Cthulhu Fight Club, '94
I was talking to Bubba, trying to figure out shit to blog. I ran into a problem with a submission, see. If I want to publish it, I can't blog it more often than not. A few mags don't care, but a lot do, and when I say they care, I mean they CARE. Even this blog is print to an editor, never mind the plebian view. Since I am a plebian, I ran afoul of my own ignorance. Can't keep doing that. So who do I go to when I need to think linearly?
I said: "I wish I had nice memories to blog about. Heh. What am I gonna do? Talk about Gramma searching the house for any kind of alcohol including hand sanitizer or Uncle Dana talking to the radio in his brain?"
(Inferred harrumph)
Well. The shit we did was pretty damn ugly-funny. In the Filmwalks post, I mentioned playing Call of Cthulhu...
For a while, it was just us, but since you could draw your own characters we enticed our buddy CJ--who you have seen in films like Daredevil and It as an extra, wot-wot for CJ--to play. It gave him a chance to flex his Todd McFarlane, at which he was very skilled. Shockingly, we also got the Glam Kid, who's name was Eric, not Dave (fuckin junk memory eh) who was only there at first for the weed I could score from my sister's boyfriend--that first night he was dry.
It got ugly on occasion--blows were thrown, wrestling occasionally ensued, papers were shredded, personalities decried, vows of ass beatings made and held. I guess it's fair to say my bedroom in high school became a bit like Cthulhu Fight Club. Especially when I killed Bubba's last Teagarden. Ye fucking gods what a debacle. I think I had to stop him from leaving and cutting all ties with me, which would have been hard because it would have required me containing my laughter--and I fucking SUCK at that. I remember plotting on that poor last Teagarden weeks in advance, knowing Bubba would flip slap the fuck out, which would be the pinnacle of hysterics, at least for me. He saw through my half-clever twattery, called me out--stuffing being torn from a ratty chair. Flashes of trechcoats and--
Oh. I put him up against the wall and started singing Holy Wars. "And a LACK--of MERCY-- KILLINGS!!! MERCY KILLINGS!!!"
With each "KILLINGS!!!" I lightly slammed him into the wall and he began choking me and singing along. Holy fuck. I forgot about that. Imagine two giant children strangling each other and singing Megadeth. At 17 we were already both six feet and two hundred pounds or better on both. And not even we understood how it all went from point A to point B when it did.
We four all went into it like just fucking with some nerd shit that was kinda cool because it was horror movie but would fanatically wind up at each other's throats over Sanity Rolls and Dodge Rolls and Hit Points and fucking LUCK--ROLLS. Words like cunt, asshole, loser, virgin (a prime high school insult), motherfucker, and shitbird were used as often as "the" or "and". Eric and I often enough flipped each other and delivered whaps to each others foreheads--avoiding the face because ya know, it's not for real. CJ deplored violence in all forms, but to his credit he sat through all of it for the game's sake.
These games ran night after night. Holsted fell off, feeling it made him too nerdy--and his woman didn't like it. He could've brought her along. The rest of us did after a while. I mean why not? "Dude, don't be a pussy!" I must have said. Most sentences uttered by young 90s men began with those five words.
Bubba still has Vaughn Starr, one of my lesser-used characters. That's funny in an almost voodoo way. One of the character's skills is Track Bruni (60%). Lo and behold, he is still watching Bubba near three decades hence. And they say there's no magic in life.
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