100 Percent Pure Adrenaline

Posted By:

The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: Jan. 30th

THE YEAR?!:2010

The elder detective made his slow approach to the scene and shook his head in disgust. Overdose. The little bastard had everything in the world going for it and he had pissed it all away. Removing himself from the huddled crowd of police, paramedics and paparazzi the longtime veteran of the L.A. crime scene sought a moment of privacy. Taking his old friend Jack out of his slicker and going for a bit of the old bottoms up the oft repeated phrase rose through his insides and met the cascading booze halfway before finally escaping through his lips.

“Toons.”

Turpentine, acetone and benzine. Most people knew it by the name of The Dip. It was the only way to kill a cartoon and a formula created by Judge Doom, a self-hating animaniac whose case the liquor guzzling P.I. had cracked many years before.  It was an investigation which brought the detective notoriety, fame and the trust of all his 2-D counterparts worldwide. He was a saint to the very creatures he despised, and it was hard for him not to chuckle upon the realization that well into his seventies he was still cleaning up after the messes these toons had created for themselves.

In his old age he had found himself more a novelty than an actual aide in scenes such as these, a relic the police would use rile up interest in a toon case with the public. “Eddie Valiant, 74 years old and still defending the rights of our animated brethren across America!”

Over the years it was getting harder to keep control on these hand drawn loony’s and with the advent of the 1980′s they had found a bigger anvil to drop on their animated heads. Except this time there were no stars, only a splatter stained body upon the curb like the little blue son of a bitch the paramedics were zipping up into a morgue bag now.

The use of Dope among the flesh and blood citizens of Hollywood was all the rage in the current decade and not ones to be left out cold confines of restraint, the toons had soon found their backdoor into the house of excess.

Dipe. A combination of dope and the dip, fashioned into a form of  nose candy that had been downgraded just enough not to fry the user but give ‘em a killer high. Leave it to a toon to lust after the only known substance which possessed the ability to leave them dead.

Looking towards the mob which had congregated on the set in order to get a better view of the tragedy at hand, Valiant reflected back on the good old days. Proving Goofy’s innocence as an undercover Commie sure seemed like a ray of sunshine compared to the shit he was dealing with now.

“Gosh, they seemed so innocent on screen.” The statement hit Eddie like a ton of bricks, a bitter reminder he wasn’t the only P.I. on this case. “Looks can be deceiving my Ferrari driving friend.”

If trying to kick a dozen Smurf’s off the junk wasn’t bad enough, the grizzled detective was now partnered with the ultimate boy scout. On a summer hiatus from his hit T.V. show, his mustachioed cohort looked to make the transition into Toon Town mystery solving.  It was the studios effort to make way for a new breed of animated investigators, the old lion passing the torch to the young up and comer. Far as Eddie was concerned, he was a toon himself. Wile E. Coyote chased a bird he’d never catch and likewise his rookie actor-turned-sleuth lost out on Raiders of the Lost Ark in order to play a transplant Hawaiian . Both career ending decisions in their own right.

“Jump in your helicopter and grab me a cup o’ joe, will ya Tom?” With little hesitation his tropical shirt wearing partner was on the case. “Sure thing, boss!”

Although the over the hill detective would never admit it, in times like these he missed Roger.

The rabbit was never the same after Jessica left him. In an effort to keep his young male audience convinced of his masculinity, the studios successfully wooed her to divorce Roger and marry the closeted He-Man in order to keep appearances.  It was no secret the master of the universe was letting a string of animated dandies into his black hole, but a job destitute Jessica acted as his beard anyways in an exchange for a promise of work.

Although no longer a couple, Jessica still promised to see Roger on the side. Sadly it was too late. Out of a job and a wife The Dip ended up claiming another victim, this time by way of suicide.

“Here’s your coffee, Mr. Valiant!” The well-past-retirement age detective turned to his eager partner. “Thanks, kid.” Eddie followed up his speech with a thought better kept to himself. “But you forget the most important ingredient.” Turning around and pulling a little more self medication from his raincoat Valiant quickly rectified the situation, pouring a liberal amount into his scolding cup of coffee.

“Eddie, how do you figure we get these poor toons off the dipe?” The wise detective turned to face his Magnum P.I. starring friend and shot him a look like he had just been forced to sit through Three Men And A Baby. “Tom I think we’d be much better off splitting up. You go explore Toon Town for a bit while I check out the Studio lot. Sound good?” Selleck’s eyes lit up as Valiant finished his question.  “That sounds like a great idea! My first real case. I’m gonna show these suits I’m much more than just a well groomed mustache sporting a sexy mane of chest hair!”

Wishing his ditzy partner had kept that last bit to himself, Valiant began his trek around the backlot looking for possible clues.

Running into a who’s who of the modern animation landscape, including Heathcliff, Optimus Prime and Strawberry Shortcake, Eddie seemed to find they all had a common interest; find whoever was supplying their toon friends with this lethal cocktail and stop it, a.s.a.p.

Snake Eyes and Skeletor were holed up in a Greyskull hotel for weeks at a time on the junk, Huey, Dewey and Louie were in Juvenile rehab and Grumpy Bear’s septum had a quarter sized holed which would make Stevie Nicks jealous. Even for his 2-d counterparts, it was all getting out of hand.

The old man had one last case in him and in order to find the culprit his own feelings regarding toons were going to have to be shelved once again. It was due time to crack this sucker wide open and stop the deadly supply of Dipe.

His questioning had gotten him no where and the sun was beginning to crest upon the Universal backlot. In an attempt at reversing his slide into frustration the grizzled detective tilted his perspective in an effort to come in at a different angle. It worked perfectly.

If the hired hands had no answers maybe the suits did. Casually browsing the many building which occupied the famed Universal Studio Eddie was quick to discover a film division that was new to his wizened eye. “Motion Capture Division?” It was terminology new to the Valiant lexicon and peaked the curiosity of the snooping dick.

Helping himself to the back entrance and sneaking in without effort, Eddie began his exploration of the young mysterious new branch of the Universal Studio lot.

TO BE CONCLUDED…

Posted By:

The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: January 23rd

THE YEAR?!:2010

When it comes to handling the role of a film director, German born Roland Emmerich is as mainstream and successful as one can get. His movies break countless records worldwide and his resume includes the summer tent pole blockbusters Independence Day, The Day After Tomorrow and 2012.  When attempting to tackle a new creative project, most directors draw from their past. Oliver Stone, director of the classic films Platoon, Born on The Fourth Of July and Salvador, used his harrowing journey through the depths of the Vietnam jungle in which to cultivate inspiration. Steven Spielberg, possibly one of the most respected and commercial figures of the modern film industry, used the divorce of his parents at an early age in which he channeled those feelings of loneliness and confusion into plots involving sons and the absent fathers they sought connection with.

What of Roland Emmerich, though? Little is known about the European director’s direct influences but with a little journalist ingenuity and a lot of fictional fabrications I have uncovered the direct source of cinematic ideas the filmmaker taps into. Its an invaluable object he obtained as an impressionable child which he continues to hold close to his heart. This wellspring of ideas provides an unlimited resource of inspiration on demand for the foreign director.

Frankfurt Germany, 1944. The war for Nazi dominance in Europe rages on. Although whispers abound through various channels regarding the National Socialist’s foundation crumbling beneath them, happily married Dieter and Helga Emmerich pay no mind. They are proud German people with a strong sense of moral balance.  Eat your morning strudels, wear your lederhosen and blindly follow your government’s directions and you will lead a long and fulfilling life, they would often say. Through it all nothing made the couple more proud than their five year old son, little Roland, or Reinlobbinmeinenhiknerstein as his fellow boyhood friends had lovingly nicknamed him. Much like the droves of mentally disabled citizens the S.S. officers frequently brought into the town factory (The black heavy smoke billowing through the chimney tops are the tires we burn to keep our disable friends warm!) soon young Roland would be making a journey of his own.

Roland would be six soon in the upcoming summer months and the Emmerich family were eager to send the shy and obedient little boy off on the journey to make him a man. The parents were ecstatic to finally gas tiny Roland with a Zyklon B. amount of national pride into his lungs they themselves had already been subjected to. His destination? The Hitler Youth Camp.

Unbeknown to the simple living Dieter and Helga, the smallest Emmerich had his own thoughts on the matter. He was a dreamer, a pacifist. The idea of climbing into the mold and having it slam down upon you, stamping their mark and turning you into a predetermined design didn’t interest the young boy. He was a square being pushed into a circular hole, and he struggled with himself to tell his absent minded parents the true feelings he harbored deep down inside.

Roland hadn’t realized what his goal was in life but the small creative sparks made themselves known from time to time. When his father once arrived home after a long day at the factory burning rubber tires Roland was overjoyed when he realized Dieter had brought him a present; two toy cars.  Although the faint stench of human hair exuded from his new playthings the joyous Emmerich paid no mind, immediately running outside in his tiny pair of lederhosen to put his new gifts to good use. For hours the little boy entertained himself with the metal vehicles, slamming the two together over and over against each other until they barely resembled their original form. Eventually growing tired of this scenario, five year old Roland next began taking turns slamming each one onto the ground time and time again squealing with delight. He had found his gift that fateful afternoon. Roland Emmerich was a storyteller.

His mind was set, “No Hitler Youth and no military future.” Day by day it became harder for Roland to hold back his true emotions, knowing the journey to camp was soon nearing. He hadn’t a clue what to do, his parents let off a glow which grew ever brighter as the summer months grew near and he had seemed to shrivel away, dying a little inside through each passing moment. Surely there had to be some way to break the news to his parents and tell them of his true ambitions.

Eating his breakfast strudel one bright spring day the waves of change crept back onto shore and again tickled little Roland’s toes. With the family gathered round the kitchen filling their bellies and basking in the delightful Saturday morning sun there was suddenly a knock at the door. “Oont who could zat be?” Dieter proclaimed in his strikingly perfect German dialect. Excusing himself from the table, Roland’s father made his way for the door in an effort to greet their unexpected company.

Little Emmerich continued eating and paid no mind. Within a short period Dieter was once again in the kitchen looking to seat himself and Helga was quick to inquire to her husband who had been at the door and why hadn’t he let them in to help themselves to the warm and delicious cinnamon strudels. “Can you believe this garbage?” Dieter proclaimed, clutching a book in his hands and shaking it in an aggressive fashion. “These wackos believe the world will soon end and the government will crumble!” Taking a moment to chuckle at his own statement the eldest Emmerich continued. “Don’t those fools realize the Reich will be around for at least a thousand more years! What mindless, brain washing trash they try and peddle.” Dieter turned to his wife, disgusted as if he held one of the diapers Roland filled as a baby. “Helga! Put this drivel in the waste basket where it belongs.” She grabbed the book without haste and threw it into the garbage, treating it as toxic material.

Little Emmerich, always the shy, respectful boy his parents had grown to know and love simply nodded his head as his father continued his rant. “Well, off to burn some tires. Roland, remember to practice today, ok? You do know what I’m talking about, right little man?” Roland looked up to his father who had finished his strudels and now was in the midst of adjusting his collar. “Yes, pappa. Two hundred goosesteps around the house and one hundred heil hitler salutes in front of the mirror.” Dieter stretched out his arm in order to pat his young son on the head. “Good boy.”

With his father off to work and his mother in the middle of laundry Roland’s curiosity began eating at him. Who was at the front door? Why had they angered father and what had they given him? Making a slow approach to the waste basket the littlest Emmerich reached down and clutched his little mitt’s on what Dieter had been in such opposition to.

He quickly ran to his room and closed the door, book in hand. Jumping onto his bed and huddling around his prized possession the youngest Emmerich went in for a closer look, opening the defiled object up and browsing it’s contents. Roland couldn’t believe it.  Flipping through page after page his little mind was in a state of shock. “It’s like they took a blueprint of my career and mapped it out in intricate details for me to use on future projects.” Every page was a building blowing up, a dog falling helplessly into the chasm opened up by an earthquake or innocent children being swept away by a multitude of various biblical judgments. Along with the dozens of pictures littering each page which seemed to scream out ‘Use me as storyboards in your future directorial endeavors!’ were the constant threats warning of judgment day, the apocalypse and the earth’s natural disasters paying back men for their sins. The littlest Emmerich had found his muse, the teachings of the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Years passed by and the boyish Roland became a man, in the process keeping his prized possession close beside him at all times and using it as a template for his new found profession. Through the help of Armageddon-minded organized religion, Roland was now a filmmaker helping to spread their word.

Independence Day, The Day After Tomorrow, 2012. All ideas directly torn from the cherished book obtained as a child. Many times his actors would seek inspiration on set, and with a simple wink of the eye and a the turn of a page Roland would fill their struggling minds with ingredients from his recipe book.  Often times Emmerich would meet up with fellow directors at parties and award ceremonies, all clamoring for a taste of his beloved formula. “Your plots are almost of a divine origin!” Esteemed colleges like Martin Scorsese would oftentimes say. “What strikingly original idea will you think of next?” Others like acclaimed director Clint Eastwood would inquire. Filled with an inspirational warmth, Emmerich knew his next plot was only a page turn and another proclamation of the world’s end away.

Of all his industry acquaintances had he formed over the years there was only one he trusted to reveal his secret to,  fellow German native and respected filmmaker Uwe Boll. In what shocked the plagiarizing Emmerich, Boll seemed none too surprised by this revelation, admitting he too had taken all his inspiration from a printed work. In Uwe’s case it turned out to be something he also obtained as a young and impressionable forty three year old, the video game magazine Gamepro, issue seventeen.

With the release of the critically and commercially successful 2012 behind him it was now time for Roland to do what had always worked so well for him in the past; open up his beloved book and work on his next movie based upon the newest page. He sat by himself in his writing room, which was a small piece constructed as part of the giant mansion that the tiny, worn book had helped fund and realizing this he cracked a smile. A nice stretch of the arms and a sip of his freshly brewed coffee commenced, Roland was now ready to use the next chapter of his beloved book for the basis of his new movie.

He opened the dusty tome and flipped the page to the final chapter in the book, shocked at what he set eyes upon. Where were the burning building? The tornado’s? The innocent children and puppy dogs being punished for their horrible sins?  Flipping through the next dozen pages it was all the same; gone were the destruction, fire and brimstone and in it’s place were smiling family’s and green meadows filled with carnivores interacting peacefully with their prey. “FUCK!” Roland screamed, throwing his once cherished book upon the ground. “Mich keinen meinen eemster noonen dracht! Das leiben streicht!” (Translated: What is this Disney bullshit?!)

Roland was a visionary, a man known for high concept films involving destruction and chaos. Had he taken it all for granted? Was this some sort of cruel joke, the book laughing in his face? He walked over to his once prized possession, picking it up and peering into it’s final pages once more before throwing it back down in disgust towards the ground again. He had a reputation, a legacy! How could he make a film with kitty cats and puppy dogs that didn’t end up with them dying cruel, unnecessary deaths?

The filmmaker searched for answers. Maybe he could steal Uwe Boll’s issue of Gamepro! No, no that wouldn’t work. Uwe was so fearful people would realize his works were all borrowed from video games that he kept it secured high up his anal cavity in order to keep it hidden. In fact, this was exactly how Roland had originally found out where the fellow German kept his secret when Emmerich kept bumping into it accidentally. He was out of options. What would he do now, what could he do?

Crying in his kitchen and stuffing his face with the strudel’s he had eaten as a child Roland suddenly heard a knock at the door. “Ich fukken habben” (I’m fucked.) Emmerich proclaimed, realizing it was most likely Will Smith interested in another Armageddon themed role he planned on starring in. Dragging his feet halfheartedly and holding his head down in shame Roland made his way to the front door, cringing at the thought of explaining his situation to the fresh prince of bell air.

Opening the door Emmerich was caught off guard, it was not the guest he assumed but rather someone much different.

“Hi, are you afraid of the impending doom awaiting us all? We as Jehovah’s Witnesses believe…” Glancing down Roland set eyes upon a book in the suited man’s hands. It was a book of close similarity to his prized possession yet much larger in size. His pulse raced. “Excuse me, not to be rude but I have a book like that only much smaller.” The well kept gentleman smiled “Oh, you must have an older edition of the same book. This new printing adds a dozen or so more chapters in…” Emmerich couldn’t contain his glee.  “In the destruction parts? Are there new pictures, new scenarios involving old ladies and men who do other men dying?” The suited man’s voice filled with sorrow. “Sadly, yes, in an act to show how this world will end we have added many new chapters with pictures involving the end of mankind. But only for the purpose of showing why you must…” The director reached for his wallet and grabbed a large wad of bills, shoving them into the man’s breast pocket and grabbing the book from his hands. “Here, here, take it! Take it all!” Roland, possessing the new instrument of script design in hands raced back to his front door. “Would you be interested in a return…” Slamming the door, Emmerich clutched the tome, face shimmering with glee.

He was overjoyed, not only did he have a fresh set of material to work into his next half dozen or so movies he hadn’t revealed the source of his inspiration to Will Smith or any others besides his closeted fellow German colleague Uwe Boll. His reputation as a respected filmmaker hadn’t been tarnished and he had a fresh new supply of material. Emmerich’s secret was safe.

Posted By:

The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: January 16th

THE YEAR?!:2010

The job climate has changed rapidly in the past few years and likewise, so has the means of finding such employment. Gone are the days of walking in, handing your resume and letting your future boss take a small glimpse at your personality as an aid in their search to find the perfect candidate for the position in question. Today, that method is an ancient memory. In this day and age of short attention spans, giant corporations and the incoming flux of recently unemployed who seek new means of income through different careers we have been reduced to the online job application in an effort to speed up the process. Gentlemen, let the bitching begin.

After Miles Dyson became a suicidal martyr which set back his breakthrough computer research by dozens of years in an effort to stop the impeding doomsday prophesied by a young waitress, technology continued at its normal, steady pace. ( Long exhale and a quick wipe of the brow. That was close! ) Not so fast. Unsatisfied and in an effort to bring Cyberdyne systems back to the forefront of applied science we as a society have done away with the traditional Gort’s, C3P0′s and Johnny 5′s of the job application processes to make way for a new, scarier model.  If the online job application were walking down the street naked in the middle of the night and you found yourself in the unfortunate role of Bill Paxton; promptly begin pissing your pants and revealing the tiny, pathetic size of your dick now. It wouldn’t be long until he was digging his meat club sized hands like a spoon into a juicy piece of cantaloupe in an effort to pull out your still beating heart. “Fuck you. Asshole. ”

At the core of the online job assessment are the hundreds of questions thrown your way in order to get a good idea of who you are to the company you look to for employment. They range from a wide variety of topics such as ‘Will you steal?’ to ‘Will you let other c0-workers steal?’ and so forth.

If anything they are a good glimpse into how modern American businesses view the bulk of their prospective company representatives. When beginning the test two polarizing figures begin to take shape rather quickly. The Model Employee and the sexually confused, goth-rock loving homicidal maniac with his cock n’ balls tucked between his legs. Sadly, and much to Buffalo Bills dismay, there is no question asking where the lotion goes in order to refrain from getting the hose again. To put it bluntly, if I had the choice of being locked in a room full of people answering the wrong end of these questioners or the cast of George Romero’s Dawn Of The Dead I would happily enter into the zombie’s blue toned undead arms after a long tanning bed session with apple in mouth and food stuffing in ass.

Wait, they can’t be that bad, can they? Let’s take small look at a few of the questions in…er, question, shall we?

• People cannot be trusted, because eventually they let you down. Ah yes, the Ed Gein defense. They may not be able to be trusted, but they make great lampshades and designer snuggies!
• Your moods shift dramatically from one direction to the next. This is actually true. I’m a happy, motivated individual when I begin and by the end due to the bizarre nature of the questions I wonder if I’m applying for a job or as a guest on the set of ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.’
• Sometimes I get really mad, and I don’t know why. They left out the part where it said ‘And then after blacking out I wake up naked covered in my fellow employees entrails with a prostate that feels like it got in a fistfight.
• You look back and feel bad about things you’ve done. And the people you’ve buried under the basement.
• You don’t believe a lot of what people say. Simple things, like ‘Don’t J-Walk, respect the elderly and refrain from pouring acid into the back of incapacitated peoples heads in order to try and start your army of zombie sex slaves.’
• You are a very private person. Yes, I love privates! In fact, I have a whole rotting refrigerator full of them.
  

So what conclusion have we come to thus far? Well, seeing as you’re taking the test in solitude with no supervision to determine even the slightest amount of truth it’s easy to say whether you’re Jeffrey Dahmer looking for his next meal or an honest job searching citizen you’re going to get the position. Unless of course you’re an honest job searching citizen. Did your modesty prevent you from answering ‘excellent’ on all questions regarding your mental, physical and communication attributes? Sorry, this job only recruits the best of the best, the most ‘excellent’ of all candidates. Welcome aboard, John Wayne Gacy.

So you’ve submitted your first application and have been passed over by a homicidal clown. You’re down but not out. ” I’ll show them dammit, even if I have to play by their rules. ” Bingo. Stage one is complete and soon you’ll be marching alongside Donald Sutherland; index finger pointed in air and mouth agape, signaling in a wretched scream the location of all who haven’t yet been body snatched.

So now they’ve begun to take hold, their cold wart ridden fingers gripping your soft, living flesh and stuffing you head first into their witches pot; melting down your body into goo and pouring it into their mold of mediocrity. It’s bad enough marching in single file towards the personality glue factory, a cruel fate comprised of taking any glimmer of individuality and stripping it down, humiliating it through spraying it with a hose and laughing at its cold, naked body. Are you ready for the next step? Wait, they’re not finished. As a final act of beating your fading attempt at uniqueness six feet under throw in pointing and smirking towards its shriveled, frightened member for good measure before finally tossing it into the Jack LaLanne industrial grade personality juicer. Moments later it will be drank up by an employer with the emotional range of Christopher Lambert and the same singular philosophy. In the age of mindless, soulless armies of prospective work force employee’s when it comes to charisma there can truly be “only one.”

So what is the one personality to rule them all? Let’s put this in perspective. If this graduate of the personality glue factory was given the task of directing 2008′s ‘The Day The Earth Stood Still’ he would’ve asked Keanu Reeve’s to tone down the emotions a notch. Can you hear that? It’s the sound of a heart rate monitor flat lining. Don’t fret, it happened twice on the set of The Matrix. In fact, he was declared legally dead for half of ‘Something’s Gotta Give’ and here he is, alive and well; an example all alumnus of the soul stripping machine aspire to one day emulate. When Don Johnson sang of looking for a heartbeat in his hit 1986 tune, unbeknown to most it was regarding a future GNC employee trained at the university of Johnny Utah. Sadly, he hasn’t stopped singing.

Surprisingly you’re not deterred. You did it once before and you’ll do it again. What’s a couple 150 question online psychological profiles, anyway? A great opportunity for your long dormant hemorrhoids to be re-introduced to Preparation-H, that’s what. On average most job sites let you know that the ‘profile evaluation’ segment will take between 60-90 minutes, depending on the user. Six job applications later and even with half a bucket of lube shoved up your ass those fuckers are exploding like face huggers from their hatching pods. Somewhere in the depths of syndication hell Paul Reiser is smiling.

A series of long, harrowing journeys through multiple application processes which bring to mind an online Lament Configuration cube and you’re finally finished. You have experienced the pain and now, after Pinhead and his band of Cenobite minions have finished ripping out the frayed ends of your sanity using fish-hooks disguised as a half dozen endless personalty questioners which, in an act of self sacrifice that would make Jim Caviezel envious, you’ve accomplished the impossible. You’re done. You’ve gone through the telepod and made it out to the other side; experiencing only mild Brundlefly side effects.

Now it’s time to put on the Ray Bans, lean back in your pleather executive chair with your feet stretched out and crossed onto the desk all the while blaring Timbuk 3 through your tinny, bass-phobic computer speakers. The sweet smell of success is so strong it cuts through your vapid anal cream odor. The space between both ears may have been reduced to a pink and grey paste, you may on rare occasions answer to the name Theodore Logan and your ass probably looks like the aftermath of Colonel Kurtz’s destroyed compound but these are just small casualties in an otherwise bigger war. Not much longer now and you’ll be rising up the ranks, all the way to the top. All you gotta do now is wait. And wait. And wait. The legs are off the desk, the shades are now gone. Timbuk 3 has long since been replaced by Eric Carmen’s trademark tune of self pity and the putrid stench of anal cream once again fills the air. You’ve waited days, checking the e-mail at least three dozen times every instance you sat down to the computer. You’ve even e-mailed yourself just to make sure your inbox is receiving incoming mail correctly. Nothing. All the while you grind your bitter teeth knowing somewhere out there Ted Bundy just received the keys to the employee van you were hoping to get and is heading out for the beach, arm in cast.

All that long, tiring work and no reward. It’s the real life equivalent to the early MAC game ‘The Oregon Trail.’ Your six kids are dead from cholera, the wive who you’ve aptly named after one of many Victoria’s Secret models drowned while crossing a four foot river and in the final stretch of 16 color landscape your final Oxen smashes into the ground dead with victory in site. “Thought you could take ‘The Trail’ on hard, didn’t you? Fuck you and your foolhardy, childish ambitions. ”

You may have been down, but not out. There was always the next day, during library break, to jump back on the wagon, create six new kids and rename your hot pixelated wive one of the multiple lingerie models who hadn’t yet drowned while crossing the Columbia river. My kids could starve, my 8-bit trophy wife could succumb to cholera and my supplies could be ravaged by Indians but god dammit, I’ll finish that game. Twenty seven tries later and fresh out of Victoria’s Secret models to kill the ancient Apple Mac II had destroyed my will to continue through brute force. Maybe like playing the game, it was time to lower my expectations regarding my work possibilities. If the online job search hadn’t worked, maybe donating my organs to the black market would.