« on: Today at 01:00:07 am »
Yes. Some of us are serious about our hobbies, after all.
Oceana has always been at war with Iraq
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Hell of a thing, pogs.
They come up around here now and then and my days banging slammers behind the roller rink come back in a flood, the storms and the strange kid and the wreckage. Wreckage of pogs and people.
Richter and I thought we could hash it out, you know, after the last time. Talk therapy or something, I don't know. We met up for some fine German beer and maybe a round or two of Barenjager. Nothing treats the soul like live accordian and drinking songs. It was game night, the perfect thing, maybe a pickup game of Catan could distract us if it got too real.
But it was game night. Splayed across fields of folding plastic was an array of tabletop ranging from simple card to complex miniature. They held the attention of bodies in steel chairs happily sipping on imported lager. Richter and I nodded our approvals. This would do, yeah, this would be fine.
We were insufficiently drunk to bring up the topic of pogs, of course, but every quarter hour or so one of us would look up at the other, just about ready to say it, then toss the dice again before we made such a dumb mistake. The other gamers were friendly and invited us to a few of their rounds, one guy in particular taking interest. He bought us drinks and clapped us on the back after good plays and we circled the place, sticking to the light stuff, nothing with collectible components.
It was maybe the third hour in that our new friend pulled us aside. Got a different kind of game going, guys, if you're interested. None of this casual shit. He reached into his pocket and before he could show us his hand I shoved him away. I grabbed Richter and moved us toward the exit but it was too late. As the guy stumbled back he dropped them and they made a telling soft sound, a dozen of them and then a clatter of something heavy.
It was too much for Richter. He ripped his arm free and turned and surveyed the room, the battlefield, the killing grounds. Honed instinct took him and the daze of booze drained from his eyes. Richter, I called, go someplace else. Go someplace else but too little, too little. When the first table fell and the various gamers drunkenly scrambled away I got out of there.
Never did hear about the aftermath. You don't look back with pogs.
Pogs, man. Hell of a thing.
Beats what we did to the crustpunk the time he tried to dance on a table at the German Club hands DOWN
Do tell. I can't imagine someone thinking that would be acceptable there.
Richter: Owns a complete copy of Intermittens #4.
EoC: Not who he claims to be. I left the real EoC folded up inside that couch-bed after a dispute over blankets at the 2011 Memorial Day Meatup.
Cain: modded IRL into Skyrim
Cain: modded IRL into Skyrim
Junkie: invented interdimensional access to store crowbar for quick usage
DSquid: online handle too literal
Alty: actually left Alaska after all that
Look whose talking. I know what happened to Bobo, you bastard.