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The thick psychoactive liquor coursed down his throat. Within seconds the harsh alcohol had burned through his body bringing a warming glow in its wake, while the first hallucinogenic traces were absorbed through his mucous membranes. Leaning back against the doorway he stared at the wall. For a brief, wonderful second it seemed that he could see straight through it and into wonders beyond.
He saw a website with over 100,000 active members, aglow with activity. Everyone of those members happily viewing a succession of pop-up adverts and not belly-aching about crashes or Gator. All the on-topic forums throbbing with activity in the thousands of active threads dedicated to the minutiae of gaming. The Off-Topic was almost deserted because everyone was having so much fun speculating over whether the latest MOO3 patch would improve the product so greatly that it could actually start to be considered a computer game. Only his loyal moderators- Ming, Rah and MtG still frequented the OT so they could happily ban and unban each other before tottering off for another sherry.
The vision faded, and once again little Markos was just a poor little stein-seller who was sat in snow so cold that his testicles had frozen to his breeches. He stared mournfully into his stein, and gasped in horror! The absinthe was a particularly toxic Finnish blend (due to their new national policy of disposing of chemical and low-level nuclear waste in beverages designed for export, the swine) and it had eaten through the glazing, leaving the inside of the stein permanently stained green.
He stared the shiver in terror. He could never sell it now, which meant that Master Quick would be angry and would beat him. Stifling a sob, he raised the bottle again and looked at the stars. As he watched, a star fell from the skies. He remembered what his kindly old Grandfather used to say- "Every time a star falls, a new and rather disappointing strategy game is released". Raising the bottle in a toast to his ancestors, he downed the lot.
And he was warm again! And every day was the day a new expansion pack would be released! And Civ 4 would be released in a few days, would work perfectly without a single patch, would have graphics that would leave Cecil B DeMille and George Lucas realising that they were just rank amateurs all along, and wouldn't have the multiplayer function released as a ****ing expansion pack! Best of all, the heavens parted as a choir of programmers sang and a kindly, cherubic old slap-head descended from above! It was Sid! He was being taken up to Sid!
**************************************************
Dawn broke. A small crowd was gathering around a little body at the foot of some steps, half-covered in the snow. "Ah! He froze, poor thing!" they cried. "Look! He tried to stay warm by drinking absinthe".
They all agreed it was very sad. However they could never have known the wonders and beauty he saw, and he could not tell them. So the Christmas bells chimed, and the soft snow fell on the rosy-cheeked townsfolk as they wept over the body of the little stein-seller.
(This melodramatic frestive tableau was later shattered when the little stein-seller unexpectedly regained consciousness, put they mayor in a headlock and said he loved him, them vomited down the Parson's neck.)
THE END
Merry Christmas.
He saw a website with over 100,000 active members, aglow with activity. Everyone of those members happily viewing a succession of pop-up adverts and not belly-aching about crashes or Gator. All the on-topic forums throbbing with activity in the thousands of active threads dedicated to the minutiae of gaming. The Off-Topic was almost deserted because everyone was having so much fun speculating over whether the latest MOO3 patch would improve the product so greatly that it could actually start to be considered a computer game. Only his loyal moderators- Ming, Rah and MtG still frequented the OT so they could happily ban and unban each other before tottering off for another sherry.
The vision faded, and once again little Markos was just a poor little stein-seller who was sat in snow so cold that his testicles had frozen to his breeches. He stared mournfully into his stein, and gasped in horror! The absinthe was a particularly toxic Finnish blend (due to their new national policy of disposing of chemical and low-level nuclear waste in beverages designed for export, the swine) and it had eaten through the glazing, leaving the inside of the stein permanently stained green.
He stared the shiver in terror. He could never sell it now, which meant that Master Quick would be angry and would beat him. Stifling a sob, he raised the bottle again and looked at the stars. As he watched, a star fell from the skies. He remembered what his kindly old Grandfather used to say- "Every time a star falls, a new and rather disappointing strategy game is released". Raising the bottle in a toast to his ancestors, he downed the lot.
And he was warm again! And every day was the day a new expansion pack would be released! And Civ 4 would be released in a few days, would work perfectly without a single patch, would have graphics that would leave Cecil B DeMille and George Lucas realising that they were just rank amateurs all along, and wouldn't have the multiplayer function released as a ****ing expansion pack! Best of all, the heavens parted as a choir of programmers sang and a kindly, cherubic old slap-head descended from above! It was Sid! He was being taken up to Sid!
**************************************************
Dawn broke. A small crowd was gathering around a little body at the foot of some steps, half-covered in the snow. "Ah! He froze, poor thing!" they cried. "Look! He tried to stay warm by drinking absinthe".
They all agreed it was very sad. However they could never have known the wonders and beauty he saw, and he could not tell them. So the Christmas bells chimed, and the soft snow fell on the rosy-cheeked townsfolk as they wept over the body of the little stein-seller.
(This melodramatic frestive tableau was later shattered when the little stein-seller unexpectedly regained consciousness, put they mayor in a headlock and said he loved him, them vomited down the Parson's neck.)
THE END
Merry Christmas.
so it's nice 
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