Serve the Servants

Atlanta– I exited my hotel room drunk, stoned, and very tired. I avoided eye contact with the front desk – sudden pangs of panic and anxiety – and stepped through sliding glass doors onto the avenue, where a Cadillac convertible waited for me.

Christ, I thought. They still make convertibles?

I looked at the two men in messy business attire, who earlier had said they wanted to “talk business,” and saw in their wild eyes that business was already miles away from this night. There they were, to get me.

“How in the fuck are you a-doin’,” the driver said. “I said how is it on this beautiful night we could stay inside? I said let’s get tore up and show Atlanta what it’s all about, and I knew the motherfucker we wanted, and I knew he was you. Get in.”

I hopped into the back seat and landed on a hard leather briefcase.

“Just kick that out your way,” said our passenger.

His face twisted open, exposing a rotten pallet, fuzzy with mold in the maw. It was the color of a cow’s tongue. His necktie flapped belligerently in the breeze, and he rocked his fat head over on one side. His eyes rolled back in his head and I thought he was about to puke, but then he blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he was looking straight at me.

“You’re a fucking animal,” I said. “You’re a fucking beast. A monster. You’re the worst thing that ever happened to this country.”

He laughed, because of course, I was kidding. Just kidding around. I’m one of the boys.

“James, you’re pretty cool, man.”

We went out for drinks, to one of those smoky sewers where anywhere feels like a bathroom, at any time. I looked at the mirror behind the liquors into my own eyes, and for a moment I could not recognize myself. I felt alone. Even the barkeep wouldn’t look my way. Nothing felt real, but owed to the bleakness of this moment, I recall thinking that was for the best. I overheard a conversation about politics, and it filled me with hate. After some terrible attempts to make conversation, I gave up my efforts to serve the servants, and decided then was as good a time as any to give this meat to the dogs.

I said let’s go.

The driver slammed our rented Cadillac Eldorado into a curb and stalled on the sidewalk near the intersection of Broad Street and Martin Luther King. A man, apparently sleeping against some filthy garage door on the sidewalk, would have awoken to see the two men up front, breaking vials of cocaine into small lines, if not for their headlights pointed directly into his eyes. I remarked how the air was warm and smelled like rain. It was not a bad time for cocaine.

“This shit’s better in Jacksonville,” the passenger slurred. Using a manila folder, he stuck his head as deep into the v-shaped space over the dashboard as he could, and did his quickly. The driver did two lines off the wide center console. A breeze cut through the convertible, scattering some of the drug across the fine, exposed stitching in the leather. Neither seemed to notice they’d nearly run over a sleeping vagrant.

The waking man sat up with bleary eyes in the headlights. Squinting to see into the car, he smiled in solidarity with our apparent joyride. The driver started the car again, backed up so as not to hit a parking sign, and we drove deeper into the city. When we arrived, an argument ensued at the door.

“What do you mean he’s too drunk?” asked my subject. “Why, he isn’t drunk. This man is high on cocaine.”

I watched from the backseat of the car as a long-haired bouncer shook his head no, and pointed to me in the car. I read his lips. He assumed I was sober and told them to make me drive, so I got into the driver’s seat of the Eldorado. On their walk back to the car, the messy one put his arm around my subject, throwing the man’s arm over his own shoulder, which he then grabbed and twisted to flip my man into the backseat. On the way down his head hit the briefcase.

“Just move those slave papers out of your way,” I said. He laughed, and fell asleep.

I stole the papers.

Sega Dreamcast is the Best Gaming Console of All Time – OF ALL TIME!

The Sega Dreamcast is hailed by legions as the best videogame system ever created. Gaming fans new and old revered Sega’s final foray into the competitive market of console gaming as their greatest achievement yet. The Dreamcast was more than just a gaming console – it represented a defiant protest of century-old Nintendo, a last stand against the staying power of Sony, and stood out as the ideological opposite of the soulless, ball-less piece of three-headed Hydra shit Microsoft calls an Xbox.

The Sega Dreamcast had the best repertoire of first- and third-party games of any console, the first mainstream integration of online play, and clear, beautiful graphics. Many games boasted 60 frames per second (FPS), making racing games and shooters like Unreal Tournament very exciting, and leading many to wonder, “Wait how many FPS was it before?”

Dreamcast even had a web browser (with an upgraded 2.0 version!) so young children, who didn’t yet know how to delete their browser histories, could safely download pornography without fear of parental retribution – right on their very own standard-definition TVs!

Behold, The Legendary Sega Dreamcast

Sega Dreamcast

To the average mouth breathing redditor, this looks like your average videogame console with a sexy Dreamcast logo on it. But what would you know? Part of the Dreamcast’s charm is in its subtlety. The Dreamcast had a little orange light that, when the system powered on, glowed bright orange and inspired the original design scheme used by the mysterious and fabled Elf Wax Times publication which – according to legend – reigned supreme for a better part of the previous decade. But who knows for sure? The system advances through several stages of power until its fans kick on and Phantasy Star Online bounces to life. Oh yeah, but if your VMU battery is dead, the VMU screen will appear faded, and Dreamcast itself will scream at you by emitting a long, ear-piercing tone from a tiny speaker built into the console. This is a gentle reminder to change your VMU battery. The tone gets longer based on how dead the battery is. You change it because you do as you’re told, and you don’t want to hear that noise anymore. Sega thought of everything!

What’s a VMU battery?

Upon closer inspection, the most observant of retards may notice there is a tiny screen on board the Dreamcast controller, which was revolutionary at the time. Dreamcast controllers also feature two analog triggers that fit nicely in the hands, like dual-wielded pistols with clitorises for triggers. Useful as a heads up display, the removable memory device known as a VMU (Visual Memory Unit) powers the tiny screen, which changed to fit whatever needs game developers chose for it. Oftentimes it displayed ammunition data, hit points or even jokes and small bits of game lore. Admittedly, it sounds kind of gimmicky. Fortunately, there’s more to it than that. You could download games onto that bitch, straight off your Dreamcast game discs, then jerk it out and play it like a fucking GameBoy. No shit. Look:

VMUSega just didn’t give a fuck. In the game Sonic Adventure, you collected Chao eggs. You can load eggs – or a hatched chao – into your VMU and then when you go to school, or work – where you no doubt suffer as a result of being apart from the Dreamcast – you can play Chao Adventure on the VMU, leveling your Chao’s stats to make him stronger for when you load him back into Sonic Adventure. Now that’s metagaming!

PowerStone contained three games available for download. There were fighting games, gun games and puzzles. There are a bunch more but that’s all I can remember off the top of my head. As a kid, I worked for my own videogame (and weed) money, so I didn’t have every game. Sorry, cunt.

If the VMU had anything going against it, it was the watch battery in the back that’s always dying, trying to meet the demands of all the awesomeness inside our VMU. When you needed a new one, you had to walk up to some sad person at Wal-Mart who acted like he was doing you this unspoken favor of constantly supplying you with these flat, quarter-sized watch batteries. It’s not opium, Rajiv. It’s just a fucking battery. I don’t remember what they cost.

Probably the coolest thing about the Dreamcast was just owning a god damn Dreamcast.

Tell you what, that’s the end of this game review, and there’s no looking back now. Now fire up your Dreamcasts and put on Slave Zero.

Masturbate, don’t procreate.

 

Mr. Stoyte’s Final Quest for Eternal Life

Long live the lifelong legend, inventor, businessman, and thinker!

Mr. Stoyte owned everything this side of Hollywood, and then some more. If you found yourself in a streetcar, you were not far off from one of his ventures, or his curiosities, or perhaps one of his great many abominations.

He touched everything. Wherever men went about their business, Mr. Stoyte lurked in the shadows, a feathery wisp on the material periphery.

Stoyte, who lived high in a cement castle, was deathly afraid of dying. His terrors would not turn him loose! They shook him and broke him down into a man whose demeanor was white over gray, and he lived a dull, miserable, loveless, dim life. For 72 years he lived to see the day when he grabbed a young and veritable Dr. Troubadour by his shirt collar, shoving him into the exposed brick of Troubadour’s luxury laboratory / trendy gastropub, and pumping him full of bees and anxiety. Troubadour, fresh out of medical school, was unsure if this behavior is normal from a client.

“I’ll have you know, Doctor, that our time on this earth is short as it is terrible,” Stoyte whispered through his coffee-stained, nicorette teeth Chiclets, into Troubadour’s mouth. “We all die.”

As his breath hit Dr. Troubadour’s face, it took on color and light. The cloud glowed and smeared itself into a smegma coating his skin, filling in the pores. Troubadour’s skin melted off of his face, exposing his skull to the cool evening air.

Troubadour shaved every morning, as well as doing other shit that makes men better. Healthy living means nothing to the acrid hate in Stoyte’s air, which seemed to originate somewhere deep within the dry barren husk of the old, flickering man. Troubadour’s face took on an oily shine.

Stoyte’s eyes hardened into beady coals. Flaring his nostrils, he peeled back thin, snarled lips, revealing the gnashing of teeth.

He let go, and then quietly withdrew from the stairwell, where he had cornered his own physician in flush desperation. Troubadour crumpled to the floor. A grandfather clock in the main room chimed four times. Not even crickets chirped.

Months went by.

Seasons changed and the nights grew colder. A sharp wind howled through the IKEA artificial stoneface archways, snaking its way hatefully up and down the dank, hazardous tunnels of Troubadour’s Life-Extending Luxury Laboratory and CBD-Infused Tea House — a liberal playground proffered to him by gracious Mr. Stoyte.

One night, Dr. Troubadour went down to the basement, and he found four freaks a freakin out on experimental treatments that he believed had them at his command. At the request of Mr. Stoyte, this matter was delegated specifically to Dr. Troubadour, whose medical prowess was – at that time – nonpareil.

Eventually, Dr. Jack Kevorkian would supplant Troubadour as the world’s premiere Doctor of Death, but in the years leading up to that point Troubadour enjoyed mass success, securing rights to the vast riches of his elite clientele.

Until such time as the nonbelievers could be summoned to his bedside for individual execution, Dr. Troubadour – under orders from Mr. Stoyte – melded his mind with the tortured souls of their victims.

Troubadour’s heart was never in the quest for eternal life. He was never so eager to die as when Mr. Stoyte had commissioned the two of them to live forever. They both died abject, miserable failures *(albeit one much later than the other, with Stoyte being dead, and Troubadour taking on the position as Chair of the Internet Chronicle Truth Academy for Disaffected Youth.)

Internet Hatesec and the Guess Whats? performed their breakout hit “Never going to hit you again.”