Temple of Conflict

Chin up, gorgeous. You’re better than anyone in life can understand other than yourself, for the moment. Ask the sun, the moon, and the stars why you feel this way, and you’ll receive the same answer. Ask time how long you have to wait, …and you’ll hear the same thing. Don’t keep your pain in. Scream it out, cry if you have to, bleed if you must, but the only thing that anger will do is tarnish your ever present beauty.

Keep walking, sister, and know that the sun herself is envious of your glory.

The air swirled thick and heavy above the Resolute Desk as small eddies played between the two men.  George Walker Bush flipped the folder closed and threw the half-inch thick stack of information back on to the center of the desk.  His aged, wrinkled eyes narrowed in a suspicious gaze towards the balding, weasel-faced individual standing across from him.  His wedding ring clad left hand moving casually, he lifted the hookah hose to his mouth and took a thoughtful drag.  Rove stood like a statue across the desk, regarding the Commander in Chief as the water and smoke bubbled and danced.

“Turdblossom, this is the most fucking retarded thing you’ve ever put on my desk.”  Rove frowned as the President leaned forward and shoved another whole bud into the large platinum bowl atop the hookah.  Shifting his hand towards the file, he righted it on the desk then flipped the top open.  His finger stabbed towards a blurry undersea photo.

“Mister President, we’ve confirmed the images.  Several experts have been called in, and we’ve used the latest in photographic imaging techniques to remove all probability of mistake.  Even after that, we double checked, and sent down a probe with four scientists just to be certain the automated sub wasn’t somehow pulling in false data.  What you see here is…” the President cut him off with a quick series of coughs, and a fluttery hand wave.

“Damnit Turdblossom, I heard you the first time,” the President chuckled at his own nickname for his Adviser.  “And I believe in faerie tales as much as I did last night when I woke up from that dream about Angelina Jolie and Kate Hudson.  Don’t tell my Laura, heh heh.  Anyway, I’m not buying it, there’s just no way this is true.  And if it is, we can just bomb the shit out of it, right?”  Karl pulled in a deep breath to steady his nerves, which only served the opposite purpose as the THC in the air reacted badly with his already stressed mind.

“Mister President, this is the most valid threat to the entire world ever recorded.  If this threat rises, there will be no one left.  We have to act now!”  Karl inwardly cringed at the passion that rose into his voice, knowing it may very well have lost him the fight.  His face let no hint of his inner turmoil through as he continued to stare back into the narrow, blood-shot eyes of his boss.

George took a long, hard drag on the hose, and let the silence build as he considered his Adviser’s words.  The air in the room suddenly grew a bit colder, causing the smoke to slow and shiver in the air.  George took another hit, then spoke words of roiling smoke laced in a lazy Texan drawl.  “So what yer sayin here, TB, is that some pencil necked, well funded geek found a bunch of rocks at the bottom of the ocean.  He sent a high-priced doo-dad down to take a peek, then took three more peeks after talking with a bunch of other pasty white fellers with too much money and education, and then him and his nerdy buddies took a field trip down there to have a grand old time?  Then they came back and said we have to invade Atlantis?”

Rove’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly.  Another breath, not so deep this time, and he pushed right back into it.  “Mister President, the men in question were not all nerds.  One of them regularly played football, another hunted, and a third is James Cameron, so…”

“You mean the Aliens guy?”  George sat forward in his chair, suddenly interested.

“Yes, sir, the Aliens guy.  He’s turned his fortune towards underwater exploration.  He was the only one to return from the expedition.  Two of the others were dead before they surfaced, and the third was so mentally compromised that he now eats and shits through a tube.  This is a serious situation, sir.”  The hookah bubbled mockingly as George took another long draw, then laughed.

The sound of laughter was shot dead in the air, falling still in the smoke and landing with a soft thud, like a dead quail, on the Resolute Desk.  The shadows behind and to the right of Rove slowly shifted and regurgitated the slightly bulbous, ebon-clad form of Dick Cheney.  George’s fine buzz was immediately harshed.  Reflexively, he threw another bud on the bowl, and took the mirror out from the left hand drawer of the Resolute Desk.  The mirror had been a gift to Nixon from Castro, and held a matching mirrored tube as well as a quintet of thick white lines cut across the surface.  Cheney waited for the President to be done powdering his nose before his voice bubbled forth.

“Mithtaw Pwesiteth, if Ah…” something struggled within Cheney’s deep black hood, and George cut the Vice President off with a deep scowl.

“Damnit, Big Time!  Swallow the kitten and then git on with your… whatever.”  With the back of one finger, George did an under-nose sweep.  Dredging up a thin layer of snow, he did a tongue gum and watched his grotesque second-in-command finish his foul business.  Rocking back in his chair, George put his feet up on the back of his deaf midget sherpa, and signaled for Turdblossom to light the bowl again.

As Karl leveled the lighter over the bowl, and Bush continued to suck, the balding man took the initiative and spoke.  “Mister President, the situation, as I said, is serious.  We don’t even need to bomb anything for this to be the greatest strategic victory all of mankind has ever experienced.  You would literally be saving the world.  All we need to do is smother the region with some form of toxic liquid tha…”  Bush exploded into a coughing fit, sending a massive drift of smoke over towards the shadowed corner in which the Vice Unspeakable Thing lurked.

After a few small wheezes, Vice broke again into speech.  The liquid bubbled and roiled, expelling wisps of smoke from within his chest, creating the wet sounding words punctuated by what could only be the screaming of kitten souls.  “Mister President, it appears the reports are correct.  Satellite images, undersea dive teams, Nostrodamus, and James Cameron all agree that we are about to experience the most cataclysmic event ever foretold, but you have the power to stop it.”

“By bombing Atlantis.”  George Himself wasn’t even stoned enough to believe this.  “Oh, and you have a claw on your lip.”

With pudgy, slightly green fingers, Cheney removed the tiny kitten’s claw  and savored it with a lick of his tumorous tongue.  He gibbered and cooed, then nodded.  Stepping forward, he clasped his hands humbly before his belt of orphan skulls and addressed the President again.  “Sir, it’s not Atlantis, but something far, far worse.  Our fears were proven by the reactions of the science team when they went down to investigate.  James Cameron only survived by hiding his face within the remains of another researcher’s skull after it had exploded.  This leaves us with little doubt that this is &$*@^@.”

Bush thrice crossed himself and uttered a barrage of Hail Marys against the Blasphemous Word Never Uttered By Man.  Rove did the same thing, but in reverse.  For emphasis, George slammed the file on his desk closed, then turned his attention to another rail.  His finger quivered as it jutted towards Cheney.  “Now you listen to me,” he began, until Cheney dropped his cavernous black silk hood to better expose his bat-winged ears.  “Put it up!  Put your hood the fuck up, Big Time!”  The Commander in Chief produced a Desert Eagle 50 caliber handgun from below the desk and rocked the slide back, aiming the aperture directly at Cheney’s mutated, unclean features.  The Vice President did so, and stepped quietly back into the shadows where he belonged.

With a trembling hand carrying a devastating man portable weapon, the President started again.  “Listen to me, I’ve got a lot of shit to do today,” his gaze fell to the mirror upon the Resolute Desk.  “I don’t want either of you two coming to me with tales of faeries, or fish people, or anything else for the rest of my time in office.  Whatever the problem here is, it can be handled by the next chump stupid enough to take over this desk.  You can both go fuck a squid… or whatever it is this old wive’s tale is about.  You aren’t pulling one over on old Gee-Dub today.  Heh heh.”

Rove saluted, picked up the file, and turned for the door.  He cast a gaze at the shadowed corner were Big Time once stood, and shook his head at the miasma of sulfurous gas and singed kitten fur that hung sickly in the cold air.  The door to the Oval Office thumped closed behind him, and he shelved The Most Important Thing Mankind Could Ever Do until the next presidency.

Unless you’re some fucked up dreadlocked hippy hottie from Portland, you most likely don’t know what the fuck I’m going to be talking about.

Which is kinda why I’m talking about it.

There’s this place in Portland Whoregon called The Red and Black Cafe.  Apparently it is well known that this particular cafe is not ‘Cop Friendly.’  Now there’s this big hoo-rah about it being Anti-American, and segregationist (really?) and all this other crap.

Personally, I can agree with both sides of this issue.  The Cop (in this case the officer in question is named James Crooker… a last name I will make no joke about) had the right to step in and order a cup of coffee.  The cafe had the right to provide him with the coffee.  The cafe also had the right to turn away his service.  Most businesses have a sign that says “We reserve the right to refuse service for ANY reason” or something of the like.

Most of the time they only use this when people are being disruptive to the workers or the patrons.  FEW businesses use it in a discriminatory fashion, but that does seem to be what is going on here, until you look a bit deeper.

The time line goes approximately thusly:

Police Officer James Crooker enters the store, and presumably lingers in line amidst cries of “babykiller” and “hatemonger” as the unwashed, patchoulli smelling masses rally.

P.O. James Crooker (hereby known as “The Cop”) buys  a cup of joe, and begins to enjoy said caffeinated beverage.

The Cop is approached by Cornelia Seigneur, who is a freelance blogger who sometimes works with The (wh)Oregonian.

Cornelia thanks The Cop for his work in keeping the streets of Portland safe and putting his life on the line so that hippies can drink coffee in safety.

It was shortly after this that Co-Owner John Langley (hereby known as “The Dick”) approached The Cop and asked him to leave the establishment.

The Cop leaves.  The Dick is lifted up on the shoulders of fellow anarchists as a vicious blow is struck at The Man.

Cornelia goes off and blogs about it.

A whole bunch of people get panties in bunches and have things stuck in their craw because of what The Dick did to The Cop.  Like it even impacts them, or something.

As a few of you know, I served in this nation’s military.  I went in to protect freedom of speech and freedom of decision.  I went in to protect the KKK’s right to be asshats in public.  I went in to protect the Westboro Church’s ability to piss an entire nation the fuck off.  I went in to protect Dick Cheney’s right to shoot his friend in the face and then have him apologize to Dick for getting in the way of his shot.  I went in to protect your right to read this blog, and my right to say you’re a dumbass for spending so much time reading this blog.

I went in to protect The Cop’s right to get coffee from a shop that doesn’t like him, and I went in to protect The Dick’s right to kick The Cop out of the shop.

Argh.  Another unfinished post.  I’ll try for more later.

Wow.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I first started up the game.  For those of you who follow my posts, you know that I’m a video game aficionado, and I hold very high standards to anything I play with.  I believe my hands to be sacred instruments of the future of gaming, so I only risk sullying them on the very best.

Give me the damn code for the beta test, you bastard!

Google has provided me with this ‘very best.’  I believe I may have my hands bronzed in this position, to prevent them from every touching anything which lacks the incredible purity of Google’s new video game:  Destructonator vs. The Incredinauts – Back In Action!

Yes, this game has torn me crotch to crown by providing me with a truly amazing gaming experience.  For those of you who are not up on The Know, let me break this game down for you, starting with the technical aspects.

System Requirements:

Anything.

That’s right… this game can play on any computer.  Anywhere.  Any time.  No matter the system, even if you have an Apple IIe that is somehow on the internet, it can play this game.  Google has been very careful to not exclude any potential players, and since it knows exactly what computer everyone has, it was a relatively simple process for them to convert the game.  Using an extraordinary amount of flash animation and swift download tricks, the game is playable, as I said, by anything on the internet with a screen.

Players:

Anyone.

That’s right.  This is the first MMO type experience that includes ANYONE who plays the game.  Anywhere, anytime, it doesn’t matter.  The people on the ISS can play this game at the same time that you are, and though it may appear on your screen that there are no other players, in truth you are playing with anywhere from 10 to 500,000,000,000 people at the same time.  Since you all have a common goal (to destroy the Incredinauts), and you are all on the same series of servers, this has, in ONE DAY, become the biggest MMO sensation anywhere.  Ever.

Meat and Bones:

The game itself is absurdly complex, and defies description, but I’ll do my best to simplify it.  I warn you that the incredible details I am glancing over make this description akin to explaining quantum kinetics by asking a caveman to both beat a lizard with a bone and not beat a lizard with a bone at the same time.  It just doesn’t work, but, again, I will do my best.  For you.  My readers.

You are thrust into the guise of the world saving hero known as Paul Antonio Carter, a Man who has seen everything he loves turned to ruin.  Once a thriving pioneer in the biotech and cybernetics field, Paul was deep below the ocean in his private undersea lab when The Event happened.  I can’t explain to you what The Event is, due to the fact that it is a mystery that is unveiled during gameplay, and I have promised you no spoilers… but believe me that it’s pretty fucked up and world changing.  When he came back up to the surface six months later, he found that no one else was left on the world, and all of the cities had been deconstructed to produce massive walls that ran amok in odd formations, much like the Labyrinth of Greek legend.  Through this twisting, insane mask that has been applied to the Earth, the villains (I call them The Event-ors for the purpose of this article, because to use their real name would give you a hint at what had happened) have dropped the debris of our hero’s fabled experiments and other ruins of mankind.

It is through this hellish place that Paul must race, dodging left, right, up, down, over and through to get past the obstacles betwixt him and the insane Event-ors who have changed, forever, the world he so loves.  The Event-ors were not without caution, however, and have noticed Paul’s movements at the start of the game.  They have dispatched the spirits of his loved ones to murder him, using a psychotropic control mechanism which only affects the energies of the restless dead to get them to do their heinous bidding.  Luckily for Paul, within the debris and ruin of the twisting lanes are strewn bits of technology (some of which he invented) and biology (pictured below) which can help him ‘Power Up’ and consume the souls of the departed, which he keeps within his body until he can again build them a new form to live within the corporeal world through.

Technology you can't even dream of.

The closer Paul gets to his goal, the harder the spirits try to stop him.  No matter how many souls he reclaims for the good of mankind once he frees us from the tyrannical overlords, more are ready to take their place and do their best to hinder him.  The Event-ors have placed Resurrection Boxes throughout the lands, cunningly putting them near the center of many of the most troubling sections of convoluted passageways.

It is up to you, my reader and dearest player, to guide Paul Antonio Carter to freedom and victory.  It is you who must pilot this superman’s body, using only your feeble mortal mind, and reclaim the world from The Event-ors who have taken it from us.

Do your best, my friends.  It is not an easy task.

This game gets 11 crits out of 10.  A “Nat 20″ if you will.

I suppose I should include a screenshot:

Actual Gameplay. It's okay to cry.