-=(Sagien)=-

And Then it Exploded

We're about to recount the tale of what could've possibly been the worst day ever.

Ever.

It started out well enough. I was feeling great and even ahead of schedule, only having hit the snooze button once. Today was going to be on time day. I haven't had one of those in awhile.

I make my way to pick up my newspapers to deliver. Eight bundles worth at fifty papers per bundle in addition to eight bundles of inserts were placed inside of my car by the overly surprised man at the warehouse.

"Did your watch break?" he asked.

"Huh?" I said.

"You're about an hour and a half early."

"So I am.."

I drove away and started bagging the papers. I consider myself a master at the art of putting individual newspapers in bags while driving.

The beginning half of the route went rather uneventfully. About halfway though, after puling out of a dirt road, my tire pops.

Fuck.

So I pull the vehicle over and pulled out my cell phone.

No signal.

Fuck.

I walk over to the trunk of the car, where the spare tire is normally kept and opened it. It was filled with trash. It was filled to overflowing with leftover newspapers, empty bottles of coolant, washer fluid, transmission fluid and steering fluid. I start to dig.

Before long, I had a respectable pile of trash next to my car, and the spare still wasnt out. It took another five minutes of digging before I got it out. Once that was accomplished, I checked my phone again.

One bar! Woo!

I call my boss to let him know what's going on. He picks up, says two words, and then I lost him.

He calls me back.

I lost the call.

It took about fifteen phone calls before I was actually able to convey my present status to him.

I begin changing the tire. Nothing is more annoying and satisfyingly manly at the same time as the act of switching out an automobile's flat tire. Nothing, that is, until the cop who was helpfully blocking traffic for you as you change your tire in the midst of a curve points out that the donut you're using looks like it belongs on a bicycle.

After changing out the problem in manly fashion(arms on hips, checking out the scenery pose..accentuate arm muscles.. and beer gut), I went to turn the car on. My triumph was short lived.

The battery was dead.

Ever have a policeman laugh at your misery? It isn't very amusing. So I asked Joe Police for a jump.

Policemen do not carry jumper cables. It's a good thing I had my own.

We jump the car and it lives again. I left it on idle to charge up the battery while I loaded my stuff in the trunk. Ah, yes, the little hill I created didn't particularly please Joe Police.

And then it happened. The engine sputtered and then it died. This time, it refused to be jumped again.

I went another round with the low signal phone, this time only needing to make five phone calls to get in touch with my father. He said he'll be over to rescue me.

Joe Police helped me push the car to a safer, straighter part of the road and then he left. My father shows up fifteen minutes later, armed to the teeth with remarks about the irresponsibility of his son. He transfers my papers over into his brand spankin new Chevy Avalanche. I got to drive it.

He made me drop him off at Denny's and told me to finish up my route while he waited there. I wished I was going to Denny's too. The rest of the route in the mighty Avalanche went without incident, and at 8:45 AM, I went to pick my father up.

We went back to the desolate scene that is my car. We gave it another jump. It roars into life, and this time not even sputtering or anything. I started to drive home.

One mile later, it dies again.

Feeling very manly at that point, I pushed the car to the side of the road myself. I even refused the offered help of a passing motorist.

Five phone calls later, my father is on his way again to rescue me.

We gave it another jump and it springs to life. Dad suggested that I left it running for 20 minutes before driving. Since my car didn't like to be idle, I had to give it some gas while its parked. No problem, that is exactly what I did.

Ten minutes into the venture, the engine began to sputter.

"Oh no you don't!" I thought, and gave it even more gas. This seemed to help for about half a minute and then it sputtered again. More gas!

At this point the engine is revving heavily. The exhaust seemed extra busy pumping out some smoke. It sputters again. More gas! Again!

And then it died. I left the driver's seat to look at the commotion at the engine. All this smoke was coming out of everywhere.

And then it exploded.

The radiator just called it quits and started spitting out hot, steaming coolant. Geysers were forming from anywhere the radiator was attached to.

And that's that. I decided right then and there that the car was more trouble than its worth. I gathered my personal belongings from it and called the scrap yard and donated it. They laughed when I asked if I was getting money for my donation.

R.I.P 1991 Chevrolet Corsica - under my ownership from 11-04 til 7-05. We will always remember you.

Behold!

I am now the proud owner of Darth Tater! Scourge of the Universe!

Thanks, kitsu, for this totally awesome and late birthday present.

I'm an idiot.

I could be talking about my ever growing collection of toys.

Or the fact that despite this heat, I am appreciative of it because the even more hated fat people of the planet Earth are in absolute agony because of their ill planned layers of fat.

No, I can't get into any other subject right now other than the fact that I have to sleep because I have to wake up early.

I have to wake up earlier than normal because I was dumb enough to get another paper route.

But think of all the wonderful new toys I'll be able to get because of it...

Avert Your Gaze!

I'm so sorry.

SORRY!

I didn't mean to, my fingers just started typing. GOD! WHAT AN IDIOT I AM.

Keep reading.

The Day God Ceased to Exist

It all started while I was very young. Jesus was the way, and God was the answer. I was born into a Roman Catholic Filipino family, fearing the wrath of God and begging shamelessly for his grace each and every fuckin day.

By age five, I could pray the rinse, wash, repeat cycle of the Rosary. I loathed the Rosary. I thought of it as the equivalent of my mother asking me to take the trash out over and over again, each time just as nice and monotonous as the last.

I attribute my prowess with the GW-BASIC language with praying the rosary. Especially loops. Boy was I good at making loops.

10 PRINT "Hail Mary full of gracethelordiswithyoublessedartthouamongstwomenandblessedisthefruit of THEY WOMB JESUS"
20 PRINT "Holy marymotherofgodprayforussinnersnowandatthehourofour deaths AMEN"
30 GOTO 10

I've mentioned before that I was enrolled in an all boy school, and by second grade I was reading passages of the Bible in front of throngs of people in the school's chapel.

This is the first reading according to Saint Dumbass

The awful thing is that I used to be able to quote from the Bible quite fluently. I read in church that often. When I received my first communion, I did the gospel reading. Everyone was so proud of their little boy. Truly, I was God's presence incarnate.

The outlook from the eyes of someone who lives in a third world nation is so bleak and flaccid. Money is so hard to come by that you will grab and hold on to ANYTHING that you think you can help you.

Including 15 Hail Mary's.

The day God ceased to exist happened after I moved to the United States. This occured, not because of the fact that I am no longer living in a third world nation, but because I was old enough to have a brain. And my wonderful thinking brain came up with the following:

1) God did not bring you to the United States. It was a carefully thought out plan by your parents to conceive a child to give birth to in the U.S. Science won here.

2) Detach yourself for a moment while you're at a Roman Catholic mass. Listen to the verses that those people repeat over and over again. They're chanting, standing, kneeling and sitting in preprogrammed fashions. The only difference between religion and a cult is that a religion is recognized by the government.

3) The strictest Roman Catholic beliefs prohibit you to have sex before marraige. Not that it mattered then -- I was a virgin between the ages of 0 and 19.

4) Logic. My brain thought "ooh logic".

..and I'm going to end this now, because I believe that my brain is correct in assuming that I am hurting my reader's minds. Instead, I'll just give you the wombat status report.

Wombat is alive and well. He was close to death, but I fed him some of the Sagien Family pasta.

On last account he was also getting laid. Reports are fuzzy as to who.

He still hates women. He considers them stupid.

He's still fat.

He hit another deer.

His apartment isn't burned down.

And he is lacking funds.

So it seems that wombat is alive, fed, sex0red, and despite lacking funds and killing God's creatures, he's rather content with himself. Did God do that?

Stupid, Boring Shit

Due to recent events, I am forced to make this post.

Disclaimer: This could possibly be the worst post ever, but I promise that as soon as this is out of the way and everyone's all calmed down, etc, we'll be back to regular posting goodness.

Please read on.

Google Adsense

It is very important that you people understand that spam clicking these ads are against Google's Terms of Service. I appreciate what you guys are trying to do, really, but it is unnecessary.

However, if you see an ad that interests you, and by the looks of things, the ads are quite relevant and humorous when coupled with my entries, by all means click on them. DO NOT SPAM CLICK THESE ADS.

Arbitrary Taking Down of Pictures

I recently took down pics. I took them down not because I respect the person involved, but I fear getting sued. I won't direct you where they are, I trust that my readership is smart enough not to care or able to find it themselves.

Depussification

This is where matters get a little hairy. If you don't like the way I do things, then by all means comment about them. Do not fuckin bitch me out about something on this website, which, no offense, I do not take seriously at all.

It's all fun and games until someone's eyes get gouged out. By that I mean, it's all funny until you disagree, isn't it. People may have laughed about the entry before this one, but I'm sure they won't be laughing when I make one about them. It has happened before, it will happen again.

And it's happened to me before. I'm still here. I didn't shut the site down in a fit of rage. In short, get the fuck over it.

You don't want to be friends with me because of something I posted? That's a tad hypocritical, considering you've been reading up until now. You probably found a lot of my other "controversial" or "drama-inducing" posts funny.

To that effect, I permanently linked the depussification disclaimer over to the right. This disclaimer went up a while ago here. Read it again, please. It's funny. When I made that thing, it was nothing but a joke. In fact, I made it in anticipation of putting up pics of Mincus pissing in the toilet in nothing but his boxer shorts. I didn't, but I still might.

It is the closest thing to an apology anyone is ever going to get from me. In short, if you don't like it, then stop reading.

A Day That Will Live in Infamy.

Worst post evar! No offense but dirt has a more enjoyable page to read. You could say that because he's "new" to ISSF he has an endless fountain of "up yours" to draw from. Whereas, we have heard it all from you and now you are left with nothing but broken mirrors. Why not talk more about highschool or Vietnam (sorry i mean the gookipeans).

Posted by: Winfield at July 20, 2005 09:33 AM

But i must note that i thouroughly enjoyed the middle finger in the mirror! 5 points for Gryphendor for that

Posted by: Winfield at July 20, 2005 09:35 AM

Now, let's get down to business.

Worst post evar! No offense but dirt has a more enjoyable page to read. You could say that because he's "new" to ISSF he has an endless fountain of "up yours" to draw from.

I have made worse posts than this. And thank you for pointing out how good dirt's writing is. I know. I've been reading his stuff before he was ISSF for months. Perhaps your child-brain missed the sarcasm in my post about him being more popular than me.

Whereas, we have heard it all from you and now you are left with nothing but broken mirrors.

There are certain things that I haven't written about in a long, long while. Perhaps the "endless foundtain of 'up yours' to draw from" dried up. Perhaps you haven't actually been reading, or what you've been reading lately just soars a little bit above your comprehension level. Who knows, you haven't left high school. Which brings me to my next point.

Why not talk more about highschool or Vietnam (sorry i mean the gookipeans).

Yes, you haven't left high school. Which is understandable, it was probably the greatest time of you life. Kinda like the jocks who dropped out of college cuz they're not smart enough and ends up pumping gas or scanning/bagging groceries. Except in high school, you didn't play sports. Instead you fucked chicks in the band and hung out with the 'smart' people. Also, you manifested some kind of talent with music. How's that going by the way? I betcha you're getting all sorts of applause while playing your guitar while high at a bonfire at the beach.

Oh! And quite the D&D master you were. Tell me, do you still think about those years?

Gookipeans. Nice play on words. Perhaps... if.. you.. wrote ... out.. that.. comment.. like.. this.. people.. would've laughed too...

But i must note that i thouroughly enjoyed the middle finger in the mirror! 5 points for Gryphendor for that

I'll try not to use big words in the future.

fu·ture
n.

1. The indefinite time yet to come: will try to do better in the future.
2. Something that will happen in time to come: “The future comes apace” (Shakespeare).
3. A prospective or expected condition, especially one considered with regard to growth, advancement, or development: a business with no future.
4. futures Business. Commodities or stocks bought or sold upon agreement of delivery in time to come.
5. Grammar.
1. The form of a verb used in speaking of action that has not yet occurred or of states not yet in existence.
2. A verb form in the future tense.

adj.

That is to be or to come; of or existing in later time.

And before I forget..

No matter how cute your girlfriend is, Winnie, it is generally a bad idea to try to look like her. Get a haircut. Doesn't Trader Joe's have policies about dirty greasy hair?

I could go on and on. And I will!

I wear other people's work shirt.

Good. That fashion sense worked in high school, too. Man, don't you wish you were in high school with the things you know now? As a 27 year old male working for a grocery store?

It's probably the alternator.

After all those years pumping gas, and all the remedial math and english you took in the community college, it all comes down to that one phrase, doesn't it? The end-all, fix-all of automotive repair.

I can't miss Robot Chicken for the world.

Power on VCR -> Insert Tape -> Set time for recording -> Good to go.

Better yet, go download the episode. You do know what DOWNLOAD means don't you? But, no. Nothing compares to watching a TV show episode as it airs for the first time ever. Nope, not even hanging out with friends you haven't seen very often.

I have two sets of pallbearers...

When?

So fuck off "WINFIELD". All the stories I've heard from you is shit about how great California is while you smoke weed. Let me let you in on something: Anyplace is great while you're smoking weed.

The fact of the matter is, you never did and never will amount to anything. I do enjoy that melting feeling that is my brain whenever I hear you speak or read words that you write though. Kudos, that is something to be proud of.

You are just about the dumbest person I've ever encountered, next to blacjax' cousin. And you know what? He's got an excuse. You had a great hand dealt to you, and what did you do with it?

Yeah, you ran away with some cunt to California who ended up being a catalyst in alienating all your friends AND THEN she DUMPED you! And instead of swallowing your pride, and coming back and possibly becoming something other than someone who will continually be living in high school, you stayed there. Met dumbasses who can't pay the electric bill. Smoke some weed. Never grow up. Nice work, Peter Pan.

Fuck you. You don't have room to talk.

I. See. Several. Flaws.

For the Glory

So here I was, driving along my paper route.

This is the time when I would normally contemplate what to write about on my next entry. Yes, ladies and gentlement, the paper route is where many a blog entry has been born.

This morning was no different, except that I had something a lot more urgent in mind.

He Has Higher Numbers Than I Do

Due to his machine-like posting abilities, and my machine-like non-posting abilities, dirt is currently kicking my ass as far as how many times he's been read. This morning was a brainstorming session on what to write about for the next few weeks.

I had several ideas, but none of them hit me with that normal jolt of inspiration that would elevate a thought into a blog entry.

And then it hit me. Or rather.. it hit the car.

I did it on purpose. In a flash of inspiration, I decided to smash my side mirror into a tree. I figured that the rant about the car yesterday was so well done, why not write some more about things that happen to my car?

So there you have it. That's dedication for you, my dear readers. Will dirt do that for you? I think not.

It's a Conspiracy

I've gone all my life believing something to be true that I diligently make sure that this something doesn't happen.

Every other day, I take care of this task.

Every other day, $20.

What happens when you test a theory that you have started to believe to be a conspiracy?

I've been having a lot of trouble with my car lately.

For one reason or another, it is starting to reject any kind of liquid that you put into it.

Gallons and gallons of coolant have burned off into the atmosphere. It loves guzzling that sticky green stuff that looks like Gatorade. Mmmm. It loves fuming the clouds of white smoke generated from the burning coolant.

At the same time, I believe that my car thinks I need more excersize in my arms to build more strength. I don't know what it does with it, but it siphons away enough power steering fluid to feed a small nation in less time that it takes for wombat to fall in love, live with and get rejected/dumped by a girl. Needless to say, my arm muscles have been looking good lately.

At a slower pace, its been evaporating transmission fluid. Over the period of time that I have owned the car, it has drank alot of this kool-aid looking liquid. In fact, on the first night I had it out on the route, my car made it a point to let me know that it will be requiring this fluid on a regular basis. Halfway through my route, it refused to go into reverse. One does not appreciate the usefulness of the reverse function until they are stuck in some creepy driveway of an over-vegetated piece of land, on which sits an equally vegetated house. This is the type of house where you just wouldn't want to go in to investigate a human scream.

Despite all of that, my automobile continues to function. It functions quite well actually, despite the smoke it generates and the muscles I build just from making a K-turn. So imagine my surprise when it sputtered and rolled to a stop early this morning while we were on the route.

Luckily, she gave me enough inertia to roll her onto the shoulder. I checked everything that my baby liked to have. Coolant? Check. Tranny fluid? Check. Power Steering? Low, but it manages. So, what the fuck? What the fuck, what the fuck?

I called my boss and he sent a car out to get me. I told the man when he arrived that everything seemed fine and the beast just wont turn over. He looked at me quizzically and he looked at my dashboard.

Now, the basis of this conspiracy is that I have never experienced what would happen when you run out of this vital ingredient in making an automobile run. My particular vehicle happened to not have any problems even when it's indicated that this stuff is gone. I was in denial when the man out to help me said:

"You're out of gas."

A Written Account

I was afraid to post this before, mainly because I feared some kind of retaliation from my former employers.

But now that I really thought about it, this is something of a legal right of mine to post at a public forum.

Ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to read next is a bit long, but I promise you that it's a good read. It is a reprint of what I wrote and submitted to my boss' boss as an attempt to document something quite real that happened in a Radio Shack store between me and a fellow employee. And if you ask what my employers did about the situation, the answer is quite painful.

RadioShack Corporation did absolutely nothing.

February 25, 2003

This is a written account of what transpired between me and a colleague, Kelly Phelan, on Tuesday, February 25, 2003. I, Michael J Uy, will attempt to reconstruct the events and words that were exchanged as accurate as possible from my own memory.

At around 12:30 PM, I noticed that the ACR software on one of the terminals had been shut down. Since I wasn't the individual who shut down the software and there was only one other person working, I assumed that Kelly was the one who accomplished this task. I went ahead and asked her why she has closed off all the programs running on the terminal. Her reply was, "Don't talk if you don't know how to talk."

I said, "I'm asking you a question, why are all the programs not running on the computer? I was doing some work on there and you closed it off."

"Don't talk if you don't know how to talk," she said again. This irritated me.

"I believe I'm talking just fine. I'm trying to ask you a question."

"You don't have anything to say to me," was her reply.

"Are you stupid or something? I'm trying to figure out why my work has been closed off."

After I said the last phrase, she said something along the lines of me not calling her stupid but then she added, "You think you're white but you're not."

In response to that, I said, "That is the most ignorant thing that I have ever heard said to me." I was also contemplating contacting the District Sales Manager at this point.

"You think you're fucking white and you're not. You should act like yourself," she continued on.

I said, "That's it. I can't work with you. I'm going to call Bob."

"Go ahead and call Bob," she said, "it's my word against yours and there is nobody here."

At this point, I went to the backroom to make a phone call. I left a message on Justin's cell phone asking him to call me back at the store and briefly explained what it was about. After that, I went back out to the sales floor, not really wanting to say anything else to her, but I did inform her that I had called Justin.

While the lull in business traffic continued, I decided to go ahead and call my girlfriend to see if she could pull anything up on public records about Kelly. I wanted to know what I was up against. However, she wasn't able to find anything that would be able to help my case. This is probably due to the fact that all I had to work with was her name. I did not want to pull any information from company resources. I will add, however, that this phone call was made in Kelly's presence and she was well aware of what I was intending to do.

After I got off the phone, she said to me, "You're running a background check on me. I'm writing this down and I will call Bob."

"Okay," I said.

"I will call Bob and it's going to be my word against yours and there is nobody here. I will say to him, 'Mike called me an ignorant fucking nigger.' and you will say you didn't do it, but it doesn't matter because nobody is here."

"That is so fucking ignorant. WHy are you pulling this race card out? I am not racist," was my reply.

She didn't say anything after that, and a customer came in a few minutes later. I took the opportunity to have a cigarette and figure out my options while I took care of the customer.

After my short break, business traffic picked up and Justin called me back while there were several customers in the store, so I asked him to call me back again. Eventually, the midday rush subsided and she was ready with a few words for me again.

"I will win because I'm a black female," she said to me. I chose to ignore that comment. She went ahead and had her lunch break and I waited for her to get done before I went on mine. This action didn't go without arguement, however, because I wanted to have the opportunity to eat first since I was at the store before she was. In the end, I conceded, deciding that there was no point to argueing.

Things seemed to calm down after she ate; she even offered me some soup when I was heading out to get some food from the grocery store. I declined this offer, saying, "I don't want anything from you." And then I left for the store.

After I got done eating, I went back out to the sales floor to finish my shift. It's around 2:30 PM. As I was making my way behind the counter, she said, "Mike, let's work something out. We could not say anything and drop the whole thing."

"After all the things you said to me, no. I cannot work with you," I said.

"You said things to me too," she said.

"I know," I replied.

Matt came in to begin his shift around 3:00 PM. I pulled him to the backroom and told him about what happened today. At around 3:30 PM, Justin called back and spoke to Kelly and then called back again and I answered the phone. He asked for store numbers and told me he was going to try to be in before my shift was over at 6:00 PM.

I spoke again with Matt and updated him on the situation. He said he was willing to add a few words to support my situation.

The rest of the night was uneventful. Justin called back saying that he wasn't going to be able to make it to the store before I had to leave. Kelly left work at exactly 6:00 PM, and I left about ten minutes later, after I finished my final sale for the day.

This whole account was put into words as accurately as I can remember. I don't remember the exact exchange of words, but I have pointed out exact phrases that I said and that she said to the best of my recollection. I also want to take this opportunity to apologize for the inappropriate words I have said, but in my defense, those words were said while I weas upset and frustrated at how the situation was developing. Thank you for letting me tell my side of the story.

[Signature]
Michael J. Uy

Diagnosis

Forgive the atrocious grammar of an unpracticed writer. That was written well before I started writing for ISSF and it was painful having to retype.

Anyway, if anyone has any questions or comments, please use the comment section. I don't want to give exclusive discussions to people over IM or even in ISSF chat. Thanks =).

Systematically Home

In a fit of spontaneous motivational movement, I managed to accomplish something useful.

My apartment now feels more like home. It's a wonderful feeling. It needs a few more things, but the general gist of it being mine is complete.

I figured that now would be a good time to recap things I still need:

Missing Things

Item Name: A pair of tongs.
Level of Importance: 4

I need a set of tongs because I am scratching the shit out of my frying pans, especially when I make chicken.

But, sagien, can't you just use a spatula?

Yes, I can. I can also use loaves of bread for napkins that I can throw over the balcony of The Rice Pad after I wipe my grease ridden fingers to the throngs of begging lower middle class people below. I can use ANYTHING. However, because I'm not retarded, I need to get a set of tongs.

Item Name: Patio Furniture
Level of Importance: 5

I recently received a phone call, a letter stuck to my door and yet another letter in my mailbox concerning my taste in balcony furniture. These are what I've been using before:

Those came to my possession as a present from Joe Camel. Apprently, the prestigous Sea Aire Apartments feel that barstools are unacceptable fixtures to use as patio furniture. However, satellite dishes are completely acceptable.

The kind of patio furniture I would need would never be as nice as the ones I stole off of Google image search. No. They would need to be the white plastic ghetto white trash kind to match the elegance present in my apartment complex.

Item Name: Shelves for my ghetto entertainment system.
Level of Importance: 7

What's pictured next to John Stewart is actually a kitchen cabinet Big Joe(my father) and I picked up at the dumpster next to the lumber yard. In a flash of genius, I thought, "Hey! I can use that!"

It sat in storage for six months.

The higher level of importance means I'd like this project to be completed soon due to the fact that the sight of this thing irritates me. I even purchased a tape measure to measure the dimensions of the shevles that I'll need. To this day, I couldn't give you those numbers.

And while Asians are stereotyped to be good with numbers, this, much like the other stereotype about genital size, does not apply to me.

That's all of tonight. There are actually several other things I need, but in fear of being considered homosexual(window treatments, area rug, candles), I will not be revealing those things here.

But it almost feels like home.

The Trials and Tribulations of Eric Ryan

This is a story I started out in the AIM chatroom (iseeseveralflaws) that me and a bunch of other "readers" go to. I had full intentions of finishing it in chat, but everyone seemed to have left and I found myself talking to nobody.

So, I fully resolved that it was going to be told here, regardless of how people feel about reading the story.

Prelude

Mr. Clouser failed.

Not only did he fail, he's also on shaky ground as far as his unemployment is concerned.

That's what he gets for trying to suspend students on grounds of a computer printout that some other students made.

Episode I

Nascarrom drove up to the establishment's valet parking in his brand new Saab Dynamit, decked out with the latest in minigun technology hardmounted to his gull wing doors.

He steps out of the car, fully confident that he can take on the night of heavy drinking with exceptional ease due to his military grade heavy armor, built for urban combat that he has meticulously put on. Nobody really knows why it was necessary. Perhaps it's to hide himself from the law. After all, he is a Nascar driver on the lam.

Perhaps he thinks it will impress people into giving him some shadow work.

Or maybe, he just wanted to pick up girls.

We'll never know, because at precisely the moment that he put his foot down on to the ground to get out of his car, Johnny Ferruci was shooting off a round that he told his drinking buddies would land on the 'weirdo idiot in full metal armor''s forehead.

Johnny was right.

Nascarrom falls back into his Saab Dynamit, landing with a heavy thud caused by the weight of the armor.

The side panels on the Prairie Cat Luxury Van in front of him swing open, and a pair of Vindicator miniguns swing around and targetted the sports car. It takes a few moments to spin their majestic barrels, but when they reached full speed, they started to unload.

The Saab Dynamit explodes in a ball of flame.

"Okay, sagien get's the karma point," declared Joe Camel.

"What the fuck, I shot him first!" grimrken argues.

"WHAT THE FUCK! WHY DID YOU GUYS DO THAT?" Eric Ryan screamed.

"According to second edition rules, you can't kill someone with one shot. Sagien finished the job wonderfully. He made sure nascarrom is dead," Camel intoned.

"YOU GUYS ARE FUCKIN ASSHOLES!" Eric persisted.

"Shh, its a library. You're dead, we killed you for the karma point. Now leave," sagien told Eric.

"Fine, but I'm taking my character."

"You can't take your character sheet," Camel declares.

"Leave it on the table, Henry Rollins," sagien ordered. Eric Ryan looks like Henry Rollins.

Eric starts to get up, snatching his character sheet and proceeds to make for the door.

"He can't take that," Camel said again.

Then, in a blinding instance of ninja-like prowess, sagien leaps into the air, lands one foot lighty on the wide mahogany library table, does a somersault in the air and lands in front of Eric Ryan, their faces inches away from each other.

"I'll take this," sagien said, snatching the character sheet from Eric's hands. Eric doesn't say a word and walks around sagien, defeated.

Episode II

Sagien is leaning across the library counter trying to see the books on the other side. He ordered a book from another library using the online book request system and wanted to know if it came in.

Eric Ryan rounds the corner with his backpack slung over his Henry Rollins-esque shoulders and spies a hated foe in his path, not paying attention. His stride reaches a purpose as he makes his way to sagien.

As he nears his adversary, he took the route of the coward and kicks sagien in his shin and continues to walk out the door as the bell rings.

Sagien was slow to react, seeing Eric leave the library with the doors closing around him. He gathers his things and starts to walk out with a purpose.

He walks down the hallway, not spotting his assailant. He proceeds to round the corner, and there he was, with his back to him, speaking to one of the students.

The situation is setup perfectly. Behind Eric's conversation partner was the corner to the metal lockers that the school provides for their students.

The student Eric was talking to saw sagien walking towards them with fire in his eyes. Sagien motions silently for him to step aside. He does.

Sagien, like a cheetah unleashing all the potential energy for its 65mph run towards the gazelle, unleashes his two pythons-for-arms on the back of Eric Ryan, pushing him straight into the metal corner of the locker.

The bell rang a second time, for students to get into the classrom. Sagien walks away, shielded by throngs of students dashing into their respective classes. Eric Ryan didn't recover in time from the locker-meal sagien provided for him.

Episode III

"He kicked me first," sagien told Mr. Clouser. The assistant principal looked over him dubiously, and a pained look overcame his face.

"Fine, you're free to go."

"And what of Eric Ryan?" sagien asked.

"He's being suspended for a couple of days."

"Very well."

Epilogue

Years later, Eric Ryan spends a good percentage of his vast amounts of free time in the local comic book/gaming shop. The putrid stench of shower-deprived children permeates the air.

Sagien walks in, and sees the worthless refuse of humanity sitting with a bunch of ten year olds dominating their game of Warhammer.

Nobody needed to say a thing.