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Messages - Richter

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Back home my head still spun.  What the deuce had I seen?  The massive sailor dancing up a storm, gunning down nuns, Eoc DRIVING.  I pulled a bottle of Miss Cleo's Jamaican ginger beer out of the icebox.  It'd settle my stomach, at least. 

I pondered another line, or a few dozen drinks, but put that aside.  Needed to level out, maintain for later, had to be seen having a certain appreciation, a certain appetite.  Part of the job.  Don't just TAKE the resource, RELISH it.  "Reverend" kept the straight face, so I played the unhinged one.  At least until EoC was around, then we'd tag team while the other watched our asses.

I sighed, and heaved my gunny sack onto the table.  Time to run some oil and a few pairs of silk knickers through the tommy, see what kind of mess the cheap ammo had left this time.

At some point we need to accidentally cause the Boston Molasses Flood

I am sorry for nothing.  Blitzed on privilege it would be irresponsible to NOT shoddily imitate the tropes of gangster hop-hop.

Merry Christmas and Christmas Eve, you wonderful bastards, you.

Not so merry.  You remember Charley (the guy who kept shooting Dom's character in the back?)

He died today, at age 33, of heart failure.

Between this and Hats closing up shop, this is the worst Christmas in a very long time.

I don't know anyone you're talking about, but you have my sympathies.

Charley was this guy I knew from the game store who would give you the shirt off of his back, and never once in the 8 years I knew him ever got mad at anyone (that I know of).

Turns out he died on the 23rd, but I didn't hear about it until today.  He worked out for the first time in years, rehabbing from knee surgery, and apparently busted a clot loose.  Just one of those things.

Damn : (


I picked up a couple of these a while ago, solved a few problems.

I suspect it may either solve this one or give you stunning blackmail material, depending on the culprit.

I've thought about it, and I have decided I don't want this to ever be solved.   :lulz:

If you're ever possessed by the malice towards this, I have ideas.

 :argh!: I suppose I am to ea4 the cheetos and drink of mountainmdew as well.

I may explode, or sharpen a game console

I made a ridiculous amount of money today.

Which is good, because medical bills.  Also, TGRR dental surgery starting tomorrow.  I may not be in my usual pleasant good mood for the next week or so.

Oh, my... good luck with the dental surgery, I hate that stuff! But it usually makes everything better.

Yeah, my front tooth cracked vertically.  Since it's already had a root canal, there's no fixing it.  So out it comes, then they drill a hole in my skull, sink an anchor, and put a false tooth on the anchor.

Airports are gonna be HILARIOUS now.

You're gonna put a platinum tooth in, right?

Nope.  Just regular old ceramic.  I'm a utilitarian.  I may go with stainless steel.

I can see chrome steel alloys becoming a sort of silver to scavengers of the wreckage we leave behind.  Mithril and shit, strange, holy, and less tarnishable that anything else they dig up. 

Driving in Boston is easy.  Just contract with mad Gods, and you'll know well, the ever-shifting roads.  Same with central Mass., the southeastern reaches, or Providence.  Each one you learn will take a little more..
(Why they are loathe to travel)

Leln gets free subscriptions.   Professional courtesy.

EoC knows well at least TWO of these areas, and is the man he is today because of it.  Even with a vehicle heavily ladden with yeti goofballs he can scream across Boston the RIGHT way.  The way that doesn't get you stopped because you're obviously PART of the madness, not just a scared posser running from it.   

Rhode Island has something they charmingly call "conservation or rotaries".  Each state gets a certain number, regardless of size, and has to use them all. 

A cunning driver could, if the valves on his viking longcar were failing for example,  drive most of the way across the state using said rotaries, centripetal force, and certain spacer's tricks to keep moving.

Turn signals are an invitation for everyone else to cut you off.  A CHALLENGE.  NOT IN MY LINE YOU GRANNY SHIFTING SONOFABITCH.


The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Were Pogs a Thing?
« on: August 03, 2015, 10:21:02 pm »
FER Fucksake.  Really.

Case your pogs scene.  Show up.  Don't flash some shiny slammers or shit unless your're a damn master.  See how they play.  Don't pry, so they know you're not some narc looking into gambling, or trying to expose them as cover for a drug or felatio ring.

If they play hex, or don't, watch. Be cool.  Ask, but be ready to get rejected a few times if they've got a tourney or some shit on.  Bide your time, let them see you.

If you don't and you're walking home funny with a pig tube lodged up yo ass don't blame me.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Back on Their Feet
« on: August 03, 2015, 10:17:04 pm »

This thread killed Payne the first time and who wouldn't I recycle to get him back.

Heartless fucks. 

Yes.  Some of us are serious about our hobbies, after all.

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.

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