North Texas Confidential, Judgment Day

Sunday 9:30

I wake up feeling like a human being again. Hail Mary full of grace. But I have managed to oversleep the Empire of the Petal Throne game being run by Steve Coldseason no less.

Arrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhhhh. I am making that noise as I type.

Never, never mix these two things.

Slapping on some pants, I go down to eat more bacon (which literally slides off my plate onto the floor due to my transgression). Wandering around the tables I hear the sound of sobbing. I find that Cyclopean fellar from SoCal moaning forlornly over the no-show hungover players in his own game. Fortunately The Boy and Gamey Dad show up and I slip out without having to fake anymore empathy.

(I am actually sad not to have played in his OD&D, Planetscape, World of Synnibar mash-up game in retrospect).

Sunday 10:00

The rest of Sunday was taken up with serious business--mostly trying to belatedly get in my Tekumel fix with a short, yet intense round of jibber jabber with Victor Rayray, Jeff D and Manda. I thus have nothing more to amusing to say about the rest of that fateful day at the Con. Look forward to some smashing interviews though.

Someone decapitated my Con mini in retaliation.

Sunday 13:10

God tries to kill us for the bacon thing by having an elderly gentleman ram our little Focus off the highway. For good karma, we stop at the Asperger Syndrome Foundation headquarters and make a donation in the name of a gentleman we know from Dragonsfoot.

One hour later I am put in a good mood by my people's comfort food, kolaches, at the famed Czech Stop in West.

One box of Czech Soul Food coming up.

And that, my friends, was the way is was. 

North Texas Confidential, Day Two

Saturday 6:55

The Day of People Who Talk Too Loud begins with the painful screeching of the alarm clock—and the vociferous cursing of me and Skullcrusher. Apparently even in the depths of Bacchic excess my Czech obsession with being punctual can still function on a subconscious level (the depth of my crudo will eventually drown this out later in the day).

Despite feeling like ass and a quick worship session with the Porcelain God, I splash water on my face, throw on some clothes and we are off again.

Saturday 7:30

Breakfast buffet. I eat a massive amount of bacon. Breaking the kosher laws will lead later to Yahweh trying to kill us on the drive home, despite my Reform Judaism rationalizations. Our God is an angry God.

Not Erol Otus

Feeling like ass continues, but I enjoy the people watching. I am shocked, shocked to learn that Erol Otus has a flat-top and a somewhat conventional appearance. Don't judge a book by it's cover and all that. (In fact, no less than three others, including Malicious Mike, tell me in the course of the weekend that they thought I would be taller.)

We ask the Flaming Troll from Austin to join us and apologize profusely for drunkenly ruining his Caves of Chaos game last year at the Austin Mini-Con. He enthusiastically recounts his experiences with the Myth of Sisyphus game, I am so dense that I am I only realize later in the afternoon that this was the game we played last night.

Fortunately for the Dear Reader, Skullcrusher has chronicled our first encounter with Jeff D here , thus sparing me the verbiage.

Saturday 9:45

I manage to miss yet another game as I jibber jabber post-breakfast. Now note here that at a Con which is famed for having incredible sessions with multiple hard decisions to make at each and every one that I only actually make it to one of the six sessions I have signed up for—and that one 40 minutes late. Holding it up for the flake team.

The conversation with the Green Dragon Lord, Urutusk Gal, and Mr. Brown, is at least worth the damage to my already shaky reputation (and my even shakier head at this point in my hangover).

Urutusk minis painted by Jeff Berry. The two missing are in my pocket. 

Urutusk Gal has the working prototype of the boxed set iteration of her game. It makes me cry with the beauty—and not just because she manages to actually make good on many of the things I am stuck in the blah, blah, blah phases with the Domain Game—the components are indescribably good with all the gleaming platinum dice, intricately carved jade screens, small crystal vials of mutant blood and the like. (I leave the details to the interview I am conducting with her.)

After making soft whining, placating sounds for missing her Thursday game, I prostate myself on the floor and beg for her to run a pick-up session. Graciously she agrees and she begins to set up the game.

Near our table I notice a woman sorting through stacks of paper miniatures with a sign inviting people to join her Tekumel game Sunday at noon. Hardcore Tekumel lunatic fanboy that I am (is there any other kind for Barker's setting?) I am instantly drawn to walk over there like the proverbial moth to flame.

I notice that the paper miniatures are the same well-drawn, FREE ones that I was pumping up here on the blog last year and I wax enthusiastic about them. Turns out she is Manda, the artist responsible for the critters to which I respond with a torrent of “No Shit?” style witticisms.

Proof that I didn't make this up.

Turns out that not only is she running a Tekumel game, but it is a playtest of a port of the notorious Sword & Glory rules to a new Tekumel supplement for Jeff D's new Pocket Universe rules. (You'll hear more about this later in my upcoming interview.)

Saturday 10:40

Meanwhile Urutusk Gal is politely tolerating this tangential delay, but finally grabs me forcefully by the back of my shirt and drags me over to the game table. We are joined by Urutusk's Gal's Special Lady Gnome Friend, Chinchilla the Serving Wench, Navy Joe, and The Boy (with patient Rather Gamey Dad still basking in the thrill of being murdered with great relish by his party mates in attendance behind him).

Saturday 15:01

We finally finish chargen. After carrying the value of my Height, Frame, Hand Size, and Muscular Tone to the third power divided by the value of my Caste, Alertness, Age, and Performance and multiplied by the Violet color value I finally break down into tears and with big doe eyes I turn to our hostess and plead for her to do it for me. The deadlock is thus broken and my character Ty' Sumker aka The Black Ratter lives (see character sheet complete with foppish hat below).

The scenario is after my own heart, we are playing the exploratory team for a colonizing expedition that exists in our hostess's home campaign. And what a competent bunch of would-be conquistadors we are. In the first five minutes we manage to have our ship veer off course and flounder on a coastal barrier island two weeks travel from the colony.

We spend the entire session mostly mucking about the island with our greatest accomplishments being discovering an undiscovered species of aquatic poisonous centipedes (dubbed Centifins by Navy Joe), an empty village, and a violent home invasion of some peaceful grasslands dwellings golden children.

Saturday 17:30

We take a half hour break for dinner. Of course, not wanting to break my flake streak, I never return.

I am instead—despite a new wave of landlocked sea sickness--whisked away to dinner by Skullcrusher and Mr. Brown. Due to my extreme queasiness we settle on a stomach-soothing choice of nuclear-hot chicken wings at the local Crazy Chicken outlet.

Now Jeff , this is where the less than smooth attempts to do some wenching by my party mates come in (I am too nauseous, monogamous, and apparently old to join in). Skullcrusher impresses our chipper, pretty Theology-grad school waitress by promptly smashing his Gin and Tonic glass on the table after the first sip (I am not making this up).

The Crazy Chicken staff masochistically and mysteriously instantly loves us for this transgression. We pay the waitress 20 bucks to sing all the words to Rebecca Black's famous ballad about Friday and the manager lady even comes over to sit in Mr. Brown's lap.

Saturday 18:10

We make it back to the Con just in time for me to wander off for a worship session again. Apparently the hair of the dog is a myth for people who talk about celebrating the annual anniversary of their 39^th birthday.

Saturday 18:40

Refreshed and embarrassed for missing the remainder of the previous session, I notice that I am incredibly late for the Green Dragon Lord's game. In a daze I shamble over there and am jocularly accosted by said lord. I roll up a 12^th level cleric, Mogg the Mendicant, in record speed despite the coke-fueled monkeys banging on steel drums in my head.

The session is an experimental, play-test of the adventure, Castle Mind-Fuck, designed the previous day in the lord's workshop. One hour in I see the obvious mistake I have made in choosing of my own free will to play in a dungeon designed by a committee of old school sadists.

Two hours in and we are still putzing around trying to figure out the two entry-way traps. We are THE WORST SET OF IDIOT PLAYERS EVER. How do I know this? Because the Great One screamed it into each and every one of our ears as he systematically went around the table choking us.

I mostly survive the evening by courageously hanging inside the pack and doing nothing more than casting a cure light wounds spell on myself when my toe nail breaks.

The Green Dragon Lord scoffs at our idiocy

Sunday 1:45

The game is still going on and I am begging for a mercy kill. Bad Finch and I make eye contact and mumble the special code word “broken arrow” to which we have conspired to both bring down simultaneous Flame Strikes to kill us all.

The Virgin Mary appears and instructs me not to drink any more and miraculously I follow her directions and head off to bed.

Last installment this afternoon coming your way.

North Texas RPG Confidential

Here's the straight dope on the NTRPG conflab as witnessed and experienced by this humble reporter. Names have been altered to protect the identities and fragile egos of the guilty.

17:52 Friday, New Braunfels, Texas

I count off the checklist of our essentials of our expedition as we transfer the contents from Skullcrusher's Mega-Giganto truck (he reassured us on the drive back that his ownership of said truck had nothing to do with the relative size of his John Thomas) to the tidy and tight confines of Mr Brown's (aka the the “Special” Guest) Ford Focus.

Half case of rotgut bourbon. Check. Full case of funny-shaped dice. Check. Multiple bottles of gas station pinot (who would have thunk that a vintage styled after cheap plastic sandals would be so mind numbingly horrendous). Check. Stack of overly-complicated and bland 70s wargames if I have to leave a session in a huff. Check. Fire extinguisher. Check.

Loaded up we are now ready to be the neo-nerd equivalent of a cast of characters from a film about Vegas, hopefully Fear and Loathing as opposed to say Leaving Las Vegas.

Mr. Brown modeling Kyrin's Urutsk game

20:33 Friday, Irving, Texas

Many stories of bonfires being doused by local fire departments, snarky gossip about the sexual peccadilloes of former TSR staff, and wild plans to market gamer-oriented fetish porn later we manage to arrive at the con hotel.

Manage being the operative word here as between the steadfast refusal of Mr. Brown to follow simple directions and Skullcrusher's refusal to interrupt his bourbon-fueled ranting to navigate, it was touch and go about whether we would actually make it there. I help by falling back on my time-honored tactic of mentally checking out and smiling and nodding a lot. Fortunately the distinctive architecture and straightforward highway access-road layout of suburban Dallas helped to minimize our confusion. (Is it near the strip mall with the Walmart or the one with the Chick-fil-a?)

We quickly check in and more leisurely check in with the conference organizers. Malicious Mike, one of the founding gurus, stands behind a wall of vintage who-ha at the registration fending off conversations from lurkers left and right.

Now see both Mike and his compatriot Doug of the Famed BBQ are notorious for the sheer generosity—and deep pockets—with this convention that seems to build exponentially each year (the sheer packed attendance of this year is leading them to seek a much bigger venue next year). Not only do they fund the impressive compliment of “special” guests (Erol Otus for chrissakes. Erol Otus.) and put in the countless hours of sweat equity with the logistics work, but they seem hellbent on modeling the dynamics of a Native American potlatch with their giveaway of freebies.

Nevertheless, I am amazed when I compliment Malicious Mike on his shirt and he takes it straight off his back and offers it to me. “You like it, here take it,” he says to your author. (I am only minorly disturbed when later the Famed BBQ guy offers to give me his shirt. Backrub optional). True story—more or less.

[Editor's Note: Forgot to add that here we encountered both Good Finch, owner of an unnamed game company possibly located in East Texas, who confided in us his plan to take over the industry by way of a nefarious plan to spread viral links and a Game Designer Named After an Obnoxiously-Loud Motorcycle who confirmed by way of his John Deere gimme hat that he was as much as a redneck as we were.]

Friday 21:15

Although I get a short high from the self-validation of wearing a name tag with my name printed in bold sans-serif font on it, the buzz quickly wears off and the Skullcrusher and I are off to hunt for a game to join at this late hour. The small mountains of discarded pizza boxes cluttering door entry ways and the rhythmic click-clack of dice are the first clues.

Miraculously we manage to be recruited for a late-night go at the Myth of Sisyphus game--or was that the Tower of Mythrus?, it was hard for me to note as somehow I managed to quaff ¾ of a bottle of Flip-Flop in the half hour of our arrival--a persistent and popular Con world where players keep their surviving characters between sessions. The game ringleader is Bill the Frog God Necromancer who manages to knock our socks off with his sheer apparently meth-driven (the constant sniffling gave him away) late-night gamemastering.

Rolling a character up on the spot, I wow my fellow mythmakers with a first roll of “3” in our straight 3d6 chargen. I doodle out my sheet (pictured below and above the portrait of the Skullcrusher's fighting man who was apparently pictured as a Ssu'u drawn by an Expressionist-trained kindergartner by my wine-addled mind) and promptly name him “Mongomero the Burn”. Off we go.

Five minutes in and our party of savvy, tough adventurers is nearly TPKed as we fail to put two feet in front of us properly as we walk across a log over a very narrow body of water. Fortunately later sessions will reveal me and my veteran gamer brethern to be even less competent as players then this one.

Saturday 2:47

Despite our near-fatal encounter with the stationary log we actually make it some way into the wilderness fending off a poppy field, wall of logs, and an enticing siren fond of crocodiles before realizing that grown men shouldn't be playing roleplaying games after 3 am.

Skullcrusher almost makes good on his apparent Convention goal of dying in each and every session due to senseless choices, but I am disappointed that I do not make good on my own of turning each and every conversation into an opportunity to talk about myself, my blog, and my own projects--apparently a time-honored oral tradition in older grognard circles.

Saturday 3:33

Back to the room we are drinking with free and stupid reign now. We rouse Bad Finch from the room next to us to put an end to his oh-so silly need to sleep (also coopting him from taking action against his rambunctious neighbors). Mr. Brown begs us to allow him to sleep on our couch, a decision I will regret (amongst many) later when having the housekeepers cleaning the tear stains off the couch pillows.

My own inability to pass wisdom check after wisdom check ensures that I drink enough Flip-Flop to make Saturday a day filled with People Who Talk too Loud.

Stand by for that next installment...