The wind continues to momentarily thrash and
scatter heaps of leaves and twigs at the side of the house. Tim has finished
off kish-ka-bobing all of Hale’s characters in his DC campaign. Patrick,
sparing his own ass, literally speaking, pinches his lips together and says
‘owww’ every time’s Death Star or Nightmare begins to disembowel one of Hale’s
creation.
The third
Friday of every moth Patrick hosts the all-night role-playing rampage. Hale
hosts the first Friday night at his digs on Buena Vista which consist of
numerous pizza, plenty of belching farting and, since the campaign is solely
VonBehren’s and his rowdy cadre of Side Arms, Digital Justice, Strider,
Jasmine, Maxima and Company, the results are almost always consistent. Everyone
walks away happy with mental hardons, usually from the trouble ladled out on
Elysian Monarch, the hero’s space vessel and home, so to speak, which for
reason having to do with the Empire Strikes Back, Patrick refers to it as
simply Air City.
Last week
Dakota returned from a long, classified operation endeavoring to discern more
about the Galactic threat known simply as the Shredder. For being a mere mortal
and a mature C cup, Dakota knows how to kick some serious ass with some
artillery Patrick’s character Iron Horse likes to pick up and go BLAM with.
VonBehren
introduced Dakota North in mid-September, shortly after his own romantic strike
out with Meredith-Elise Willow, who, after their demise, shipped Patrick
VonBehren’s Marvel box with a calligraphic heart stitched on the cover, and a
picture of a needle piercing it right in the center.
Meredith
had routinely gamed with the lads from time to time but kept dwelling on what
she called the ‘insubstantial panoramic ennui that ensues from rabid amounts of
intergalactic imaginative stints.’ VonBehren was always telling
Meredith-Elise’s character, Persephone Glass Siren; i.e., thickly horned-rimmed
sexually frustrated librarian by day, hard core sex addict, leather strap
femme-fatal vixen by night, who, of course, was the love of Col. Side Arms,
only to go awry, for reason’s VonBehren hasn’t mustered up the courage to tell
his fellow gamers and best friends.
The second
Friday of every month belongs to DC and I’m the G.M. Brandagan and Tim,
pretending to drop the dice so that they land on just the right digit. Brandagan’s
room is antifreeze blue and, although Tim is the size of a sixth grader in a
sophomore’s body, every single mechanical toy and trinket he has ever own is on
permanent display with little, KEEP YOUR GRUBBY PAWS OFF MY TREASURE signs posted
periodical. Tim keeps reminding Patrick that, like sex with his mama, he is
free to look but touching may violate certain laws established to keep cretins
like yourself in constant check. Hale is
by no means ever allowed to even set foot on the Flanagan’s front porch. After
Tim exiled Hale from his basement last summer, Tim filed a restraining order
against him, saying that the next time he even so casually struts his fat ass
down my sidewalk, I’ll sue.
Hale has
gone out of his way to try to make Tim as comfortable as possible. Tim chooses
not to attend Hale’s role playing beer and barbecue fiesta’s because, as he
numerically states, a.) He can’t stand Hale. b.) VonBehren can’t run a valid,
realistic campaign worth shit. c) He can’t stand Hale.
Hale first
went out of his way to introduce himself to Tim at Von Behren’s stellar,
unforgettable, thirteenth birthday bash, which introduced Patrick to gaming and
everyone else to booze (Patrick figuring out how to decimate the Master lock on
VonBehren’s parent’s liquor cabinets. All of the kids, with the exception of
Tim, sipped copious amount of Mogen David casually). From the outset Tim
snarled at Hale and openly suggested a weight loss program that had helped his
uncle Floyd out considerably back in the day called slimfast suicide. The boys
first role playing outing lasted an exhausting seventeen hours, Patrick
suggesting that now that he has finally found the one thing in his life that
seems real to him, we might as well just go on right ahead and game till’
VonBehren’s twelfth birthday bash.
The party
was momentarily adjourned to Tim’s basement down the street when Mrs. VonBehren
walked into the dining room table, an empty bottle of Mogen David in one hand,
a charred master lock in the other, a tear sliding down her lip, saying that
something happened to the bottle of wine she had been saving from her wedding
for her son to take his first communion with VonBehren went to console his
mother and quickly devised a fabrication how it was probably Rev. Morningwood
when he dined with them last Sunday and finished that bottle of port before the
salad course that he more than likely dickied his way into the liquor cabinet
in an endeavor to ward off the demons that still haunt him ever since
performing that exorcise on Barney Lowery, the congregational lush, during
happy hour, over a decade ago.
Patrick
took this as his cue to leave and Tim suggested that they continue in his
basement exactly one block down the street, where he had Nightmare cast an
illegal Illusory-curtain over Hale’s newly made character Tim named Centurion
after his sister’s Tracey’s muffler dragging sad-excuse for an automobile she
paid three hundred dollars for last summer. Patrick’s standard Wolverine (which,
even though Wolvie is a solid trademark of Marvel comics, Tim allows Patrick to
portray Wolverine in an accumulated cross over endeavor from Von Behren’s
Marvel campaign to Tim’s stringent D.C. campaign, Tim got such a kick out of
Patrick pretending that metal sprouts of adamantium really could sprout from
his knuckles with an imaginative CHA-CHING that he amended the rule to
make it realistic) thought that he was actually slicing and dicing up the bad
guys, only to be informed, by a pedantic Tim afterwards that what he thought
was reality was nothing more than a thinly-filmed veil and that Centurion know
looks like a platter of stale fettuccini generously soaked in blood.
Hale looked
back at Tim the way he looks at Mario and Aron and the remainder of the Varsity
elite during lunchtime, when they wedgie Jebediah, or even after lunchtime, as
he helps Patrick unearth Jebediah’s head from the shitter. He simply looks at
them as if he is sad. The jolly, hummel-cheeked sexual epicurean leaks out of
him, and he momentarily commiserates with his pain.
The only
reason Tim can tell Hale is that he needs to keep it realistic. Everything in
Tim’s game needs to be strategically monitored in accordance with the character
generation law and the overall rules of the game.
“It’s like
the law of physics,” Tim once told Hale, pedantically, informing Hale that he
more than likely wouldn’t happen to know too much about physics since he was so
young and fat and clumsy and shit. Patrick looks at Tim as if, okay, he gets
the point.
“In case
you haven’t heard pot pie, we have something on this planet called gravity. Our
whole entire solar system is supported by this gravitational proof, suspending
in perfect equilibrium by the sun. Say the sun even moves just one minute
fraction of an inch, dickless, and it’s goodbye life and hello to the end of
the world as we know it. Get my drift?”
Like Aron Browman, Tim has one
caterpillar length eyebrow that connects point A to point B on his forehead.
Hale
decided to go out of his way to make Tim as comfortable as possible on their
next role-playing extravaganza. Hale, who was just starting sixth grade at the
time, decided to cordially invite Holly Trurner, evasive love of Bradnagan’s
life, high school senior, who Hale has met disguised only as Brandagan’s
heavily perfumed and scantily clad feminine characters. Over the pending summer
the Coaches Widow had just given breech birth to her youngest and she was in
dire need of an around the clock caffeinated refill, using the same horribly
jaundice Styrofoam cup she has used since Watergate, making Hale, on call,
twenty-four seven, cup of Hillsboro’s finest in tow.
After spoon
feeding Mrs. Mooney her twenty-sixth refill of the day, Hale cozily snuck out
of the cross-shaped hallways of CLS, casually strutted down to the corner of
Westmoreland and Starr where he had it pre-arranged to have his Grandfather
pick him up one hour early and drop him off at Bradley University, walking in
strides to Miss Trurner’s house, and ringing the doorbell, hoping to God she’d
be home so that he could cordially invite her to Tim’s second role-playing
outing.
Holly
answered the doorbell still dressed in her nightgown, her blonde-straw thick
bangs curved into her forehead from massive amounts of hairspray that would
make VonBehren proud.
“Miss Trurner,
I was just wondering if I could step inside for a moment and discuss a mutual
friend of ours.” Was all Hale said, before his ears registered the solid clack
of the dead bolt lock while his left hand was swiftly guided into her house, a
suburban domestic abode which, come ten minutes time will seem from the
casually observer sauntering down the cement strips passing for sidewalks on
the opposite side of the street, that the top of the house will be nodding up
and down in coital cadence, the drapes and awnings fluttering in such a way as
if it is about ready to vainly take the Lords name three times in a row before
releasing itself in a way it has yet to properly understand.
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