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Messages - Richter

Pages: [1] 2 3 4 ... 430
1
Yes.  Some of us are serious about our hobbies, after all.

2
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.

My first job got lost to pogs.

I'd pulled my shit together after college - the summers of camp counselling during the pog resurgence of the early 2000's, and had got respectable.  Then I had the BIG relapse

I was hucking mortgages with some hugeass firm, making a mint in commissions, and draining it all into stacked cardboard roundcrack at back tables in Denny's before the market fell apart in '08

I was betting whole stacks of slammers and not giving a damn, drunk on the oppulence of it all.  My manager asked me about my numbers one day as I was truing up a stack at work - jsut for practice mind you.  He got offended, and so I dropped a custom Samoan torpedo between his eyes.  Lead weighted - stricktly non-reg - a hallmark of those who came up in public school back alley stackduels.

He lost consciousness, I lost a job.  I wailed enough about stress and quotas to HR that no charges were pressed.  Still out though.  A year of deep rolling business, and not a single recomendation to show. 

I got clean, got another job, and pulled my shit together. 

Sure a little CCG or minigaming, but I kept to tabletop.  all well and good.  Then we went to the bar.

There were screams after the little incident EoC mentioned.  Some millenial took exception to OLD SCHOOL play, and was letting my know about it.

"The fuck man!  The FUCK!  It ain't the 90's man!  No one plays that way anymore!  We know bet.."

I chipped the corner of a 6mm plastic slammer on an upturned table leg and slashed him down the face before he could finish.  A juvvie - kid move, but it made my point.  I get bored with the refrain of anyone who isn't going to be serious about their pogs.

"I'm here to play, not to hear you bitch."

His buddy was siddling up with a beer bottle, thinking I couldn't see him.  EoC had my back though, and started cramming some Brony's stack of "rainbow dash limiteds" up his left nostril.

"POLITE company." he was telling the guy in an almost conciliatory tone. "POLITE."

The deviant dropped his bottle in favor of un-deviating his septum.

"We should go..." I managed, sensing gametime was well done as the door burst in and the police arrived.

That broke the tension.  Like a snowbank giving way, or a and dune deciding to imitate a liquid the crowd stove in on itself.  EoC backed out, and I hit the deck, amidst a rush of clambering hands and kicking boots.  It would look better if I LOOKEd like I was getting the stomping.  Picked up respectable dig to my scalp in addition to loosing the sharpened slammer, and wiping the blood off my hand in a puddle of beer.

Calm?  Crazy?  not exactly.  I jsut had a very GOOD sense of priorities and consequences at the point.

Thing you learn with pogs; always build the stack in YOUR favor.

3
Any good sanity damage campaign should start out with horrible flooring.  I've kicked off "Holiday in Carcossa" that way twice

4
It was a huge success at the intended result.  Which you intended.  I KNOW.

5
:lulz:

Beats what we did to the crustpunk the time he tried to dance on a table at the German Club hands DOWN

 :lulz:

Do tell.  I can't imagine someone thinking that would be acceptable there.

They had a few bands.  One was decent high-speed rockabilly going by "The Throttles", but the main act completely got on my shit.

IT was some sort of reunion of the various band members.  Anything they could have gone onto was better.  The lead singer tried to establish street cred by describing the plight of his ancestors. 

I only got stinkeye for calling him out on cliff noting "Grapes of Wrath".

Their noise started.  People began yelling.  The fellow next to my ear pulling the shrill finger whistle after every song.  The bartender saw me about to blow, and subtly kaiboshed him with a bottle of Barenyager before I got there.  (Tipping pays off).  Then some demented crustpunk decided to start "skanking" on one of the folding plastic tables. 

I couldn't get through the crowd fast enough, but I have seldom sought divine favor to let me watch a fool break his own ass with gravity. 

The regulars got there first.  He was both up, and helped, with his ass subtly kicked for damaging the club property.

German efficiency  :lulz:

6
"I'm not going to put too fine a point on it....But it's a piece of shit."

I was halfway through my personal Jim Beam, and this was the funniest shit I had heard all night.  Dimo - fucked if I knew what he had been drinking.  The Clamato experiment had gone around the whole group, with all of us being appauled.  I'd gotten the taste out of my mouth by doing shots of mace with a gang unit cop.  He'd kindly offered me a muscle relaxant as he took one, and I was glad now that I'd declined.

EoC's smile -shimmered-

It was like that moment when you realize the oasis you've been banking on is a mirage, the impending sense of shit about to be fucked.

I forget if they were talking about an art piece or someone's writing (Eve's traffic troll was GENIUS), but feelings were about to be hurt, and the group dynamic was about to fail horribly.

Cainad was still looking sympathetically amused after my own outburst.  Our eyes met and we sort of knew we had to salvage this before the ugly happened. 

"Before we go to Providence drama - " Roger was coming out of my mouth now.  "Justify your crap Mark.  How is this shit?"

"Not like we don't have time to retool the whole thing anyways"  Cainad added.  "I mean, it's only Saturday for fucksake."  His body language could have made bomb defusing seem nonchalant.

"Very true.  And you're among friends who will not bullshit you.  As we have seen."

The smile was back, and growing.

"OK."  I acceded.  "We need to go THERE."

Holy hell.  A dispatcher, a punk rocker, a geologist... I always feel outgunned when things are about to hit the fan.  I am thankful for this pessimism, it keeps me willing to be practical and proactive.

Mark seemed to catch on.  Offense had been given, balance had to be made.  He tensed, years of jumping from stage to pit about to come to the fore.  EoC?  Relaxed.  He'd talked men through worse, and had a vicious academia about to be pointed at the whole affair.  At that moment Cram walked in with his deck of "NOT IN MY HOUSE", and saved the day.

.....or so we thought. 

7
 :lulz:

Beats what we did to the crustpunk the time he tried to dance on a table at the German Club hands DOWN

8
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.

Cainad:  Not telling you exactly HOW these two are related.

9
Demolition Squid:  misappropriation of blasting caps, mainly to some poor fuck in Maine.

EoC:  Won't drop the name of his dentist.  Really - only proper tooth care in that section of the state.

Doktor Howl:  His harpoon is still in the Richterforge - but is finally ready for heat treat.

Cain:  modded IRL into Skyrim

True - I ended up with a weird spell / sword / axe switchoff last time I was out on a LARP with Cramulus.

10
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.

Now now... he did us all a great service.  He ate Captain Kangaroo, who couldn't have been my spirit guide of interdimensional pockets if he was still alive.

Well... he did ME a great service. 

11
Hoopla:  wouldn't keep being Baron Von

Squid: Doesn't tell us about the GOOD weird out of Florida

Richter: hasn't finished sharpening Rt. 95

12

Doktor Howl:  NO JETPACKS.  He had science and didn't get us any.

EoC:  Hooked up heroin for half an obnoxious party once.  Didn't tell them the cops were on the way.  Still grinning like that.

Waffles:  Once bench pressed a burial mound.  Blamed Odin.

LMNO:  The reason we have pants rules.  Not enough Gay Bar to go around

Nigel:  Hasn't let me play in the hilarious blood conflagurations.

Bear:  Didn't let me sharpen the obnoxious cards before he sold them.

13
We're done here!

14
Mood salvaged

15
Leln curates several books on Nigel at the less-well known library.  This poses several unique challenges.  Mainly, she has to keep the hordes of disaffected wannabes OFF the book (Since reading about Nigel and forming a poor imitation is much safer than asking Nigel how to be Nigel in person) 

Reading Nigel's name with too much interest tends to summon her, and there is inevitable splatter.


Nigel designed the dispatch program for Providence and southeaster Massachusetts EMS.  This should explain a few things.

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