Saturday, January 18, 2014





The rain is beginning to subside, It feels more like the clouds are gradually beginning to drool overhead. Last week at Tim’s once-a-month role-playing outing Tim continued to rapidly augment his characters strength and endurance by having each of them take turns in utterly slaying each of VonBehren’s and Patrick’s creations and then, after the color in Tim’s countenance reversed back from the psychotic blood hounding hue that overtakes his enthusiasm as he begins to drop his characters dice, commenting to himself and rolling his fist each time, saying a plosive tongue bitten, ‘yes’ every time he rolls the dice for his own creations and an almost perfunctory, ‘Shit boy, you shouldn’t have done that. You’re virtually fucked.’ every time Tim splatters the dice behind his visual obstructing GM fence for his gaming patrons, shaking his heads, red splotches filling his forehead as he rubs his hands together as if in greed, quickly calculating how many more H.P, points each of his characters will receive for pummeling Wolverine and Iron man and co., once again, into a bludgeoned pulp.

 

            After Tim hounded the players last week and took his time grinning to himself, dropping dice, and verbalizing his accomplishments, slapping himself on the back, talking about how his Death Force is the most potent cataclysmic unit in the chartered universe, Tim likes to strut over to his purple spray painted stereo and play a kazoo and accordion duet version of Pomp and Circumstance, he recorded from a BBC special on Weird Al.

 

            Both Dave and Patrick have grown extremely attuned to Tim boasting about his promotions. Although Tim is the Gm, or GOD, so to speak, of his jaded superhero universe, Tim has also manifested himself in a number of creations.  

 
 

For reasons no one has yet to properly figure out Flanagan’s basement is the tealish color of a used ice pack. Both Pat and Von Beheren look at the character sheets in front of them like dinner menus before Patrick clears his throat in a manner reminiscent of a dish disposal commenting aloud that he wonders just when Hale will show up, a remark which leaves Tim to address him simply as oh that fat fuck.

 

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