A gamer since the age of 4. I like pretty much all genres, and now that I can afford them, all systems. I'm looking for a new co-op game which won't suck me in for a year and a half. Please give AMD Eyefinity compatible gaming PC's generously (never mind, got one).
I would now consider myself a PC gamer primarily, but have grown up with consoles all my life. Whilst a bit of depth and plot are much appreciated, I tend to gravitate towards online FPS's and racing games.
I've been on a bit of a hiatus from posting here at the Dtoid C-Blogs, mainly due to my voluntary position at PureSophistry.com. Click the link to see my stuff.
The bar was silent. Uncharacteristically silent. Usually, the sound of a beatbox playing oldey-time honky-tonk piano under a piano made of cornflake boxes and the sound of a women screaming as she was chased endlessly by a dirty cowboy filled the room with noise, and the hearts of the patrons with joy. Tonight was not that sort of night at Jonathan Holmes Authentic Saloon Bar and Brothel.
Barkeep Holmes was not be seen. His cloth and polishing glass left abandoned on the floor nearby. Propping up the bar tonight was Lily Nelson, Beaney Tuesday, Beige Santa, and Soda Baby. Other patrons sat silently at the tables, nursing drinks they'd helped themselves to, leaving a few groats on the bar out of courtesy.
"So, looks like I'll never get a photo of Brendan Fraser's ass now!" Beaney said, staring down into his non-alcoholic beer.
Lily Nelson looked up. "No, motha-fucka" he said in an uncharacteristically dulcet tone. Dutfifully, he pressed rewind on his tape recorder, played back the utterance in a higher pitch, before bursting into tears and slamming the machine down on the bar.
"Whaaaat happend, booys?" Soda Baby piped up, nervously scratching at his diaper. "What's this all mean?"
Beige Santa put a hand on Soda Baby's shoulder. "It means that we're history".
"Whhaaat are you talkin' abou', seeee?" Soda Baby uttered between minor sips of whatever the yellow frothy liquid in his sippy cup was.
A loud, commanding voice from behind made everyone jump. "GAAHD...DAMMNIT SODA BABY! DON'T YOU GET IT? STERLING IS LEAVING DESTRUCTOID. PODTOID IS OVER YOOOU MOTHER FUCKER! THAT NO GOOD FUCKIN' FAECES SLINGING SHIT HOLE IS GONNA FORGET ALL ABOUT US! YOU THINK HE'S GONNA TALK ABOUT WILLEM DAFOE AND GET RICH QUICK SCHEMES WITH JONATHAN HOLMES WITH MOVIEBOB AND THAT JIZZ SLINGING FUCKDUMP YAHTZEE? WEEEEE'RE FUCKED UP THE FUCKIN' SHUNTING ASS YOU MOTHER FUCKER!"
Chungus (Son of Chungus) jumped up. "But, we're here! We're in his head! His head isn't going anywhere is it?" he said meekly, holding an icepack over his sore recently tattooed penis.
J. Jonah Jameson looked like he had a retort, but instead fell back in his seat and buried his head in his hands.
The Mysterious Benefactor of District Dafoe (A.K.A Willen Dafoe), who was leaning on the wall by the cornflakes-box-swinging-doors cleared his throat, which judging by the raspy voice he spoke in, achieved nothing. "Listen kids. I been in this guys head for nigh on a year and a half. That's longer than most of you put togedha! No one knows what's going ta happen!" he screamed through hi cloth mask and his self-urination.
His words were followed by silence. Captain Crack Cocaine snorted in disgust, and the Baby Police whimpered in their cot, as a SterlingCorp Fart Filter shuffled out from under one of the tables, before quietly shuffling back under.
Hours passed. No one spoke. In the silence, you could almost hear Lady Genital's heart break as she slumped to the floor from desperation and potential bloodloss from self-mutilation. All the while, a noise seemed to be stirring outside.
"What Godawful noise is that from yonder, sirs?" a nearby graverobber said, rubbing his scab-laden forehead.
"Probably just the Fun-Gestapo on another rampage, raising morale" Beaney Tuesday whispered. the thought that things couldn't get any worse than possible instant non-existance whilst being throttled and kicked in the groin by bikers wearing smiley-faced masks crossed more than one mind.
"AAAAAH! DOOOWN'T YA WORRY LADS" Bono Vox out of the U2 piped up. "OY'LL GO 'AVE A LOOK AND SEE WHAT ALL THE NOISE IS AAAAL ABOOUT". Before he could push the cornflake-box swining door aside however, he was knocked flat on his back, as MunkusBerger burst through the opening, sunlight erupting into the room and blinding the patrons, some permanetly. Both MunkusBerger and the horse that he was both attached too and consequently was were panting heavily.
"What is it fair Cenobite?" Chungus (Son of Chungus) asked, jumping from his seat and helping MunkusBerger into the room by tugging sharply on his reins. "What new devilry approaches?"
"The..." the Cenobite steed said, panting. "The... Queen... she... speaks...".
There was a moment of silence. Suddenly, everyone jumped to their feet, with a new sense of purpose suddenly filling their cold, dead hearts. The room was chaos as everyone made for the exit, and the air was filled with shouting and the sound of bodies hitting the floor lifelessly. They ran, they sprinted, and then realised they hadn't asked where they were going. As they rounded back on MunkusBerger, he pointed (with his nose, as he had no arms and legs, you see) to Val Kilmer's Emergency Podtoid Conclusion Stadium Showdown Arena On Ice.
"QUICK!" yelled Brendan Fraser. "GET YE' ALL TO VAL KILMER'S EMERGENCY PODTOID CONCLUSION STADIUM SHOWDUN... ON ICE!"
Under any other circumstances, they might have cheered and whooped as they ran, cycled, galloped, or rode Mark Wahlberg to the stadium. This was not that time, but a small spark of hope seemed to have ignited. Soon, they were not alone either. Scores of elves that looked like Jim Sterling, Max Scoville, Hamza Aziz and Conrad Zimmerman poured out of Beige Santa's Christmas Erection. The two decedent gentlemen stampeded past atop an elephant, each with a Walt Disney's head lodged firmly between their thighs. Further down, Colin Moriarty, the Napolean of Crime, ushered The Ghosts, a bus load of homeless men covered in glow in the dark paint, and Professor Cockknowledge and his pupils past a busy cross roads. The Amazing Spidered-Man ran from rooftop to rooftop, cursing and yelling, his pillowcase and genitalia flapping in the wind. Voldermort collapsed out of a nearby opium den, supported by a small chinese boy and The Emporer. There were yells. There were screams. There was some laughter, but there was also blood and other bodily fluids.
Finally, the bar patrons arrived at Val Kilmer's Emergency Podtoid Conclusion Stadium Showdown Arena On Ice; its obsidian gates swung open for the first time, and the impossibly large bust of Val Kilmer looking down upon them, sneering with a plaque on his forehead which read "The Man Who Was The Bat". Hundreds were piling through the entrance, some getting trampled by the prementioned elephant as the handsomer of the two threw rubies at the peasants below. The patrons pushed and shoved, sometimes pulling their hand back in horror, wondering what they had just pushed and shoved and what that was now covering their hands.
Val Kilmer's Emergency Podtoid Conclusion Stadium Showdown Arena On Ice was lit by moonlight; this was mainly odd considering it was 3:46pm. The crowd moved forward towards a large, impressive stage which had been erected between two giant chrome phalic objects, each covered in defintions of the word "Chungus". After several minutes of shuffling impatiently, a familiar noise which brought floods of tears and joy to all filled the stadium.
And there she was. The Queen. Her mesh tanktop today was gold. The cut off denim shorts were red like the fires of Hell, and upon her face was not a look of grim defeat, nor of pain or worry. No. Freaky Constantina, in all her majesty, wore a gas mask with a smiley face written on it in black marker, with the word "fine" written in lower case on the cheek.
"Citizens of Podtoidia!" she cried as Usher died down. The audience fell silent immediately. "I see many people here today. Many good, hardworking people. People who have faced adversity, like you!" she pointed into the audience at Grandpa Coca Cola.
There was no explanation as to why she'd focused on Grandpa Cola, and she just moved on.
"You come here today in panic. You come here today in fear. You come here today fearing that your existance as you know it is threatened. And by what?"
Her question had sounded like it was rhetorical, but she left an unnaturally long pause. After several seconds, some crowd members even raised their hands.
"I'll tell you by what!" she said, pointing a golden-painted fingernail in the air. "By our creator abandoning us. By our creator stepping away from the canvas upon which he has vomited us up upon over the last three years. I see that fear in your eyes. It is the same fear that would take me. Save... for one thing".
The crowd murmered to itself. Somewhere, towards the back, there was a shrill voice which cried out in pleasant surprise "WE HAVEN'T EVEN HAD THE SAUSAGES YET!"
"And that one thing!" she continued, finally, "is... our legacy".
Again, the murmering kicked off. There was a tone of disappointment clearly audible, but she continued.
"You may not think much of such a thing, but I say before you today, that such a thing, to have such a privelage, is to be..." she paused, slowly getting down on her knees, before raising her arms in the air like Willem Dafoe in Platoon. "IIIIIMOORTAAL!"
There was five seconds of silence. Somewhere in the audience, a small group of Foot Clan politely clapped.
"You doubt me," she said, awkwardly jumping to her stilletoed feet again. "But consider this. Out there... outside this festering fuckdump that Jim Sterling calls a mind, are legions upon legends of weird horny men and some beautiful women, who have taken us, our stories, our adventures, to their hearts. And there, ladies, gentleman, and dogs, is where we dig in. Where we spit out our everlasting poison, that warms, and possibly poisons their hearts. We are the fucking infection. We are eternal. We shatter all who listen to our fables, and we will live forever!".
The crowd was finally nodding in agreement. Some cheered, some whooped, but she waved them silent.
"And though we may not outsee this day. Though we may wither and die. Though the many different versions of Willem Dafoe in the audience may cease to be, there is forever, one thing that will never change. One thing that they'll never take from us".
The crowd fell silent in giddy anticipation.
"THIS HAPPENIN' BE HAPPENIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN" the Queen of Podtoid bellowed into the sky, and as she did, the crowd of beloved Podtoid characters erupted in simultaneous applause. The Muddy Buddy wept. Keanu Reeves said "Hooorse" with more enthusiasm than was normal, and even Time Capsule Jonathan Holmes, locked forever in his red and yellow prison, cracked a smile through the shit smeared glass.