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Messages - Richter

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 :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.

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

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


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.

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:

"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. 


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

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.

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