"...and four days later employees showed up outside the Carnivalue in the morning and found Ethan James crucified on a light pole in the parking lot, near the front doors. Stenciled on the pavement in what was probably red paint were the words "complaint addressed by corporate."
It's always nice to hear about companies going the extra mile to deal with customer complaints. Miss Kajara may be a newcomer to our community, but it's good to see that she's hopping right into the good ol' Wyrdtown way of doing things.
A note has just materialized here on my desk, and judging from the smell of brimstone and the scratching of ancient glyphs it's fresh from the talons of the Grand Brilliance of the Illuminated Brotherhood stating that though there is a rogue presence of light currently hovering slowly down Grand Avenue, it is in no way, shape, or form affiliated with our favorite band of wacky, menacing, hooded figures who have invited fallen angels to dwell within their hearts.
Citizens are advised to not look into the light, as looking into the light may cause symptoms just as temporary loss of vision, spotted vision, nausea as if by flashing lights, dizziness, permanent loss of vision, the immediate liquefaction of the eyeballs, spontaneous involuntary eye-gouging, and blindness followed by a complete and utter disassociation with the visual sense.
Several tourists were taken to Plagius Memorial after not only being blinded, but having forgotten that they had eyes in the first place, as well as the entire concept of vision. So please, dear listeners. Do not look at the light. Do not go into the light. Do not approach the light. The light burns. The light hates. The light consumes. The light devours. The light. The light. The light. The light. The light.
And now a word from our sponsor…" -WYRD Radio
Uh, so Kal, this is kind of weird for me. I can't actually find you. Attempting to do my usual discorporate into energy and hop right to you thing is not working. Every time I try it, I end up with your minion.
I know you're still there, I can feel you. But for the first time since you fell out of that speckled blue egg of yours, I don't actually hear you. And what's worse is that I'm pretty sure you can't hear me.
For the first time in thirty years I don't have an audience for my stream of consciousness snark, humor, and commentary on life. I don't have your life to commentate on and it's driving me nuts!
It's just not right with Claudia. I'm not sure what went wrong with the whole ritual thing, but she got blasted with enough of my personality to the point where she's making my jokes and quoting my memes before I do half the time!
I'm not sure where you are, what you're doing, and when you're coming back. But you're coming back, so I'm going to be taking notes about stuff that happened while you were gone, so you can get fully caught up when you come back, okay?
So let's start with the minion. You've had me watching Claudia for the past few months just to make sure that she doesn't get into trouble. Well, TECHNICALLY you asked me to make sure she didn't gruesomely devour anyone important. Same thing, really.
I thought my opinion of my co-workers couldn't sink any lower. That I had finally managed to delve to the deepest, darkest depths of disregard for the rest of ULW. But no, around here when you hit rock bottom on the chart of human stupidity folks don't stop. Folks break out the pick axe and keep fucking digging.
Because it can't be laziness, oh no. You'd think that people would realize by now just how fucking indestructible I am. I've been shot in the face, I've taken shots that would end careers and gotten up minutes later, and just this week I was the victim of an attempted motor vehicular homicide. Well, it would've been one had I been just about anyone else on this silly blue ball of a world.
I shouldn't have to do this. I shouldn't have to come out and remind everybody day in, day out, week after week, month after month that I am a giant magical dragoness from another world. I shouldn't have to smack people about the face and scream in their ears about the fact that I'm different than all the other wrestlers they've ever faced.
I have done everything but stand in the arena with a megaphone, shouting facts about myself into the ears of my would be opponents. But no, despite everything I have ever done no one seems to believe me. They don't believe their eyes when they see a seven foot tall, bright blue, honest-to-goodness fire breathing woman with a tail.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boils and ghouls, inbreds of all stages! Feast your eyes upon the prize; upon a grand and glorious, miraculous marvel to tantalize and titillate even the most snobbish of sourpuss smarks!"
"I bring to you… me! Clauda the Clown, ULW's newest novelty, it's most cutting-edge combatant, it's recentest wrestler! That's totally a word and you will never ever be able to convince me otherwise, ha ha!"
"Yes siree! You all are in for a treat like no other, because I'm nothing like the rest of the roster, oh golly gosh no! See, somebody put out the call umpteen weeks ago looking for interesting peoples! Folks who don't just wander in off the street with a banana hammock, a goofy-ass haircut, a pair of boots, a chip on their shoulder, a tragic backstory, and some serious mental defects."
"Like seriously, y'all motherfuckers need therapy. C-R-A-Z-Y you don't need an alibi, you crazy, ya ya you crazy! And I don't mean crazy like me, which is crazy in an amusing, zany, happy, pleasant, positive way. I mean like sad sacks whose refusal to get treatment makes each and every one of you a total downer to be around. A complete and utter bummer to all the butts in the seats. A party pooper who poops parties presenting proper poop."
-Promo-
Stop it.
I see you. I can see what you're doing clear as day. And even if I didn't ULW's legion of diehard fans will be sitting there all night refreshing the webpages wanting to be the very first to scoop up a little tidbit of news to twist and warp into a clickbait type headline and be the first to toss it up on one of a thousand wrestling news sites.
I get posted with one match up, and by the time the sun rises over the United States of America in a glorious explosion of guns, baseballs, eagles, apple pie, and 72 ounce gas station soda cups that match has somehow mutated into something else entirely.
See in the dark, wee hours of the morning once again I was put in the main event of FUF. And once again not only would I be facing ULW's champion Willow Wilkes, but I would also have the opportunity to get my hands on that little shit Eli Legacy. Eli and I were originally making the tag team main event a trios event.
But once again I get jerked around and tossed into a random three way match constructed without any regard for rhyme, reason, common sense, a decent build, or any sort of motivation for having it.
I mean last time at least there was the minor footnote of League of Superstars points between me and Colton, and also featuring Cameron "The Dick Pickle" MacNichol. This time we don't even have that.
-Promo-
No one wants to do their fucking job around here. The referees that cannot see, the management won't do anything remotely resembling good business, the booking committee cannot stop changing its fucking mind after the preliminary card already goes out, and the other wrestlers refuse to fucking wrestle real fucking wrestling matches.
I've tried. Goddess knows I've tried so hard to actually go out there and perform the functions of the task for which I am under contract to provide. I was under the impression that professional wrestlers were supposed to be gladiators for a new day and a new age. That they would take part in grand, glorious displays of one on one combat with the purpose of providing bloodsport for the entertainment of the masses.
But it's so difficult to do that when a select minority of one's co-workers holds to the same ideals. They do not want to have fights, they do not want to have battle, they do not want to partake in grand, glorious struggles filled with honor and drama, with both parties through mind, body, and soul into the flames of combat to obtain victory.
No, they simply wish to bypass the whole struggle part and simply be handed glory and victory on a silver fucking platter. I gave Brandon Vow a chance. I gave him an opportunity. I let him have everything he'd need to show the world the truth of his words.
I gave him every chance to claim the title of Dragonslayer. I held back all night. I let him pour everything he had into me and in the end he could not get the job done. When the bell rang, I was not slain. I was standing tall with the object that he had chosen in his feeble attempt to slay me, the object that he had swung with all his strength. The object that failed completely and utterly to do anything more than fuel my rage.
Doom and gloom. A spiral of inevitable decay. A fall from grace. A degradation of humanity from one generation to the next, that sons and daughters will inevitably be lesser than their fathers and mothers. The end times are a comin', the apocalypse draws near! The end is nigh! Repent of your sins, o wayward sheep, and follow me, your shepherd to salvation and enlightenment! Look upon me as I spread my arms wide, simultaneously inviting embrace and deifying myself by taking a pose associated with a god made flesh.
Fill my pockets, ye lost lambs, for in these darkest of days, in these end times there shall soon be no need for worldly goods of the coarsest nature. Armageddon draws near, and as the human race begins its inevitable circling of the drain, money, gold, silver, and jewels will serve you no good.
Coins will not fill your bellies with sustenance and you will be hard pressed to drink dollar bills and stock certificates. I am the way, the truth, and the light. Surrender your worldly goods to a greater good, ascend to a grander glory, and embrace your drawing demise. The darkest days of the world are ahead, days wherein the survivors will be the unfortunate souls and the dead will be envied for their places of rest. Free of pain, free of strife, free of sickness, and free of disease.
Believe in me, follow me, heed my words and I will lead you to salvation. I will lead you to a bigger, better tomorrow. A tomorrow that looks suspiciously like yesterday. A world of wonder and grace that our forefathers had created and that their children and children's children ruined with their wickedness.
Turn away from the present and embrace the past. Reject the false god of change and adaptation. Salvation lies not in turning the eye towards the light of a hopeful future, but instead looking over the shoulder towards the past looked upon through rose colored glasses.
Today is not going to be a happy day. There isn't going to be very much in the way of happy, playful insults. There will be no making up ridiculous stories regarding my opponent this week and his associates. There won't even be any of the usual lunacy where I pretend he's something that is obviously not real, like an Angel Kash robot, a plant alien with his brains in his armpits, or a mush-mouthed southerner who can't pronounce my name correctly because of the parasitic beard that's latched onto his face and is manipulating his brain via vile tendrils.
Brandon Vow, whose name I will pronounce correctly when he sees fit to get his tongue under control and be able to properly enunciate mine, is someone who needs to be dealt with the utmost seriousness.
Because the potential he has to cause mayhem and pain in ULW is unprecedented. He has the advantage of being in a position where he and his crows are seen as a lesser evil, as a threat that is not quite so dire as New Eden.
And because he hasn't dived into the deep end of wickedness, of supervillain cackling, whip wielding, summoning a gimp masked asshole when the lights are out to interfere in main events, meat curtain flapping, barbed wire noose lynching, Nazis-with-skulls-on-their-uniforms-are-we-the-baddies outright EVIL he comes off as comparatively harmless.
Hell, we agree on a whole lot of things. We both want to shake things up, to rip the corruption out of ULW in the head office and in the locker room. We think that New Eden is a cancer, that der Vaart is an inept, racist, dutch gorilla doing the arm pit fart when he ought to be booking shows and stringing together advertising to promote his company.
You don't have to go very far to see how badly this company is being mismanaged. Of how ULW's nose is being cut off to spite its face. You only need look at how I'm being excluded, isolated, ignored by ULW's media machine.
So it looks like Operation: Hungry Hungry Hippos is not going to be a thing. Despite it being one of those most out there and interesting ideas in the history of professional wrestling
My guess is that Clay Colton isn't feeling up to snuff with his pachyderm gobbling skills and that after spending two weeks not bathing and apparently squatting in some shit-filled warren in the greater New Jersey area, Cameron MacNichol is liable to confuse the marbles for candy and stuff them into his mouth, choking and turning almost as blue as I am in the middle of the ring.
And y'all have to admit it's a good idea. Because I'm not stupid. He who forgets the past is doomed to repeat it and all that. I've seen enough pro wrestling to read between the lines and see where this is going to end up.
Willow Wilkes isn't wrestling. Cindy Todd isn't wrestling. Mogui never fucking wrestles in the first place. New Eden's got the World Title back in their possession but they were made to look like fools after they got run off from Paranoia.
So the image the folks at home got to wrap up the show, the freshest thing in their minds coming out of Paranoia, was New Eden running like a bunch of scalded doges. So fear. Such terrify. Very frighten. Much coward. Wow.
Wow, amazing, isn't it? Once again I've defeated the goober the Shadow Cartel has sent to put an end to me, I've shrugged off damage that would put a normal person in the hospital, and yet again Jason King and Willow Wilkes have a title match and have to be wrapped in bubble wrap and put up on a high shelf for a month so they don't shatter and explode into a million bajillion pieces.
What the fuck.
Seriously.
Once again we've got the champ and the ex-champ doing fuck all in the ring after a big show, and not merely a big show! This is, supposedly, the biggest show of the year! I would think that it would be Booking for Babby 101 level shit here to have the people involved at your PPV main event actually wrestling on the very next show, to capitalize on that hotness.
But no, this is Raymond the Fart we're talking about here. Ray Ray the Methane Powered Jet Plane who decided to stack Paranoia from top to bottom with part timers. I don't see Dante around here wrestling matches after his fucking with every main event match for the span of months. I don't see Cindy Todd skipping around a ring. I don't see the pasty face of Silencer the Evil Mime looming over the children in the crowd, taking their candy, and terrifying them. Hell, Lethal Weapon shot me in the motherfucking face and not only did I win my match, but I'm here to take ass and kick names, while he's fucked off back to the Weapon Cave to plot his next assassination attempt from a client in Gotham City.
Hell, of all the champions ULW has, we've got all of one of them wrestling on this show! Clay fucking Colton is the only champ not made of ceramic bits held together by Elmer's glue. Willow isn't wrestling, Gracie isn't wrestling, Mason isn't wrestling.
Isn't it strange that one show after Paranoia there are exactly three people who have been with this company for more than two months actually wrestling on it? Doesn't it seem a touch odd that we've all been crammed into the same match?
Gee, it's almost like when you try and cram in as many wrestling old timers to try and artificially inflate your ratings and buyrates for one night of the year, everything else suffers. Amazing how that works, that when you spent your time focusing on part time wrestlers and coddling your own little pet projects the show suffers.
I sit in the darkness, illuminated by the cone of light provided by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The scarred and tattered table before me has born witness to creation and destruction both. The creation of wondrous devices, prosthetics, and effects for use in film and television, as well as the destruction of dozens, perhaps even hundreds of individuals.
This is where the magic happens. This is where the Dark Man himself, Desolation, verbally devastated a stunning amount of people during his career. Today it's not covered with special effects debris, photographs of foes, or piles of title belts. It is not a place for the trophies of my mentor, but rather my own.
Spread out before me are the remnants of those who have fallen before me. Swords, knives, maces, staves, spears; the enchanted arms and armor of dozens of men and woman. I give the bulb a tap with my fingers setting it swaying from side to side as the camera zooms out.
There isn't just one table. There are several. And they are not alone in their contents. The floor holds a vast array of treasure and trophies alike. Precious metals in the form of coins, of bars, of crafted works like cups, statues, ceremonial attire and weapons, and other decorative objects.
Tradition is what Lethal Weapon drives him, motivates him, what has set him on a path against me.
Not the tradition of professional wrestling, but rather the tradition of everyone that seems to oppose me having their head crammed way up their own ass.
Because if you want a traditional professional wrestler you don't have to look much further than me.
This sport has always been about size and spectacle. About larger than life physical specimens with equally large and vibrant personalities. People come to wrestling shows to be awed, to be entertained, to stare in wonder at feats of athleticism that the average man on the street is utterly incapable of performing.
They come to watch other human beings doing flips, twists, and rotations as they soar through the air. They come to watch masterminds sizing up their foes and picking them apart, reducing them to a physical wreck as they destroy a single body part. They come to watch behemoths trade blows that would fell a normal human being.
I am a sight to behold, a wondrous creature from another realm of existence. I am a powerful, agile, beautiful titan. I tower over the vast majority of humanity. There are less than a hundred men in the US that are taller than I am. The tallest living woman in the world has a scant four inches of height on me.
-CD-
You never realize how much you miss something until it's gone, until a thing that has been a part of your life for as long as you can remember vanishes into thin air. Gone in an instant. Sometimes it's a relief, sometimes it's a pain, and sometimes it's something so dire you wonder how you're ever going to get along without it.
So when a constant companion unexpectedly slipped back into my life I was overwhelmed with emotion, relief, joy. I'd lost something that had been alongside me every step of the way since having fled a dark elf insurrection years upon years ago up until I found myself stolen away from my home and dropped into an unfamiliar world.
I could ruminate on my feelings and plumb the depths of emotion (and no doubt my incestuous fascination with an absent mother figure according to Freud) later. For the moment I had business to attend to.
You hear various figures about exactly how much of the human body is made of water, sixty, seventy, eighty, some batshit insane google results somewhere up in the 90's and probably some Steiner match clocking it in at 141 ⅔ percent water. Whatever the truth is, there's enough water there for my innate ties to the element of water to get a pretty good fix on people.
Take in a deep breath with me. Draw in a big whiff of the world through your nose, and then let it out slow.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
What do you smell?
Air, right? Just plain ol normal air.
But that's not normal air, that's not healthy air, that's just what you're used to. It's filled with filth, filled with pollution, filled with extraneous CO2 that really shouldn't be there. Maybe you can smell the mold and mildew from cheap drywall. Maybe there's that faint burnt plastic stench that you can never quite clear out of your household appliances. Maybe there's that 10 percent floral, 90 percent nose-rape scent of an air freshener that's twice as strong as it needs to be.
Take a deep breath and you'll smell all the ways that corporations are fucking you. Fucking you right in the nasal passages. That mold and mildew? That wouldn't be there if your house wasn't built by the lowest bidder, using the cheapest materials, with the minimally skilled labor possible, all assembled to the barest of standards and codes.
They didn't pour the concrete right, letting the water seep in through your basement. They didn't put the vapor barrier in the right place, and now the insides of your walls are a greenhouse. They used the wrong kind of insulation, and now the walls of your home are a breeding ground for pestilence.
That plastic stench? That's the scent of the best labor twenty cents a day can buy in some overseas slum, pieced together with parts put together in some third world country. But it's made in the USA, because somebody spends five minutes screwing in the pieces that make up your toaster oven.
And that's all you can afford, the cheapest of electronics in the cheapest of houses. Why? Because corporations want to be free. Free of restrictions. Free of limitations. Free of pesky little things like human rights, of outside oversight, and of government regulation.
ULW runs sick with corruption, its halls filled with the toxic reek of destructive forces, injecting poisonous personalities into the arena week after week after week. To what end? What purpose can all of this possibly serve? Why is our general manager, overseer, and Windex spokesmodel Raymond der Vaart so keen on courting elements that are bad for business?
I've worked my ass off for this company. As stands I am the only individual on the ULW roster who has competed to their fullest extent on every single show that has made it to the air. Across eight Fuck'd Up Fridays and two Pay Per Views I've wrestled a record 12 matches, more than anybody.
I've never taken a show off.
I've never shown up to the arena in a state so poor that I am not fit to perform, and had my performance suffer as a result.
Not only do I not indulge in the vices of drugs and drink, but my body works so very differently from your typical human being that even if I were given these substances, that they would simply be broken down into harmless components by my metabolism and elemental digestive system.
Members of New Eden have come to the arena physically and mentally devastated, unable to perform their jobs to the fullest extent. They've blown off their duties to the company to help build and promote our shows, and to deliver the best product possibly on TV.
Willow Wilkes, Cassidy Haze, Adam, Serenity. Each and every one of them has failed this company on one occasion or another simply through their arrogance and callous disregard for standards.
I hate demons, they're just about the worst thing you can face as an adventurer. Other than the fucking Kender, kleptomaniacal little shits from another dimension, blending in with the native Gnomish population and making off with your shit while being all cutesy and naive and innocent about it.
But seriously, fuck demons. Demons are what you get when you take mortal souls, give 'em on a silver platter to a bunch of pissed off fallen angels, and when said souls develop Stockholm Syndrome. Well, that's how the first demons came about.
These days you're more likely to keel over dead and have your immortal soul snatched up by someone that was in your exact position a few hundred years ago. A vicious cycle of pure and utter evil.
Devils are predictable, devils adhere to rules and regulations, devils will stick to the letter of the law, they weren't made to be free thinkers, they're not creative.
For once I'm rather pleased with the way things have gone on a ULW show. My opponent bludgeoned into submission, a member of her entourage badly mauled once again, and justice served in the main event where Jason King triumphed once the odds were evened.
Funny how that works.
From top to bottom the whole show was a catharsis for me. I got to beat the peas out of that obnoxious little thorn in my side, Lenore Price-Mason. I got to suplex her brother-cousin-husband Silas, and I got to absolutely maim a member of her overpopulated entourage.
My one regret is that I didn't get that chance to punt that little kid into the gods damned Jumbotron. that would've made my year.
But no, I'll settle for literally giving Mr. Joshua the spear. On the bright side that guy is going to have an absolute amazing Jesus halloween costume for decades to come. And while he may not be able to have a wank now, and will have to hope for Silas to splurge of some of New Eden's demonic frankenhookers, Ol' Josh'll have a pair of Fleshlights wherever he goes from now on! He can even use his hands as a whistle!
*Twee!*
*Twee!*
Just like that!
What's wrong, Lenore? Why are you so quiet all of a sudden? Why aren't you frothing at the mouth and chomping at the bit to get at me, hmm? Why aren't you just bursting at the seams with the desire to verbally butt in to my life, eh?
Because you seem oh so eager to throw yourself at me when my back is turned. That you just adore coming at me when I'm not looking and trying to blindside me.
You're all ready and raring to go, as your mush-mouthed manager would say, a mare all a-lather, and yet here you are. It's been three weeks since FUF VII, where you stuck your nose all up in my business once again.
But you haven't said a word. Not one peep.
I've been nice. I've been polite. I've been downright pleasant.
For the last few weeks I figured I'd try to play along with ULW management and behave in the way that they reward. The whole Certified Baddie thing was me taking the complete and utter piss out of the whole thing. I didn't think I'd get anything out of it, it was to serve merely as a vessel to bring out the hypocrisy of one Raymond der Vaart.
If it actually worked and I was showered with rewards and praise and offers for brightly colored merchandise, I think that might actually managed to make me think even less of The Fart than I do now.
But I wasn't expecting what happened the moment he walked out to the ring on FUF 7. He came down, opened his mouth, and once he started speaking I felt something within my soul that I didn't think I would ever feel for such a simple, fragile, mortal man.
Hatred.
Picture, if you will, the concessions deck of a goodly sized arena. Maybe a bit more specific, let's make it Albany, New York's Times Union Center, the soon to be scene of ULW's seventh outing of Fuck'd Up Friday. If you're having trouble visualizing, they've got a virtual tour thingamabob on their website that can help you with your lacking imagination. If your brain is broke, go give it a whirl.
Go ahead.
I'll pause the narrative, it's not like you're holding up big, important things by having a brain made of discarded anuses. The whole world sits, waiting for you to visualize this scene in perfect detail. Yeah, 7 billion people are waiting on you to get the job done and you're failing them all, you fucker.
Got that image now? Good. Took you long enough.
Now take that long, curving concessions concourse area and pack it wall to wall with Bobs. You know Bobs. Portly fellows with strange dress sense and an odd way of speaking. So you're going to hear the occasional outburst of "Mnoose!" or a sweeping wall to wall utterance of "Mmm, ham!"
This is difficult, I know. Maybe get some ice for the overheated noggin of yours, but you're going to have to imagine that someone, namely me, has awarded a goodly portion of the gathered Bobs official-looking police caps of various sorts and some gold colored plastic badges that are probably going to go brittle and frail and shatter on your like your favorite old Transformers from when you were a kid eventually.
And in the middle of all this flabby carnage is none other than myself, Kalinda Kriegsdottir, set up at a table that I pilfered from somewhere else in the arena. On one side of me my muse, Spark, is set up with a tiny computer that would probably qualify as a rather large phone to someone not the size of a small cat.
Spark is in charge of the list of interviewees past and present. For the most part we've been winnowing down the herd of Bobs down to those who will be effective for general employment, with a handful for specific key positions within our newly created organization.
What organization? I'll get to that in a minute. Hold your horses, you're having enough trouble visualizing the Bob swarm for pity's sake. I don't want your head to explode. Well, maybe I do if you're some kind of stupendously cavernous asshole. Like a Tea Party senator, or one of those doxxing, rape threat sending Men's Rights cock-knockers. Or if you've ever unironically worn a piece of Alexander Fayt merchandise. Because fuck you, you don't need to be in the gene pool any longer.
In order to most efficiently beat the absolute FUCK out of somebody you have to know three things. You have to know yourself, you have to know your enemy, and you have to know the world you two are living in.
Now for most people that first one is easy, 'cause there really has to be something wrong with you in order for you to be lying to yourself so damned bad that you're a goddamn stranger to your own sorry ass self. And I don't me lying on your left arm til it goes numb and using it to jerk off.
Knowing your enemy? That can be easy or it can be hard. But with video tape… well motherfucking DVD's and the interbutts these days, it's pretty easy to get to know the person you're aiming to skullfuck into sausage meat if they're a pro wrestler. They invite you into a jam session in their skulls twice a week and then you get to see 'em fight.
Now knowing the world? That's the motherfucking kicker. There's a bunch of shit that goes down that most people don't know about, 'cause they can't fucking see it. I'm not just talking about angels and demons and ghosts and devils and shit (well, maybe not shit. You can see shit. Though sometimes you don't, you step in it, and you track filth all over the fucking place.)
That's simple stuff, that's shit you can see by turning the dial every so slightly so that you get a bid of a bleedover between channels. Spooky shit you can understand, because it does stuff. It wants stuff. The creeps fucking do things, ya know?
Not the Eyes, man. Not the motherfucking Eyes. They might not be there all the time, but they're there for import things, and they're watching, man. They're fuckin' watching."
-SPIDER
There are times when you just want to be alone, to just sit by yourself along with your own thoughts and hash them out. Or in my case get them all in order so you can sit down and write an article about how exactly you managed to go from your native high-magic, rather interesting world with a plethora of sentient species to a magically barren crudball of a world with only one species of person that can carry a conversation.
The universe hates those times and will move heaven and earth to do whatever it can to fuck with them. Case in point, I'd plopped myself down with my laptop and a big orange mug of hot chocolate that was approximately one third marshmallow by volume when somebody started pounding on my door like it owed them money.
