writing, but knew that wasn't wanted here and tried to adapt, with the result of... well, that. The way I focused in on a already mediocre topic just cemented everything. I like this challenge, though. I'll be back for next week's, hopefully with something less awful. I am also a broken person. I started it in LaTex.
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Jan 11, 2015 00:13
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Vengarr posted:Disqualified for not following the rule you just made up, shucks, I guess I'll be back next week yeah lol
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Jan 11, 2015 02:29
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yo next time let me know who the loser is and i'll queue up a custom title change. want to make sure you're not actually paying for that since you're giving out games and all
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Jan 11, 2015 03:08
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Frightful was the witching hour When saves we could not keep, And grumpy dad or tired mom Would rush us off to sleep!
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Jan 11, 2015 04:08
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Well, I sincerely don't care that I didn't win, I just enjoyed writing. Sorry it was late, though.
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Jan 11, 2015 04:26
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Endorph posted:yeah lol Yeah protip for next week: every time a video game gets mentioned by name, link to the gamefaqs page so people don't miss out on the secret powerups hidden in the third paragraph!
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Jan 11, 2015 04:32
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hm winner eh well let's have a lookMercedes posted:Only Pride
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Jan 11, 2015 08:20
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yeah thanks for the critique but my paper was better than anything yo0u or mercedes wrote and its hosed up that i didnt win
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Jan 11, 2015 08:48
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| # ? May 13, 2024 23:01 |
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Edit: Sorry you were being sarcastic.
Sexpansion fucked around with this message at 18:43 on Jan 11, 2015 |
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Jan 11, 2015 16:27
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