It Is Finished

A lot of things happened today.

  • I watched a Hearthstone event on Twitch and got a free pack for it. Inside: a legendary card.
  • I made it to Platinum for the first time on an eight-game winning streak. My reward: a classic epic that I only had one of before.
  • Got my braces tightened.
  • Drank a 6-pack of beer.
  • Got my 500th Priest win!

I also made a metric ass-ton of noodles and drowned them in a garlic meat sauce, but that wasn’t so much an accomplishment as a confession.

I’ve notice that I win way more playing in the evening (Pacific time) than in the morning. I don’t know who’s playing in which time-zone at those times, but it’s how I got to Platinum. And the thing is, I did it after I go my 500th priest win. After all the grinding, I went ahead and played two more games to get to the next floor.

So there’s two milestones knocked out. I have earned my hangover. I should take a break from hearthstone now, at least until the new moth begins, but I’m kind of eager to see which class rustles my jimmies for the next haul. For the record, Shaman is the class that lags behind the most for me. Also, I didn’t see them too much on the ladder.

Or whatever, but I doubt I’ll hit Platinum five. But that’s okay. I now have a golden priest that I can ignore for the next few years.

Soon I’ll Never Have to Play Priest Again*

*Until it’s time to go for 1000 wins.

Only 25 wins to go before I finally get my golden priest. It feels like I’ve been playing priest for ever and that’s probably because I have; I’ve been playing priest exclusively for so long that space-time has warped around my game screen and no matter what class I pick to play, it’s priest, and versus control decks every game last for about a million years, maybe two, three if we both hit fatigue.

I’ll probably end up going for all 25 wins in one play session, and in that way achieve a kind of brain-fuzz and body odor that only a priest could love. And I mean that in as disgusting a way as you can imagine. Share my suffering. Picture me, bloated, reeking, reeling, shouting at my computer screen at three in the morning. “DAMN IT STOP PLAYING DEVOLVING MISSILES JANA! I WANT TO SEE MY FAMILY AGAIN YOU @#$%^&!

It hasn’t been all bad. You can see in the screenshot below my rank is Gold 2. I’ve been as high as Gold 1. For anyone worth their salt, that’s chump change, but for a metaphor mixer like me, it’s pretty good. Chalk it up to perseverance not being smart enough to know when to stop. And dumb luck. Lots ‘n lots of dumb luck.

Gonna put on some Judas Priest, grab my rosary-fidget-spinner, and move the Keurig over next to my desk. Should be a hoot and a holler. And then, after a nice rest (until, say 2022) I’ll chase golden shaman. Because I hate myself.

Back Into the Blizzard

I’ve been playing Blizzard’s massively multiplayer role playing game World of Warcraft on an off since its launch. Recently came off an off of more than a year, not too very long after the Battle for Azeroth expansion launched. I was burnt-out. I had been playing way too much up to the launch, trying to level one of every class type to the max. 

That was not a wise thing to do. 

If anything, I should have been playing way WAY less before the launch. So that the new content had a chance to feel, you know, new. Instead, I was still in the grip of that “must get levels as fast as possible!” mentality, trying to force my main character to the top with all (un)due haste.

A new expansion has been announced, and I’ve recently started playing again. Blizzard has decided to give everyone an xp boost for the time being, so I decided, why not, let’s start a brand new character and get her to the top as quickly as I can. Old habits die hard, right?

Thanks to the boost, though, it went really really fast, and after just a week or so, she’s already at level 120. Yeehah. But I’m not burnt out yet, because it all felt fresh after a year off. Hooray for me.

Right before I quit (in 2018!) I was playing a Blood Elf Affliction Warlock running around a desert. As of this writing, I am in the middle of a haunted forest, playing a Human Destruction Warlock. Different environment, different faction, different aspect. This haunted forest is a lot of fun.

I keep saying to myself, if only I’d been playing in the forest, and not the desert, I might not have quit. What I should be telling myself is that I, thankfully, didn’t get burnt out in the middle of this cool forest.

Why am I telling you this? I dunno. The WoW servers are down right now for maintenance, and I have to do something… also, whenever I’m into WoW, reading and writing come to a halt. 

So I need to take advantage of these opportunities to not play (again). I guess.

Zombie Dead War Addiction Dollhouse Freedom

Rating: 4 out of 5.

Google is offering Stadia for two months for free, so what am I going to do, say no? I’m a video-game junkie, a drug dealer’s dream come true. They offer me the free sample, and I take it, and I get addicted, and then they say, the next one’s going to cost your first born human child, and I reply with, sure, paper or plastic?

I tried a few titles offered, and they were okay, and either they’ve got the tech right or I’ve got a good enough connection, because the game-streaming experience wasn’t too janky. (If you don’t know what ‘janky’ means, look it up. And then if it turns out I used it wrong, don’t tell me, because I’m too busy freebasing video games to go back and edit my stupid blog posts.)

But then I fired up Zombie Army 4: Dead War. Jankiness ensued, but not too much, and it wasn’t enough to ruin the experience. We’re talking zombies, nazis, headshots, achievements, stickers, weapon-mods, creepy easter-eggs, a robust photo mode… I’m like a heroin addict who’s been given access to extra-awesome chocolate covered heroin that comes in collectible boxes and includes a toy surprise.

There’s a story there too, I guess. Something about how Hitler turned the tide of WWII by creating a zombie horde and although he’s now dead we’re still to this day fighting them off. And this is the 4th installment, although I have to be honest, I never knew about the first three. Blame me, for that, not Rebellion, who makes the games.

I’ve only, so far, played the first campaign mission, but I’ve played it half a dozen times. There’s all kinds of things going on that I haven’t tried. There’s multiplayer, there’s a weekly mission thing, there’s challenges… for extra money there’s weapon skins and different clothing options for your characters. It’s like a doll house, sort of, except your dolls are zombies-killers and your furniture is weapons. 

(Or something like that. You’ll have to cut me some slack, I got the DTs here, from withdrawal, from not playing the game so I can type this up).

Should you try it? Yes, because it’s free. I mean no, because it’s free. Don’t try it. Go read a book or get some sun or maybe hop on a Zoom call with your grandma. Rehab clinics have been shut down during the pandemic so you really can’t afford an addiction right now, pal.

And You Won’t Even Throw Your BACK Out!

These days you can’t throw a gaming console in a video game store without hitting a game about shooting aliens or racing cars or playing sports. Also, you can’t throw consoles in a video game store because it’s probably not allowed. Also, you should be staying at home anyway because of Corona. Also, its way easier to download games instead of buying them in stores.

That’s what I did- via Xbox Game Pass; I downloaded a game, and it wasn’t about shooting aliens in the face, or driving cars that cost more than my house, or playing sports (remember sports? Bunch of dudes getting paid stupid amounts of money to play with a ball and give each other Corona virus? Ah, memories). Nope, this was a game about throwing video game consoles.

And other pieces of furniture. In Moving Out, you run into houses, grab pieces of furniture, and pull them onto a truck. Or throw them, if they’re small enough. And if you break a few windows along the way, or vases, so what. This is a video game, for crying out loud (although I would not be surprised in the least to find out there’s an authentic furniture moving simulator out there, with different levels of difficulty, from helping-a-friend-and-drinking-beer all the way up to professional-international-transport engineering-and-drinking-beer).

It’s a race against the clock, of course. Jump through the living room window, grab the L-shaped couched, drag it through the back door, then go back and grab the video game console, head upstairs, throw it from the second floor bathroom, and then toss one of the beds off the balcony. Do it fast enough, and you get a gold star. A gold star for throwing a mattress off a balcony! This is, like, training for how to have fun at parties! (Remember parties? Bunch of people getting stupid wasted while listening to obnoxiously loud music and giving each other novel Corona virus?)

Houses are repeatable, so you can achieve extra, disparate goals, such as “Finish a move with no windows broken,” or “Finish a move with all windows broken,” or “Pack the pink flamingos too.” Also, there’s a gnome on every level, I think, although I don’t know what to do with those yet. I didn’t touch them on the few houses I played. Gnomes freak me out.

If you have Xbox Games Pass and nothing to do, go ahead and download Moving Out and play it for half an hour, see if you like it. Or, I don’t know, go make a Tik-Tok video and throw some real furniture. You’re probably not a doctor or work in a grocery store, so nothing you do really matters these days anyway.

And if you ARE a doctor or work in a grocery store, a sincere thanks.

Rico. Over Quya.

Helicopters aren’t what they used to be. Not a bad thing. Fuel injected, fewer parts, not reliable but more reliable. Rico has managed to secure one, or, more precisely, secure the services of a helicopter pilot who has one. A Spinoza Whirlyjet, fast, small on radar, and silent. Relatively speaking, as even the quietest ‘copter will still out-shout the loudest Ford Fiesta.

His manly man-breath, hot, spicy, redolent of tacos al pastor, cheap tequila, cheaper putanas. Caresses the microphone on his headset, bathes it in humidity, making it wet and shiny like a lover’s taut nipple. “There,” he says. 

Why am I shivering, the pilot, Forutna, thinks to herself. This is Solis, a tropical island nation. Mean temperature: 27 degrees. Celsius. I’m 27. I’ve been 27 for what feels like years now. And still not a woman. And yet this man. What did he say? She’s a little girl again, warm, safe in her papi’s arms, pretending to sleep as he carries her up to her room. His calloused, strong hands laying her gently in her bed, the kiss on her forehead, and the sweet, sweet succumbing to sleep. Papi always smelled of cerveza, sweat, she remembers, like every other man in the village. But something else, something more. Leather.

“A little lower, I think,” he says. A growl, but smooth, like a puma’s, seduces her. She’s shivering. She’s sweating. Her heart is pounding in rhythm to the Whirlyjet’s Turbo Mecca Ariel. She wants to abandon the controls, rip off her headset, leap over the seat, sink her teeth into this desperado’s neck, and as the chopper falls out of the sky, devour him whole, coming alive, finally, at 27, with the fiery crash setting the jungle ablaze and splashing the atmosphere with the stink of this man’s lambskin-soft leather jacket, her lust.

Rico belches. Lime, cilantro, onions. Opens the door, throws himself out without ceremony. Six hundred feet above the Bautista building. Trades the roar of the Whirlyjet for the roar of Galileo’s  nine point eight meters per second per second in his ears. Five hundred. Three hundred. One. Pops his ‘chute, conquers the din, floats. His contact waits below. Her name is Izzy. She’s a spy, gathering intelligence for the Army of Chaos, a rebel born. 

Later, Izzy and Fortuna will discuss Rico. Oh yes they will.

The Stone Cold Heart(h)

Hearthstone Noir

Another rough day in the city with nothing to show for it but a half-empty bottle of Old Noggenfogger and a Piloted Shredder. Little guy was hanging in there, but he was down to two health after a clumsy dance with Sludge Belcher’s cousin Slime. Across the board, Confessor Paletress stood on a busted-up stairway to heaven, and you know how the song is sung: “There are two paths you can go by.” For me, a lifetime of good intentions had more or less sent me in the opposite direction. We’re talking Rank 10. I’ve seen more Paladin secrets than Garrett’s seen hairstyles.

What could I do. I ended my turn, and wondered if maybe that Overwatch all the kids were talking about was worth a gander.

Garrison Commander arrived. Wonderful. That’s sarcasm, by the way, if you’re taking notes. The boy with the angel’s face healed himself for two, and then she walked in. Legs up to her hips, and that pale blue skin only a banshee queen can pull off and not look like a cosplay kid with serious daddy issues and a mountain of therapy bills.

Her red eyes stared through my soul, or at least what was left of it. “I have no time for games,” she said. Another self-heal, and next came Doctor Seven: PhD, RNG, FML. I dutifully reached for the concede button and the other half of that Old Noggenfogger, when priest-boy offered, “My apologies.”

Something about that apology stuck in my craw. Maybe I was going down, but not without a fight, damn it. I ran my good old Shredder into Sylvanas, and who should decide to show his face but Mr. Doomsayer. I tossed a handy Arcane Shot at the banshee queen, muttering “Thanks for the mammaries”. The Sayer walked over to the other side, and I managed a Webspinner and a token Steady Shot for good measure before ending my turn.

The Doom did his duty and made everything go away. Including my spinner, and my empty hand was graced by none other than the King himself. Mr. Krush and I were old friends. On my turn, I introduced him to the priest.

They didn’t get along too great.

Finished The Witness

Finished The Witness. Again. I mean I did the 7 lasers, down the mountain, flying elevator ending. And then I did the Final Challenge, got the last hex diagram ending. Also there’s the cave hint to find the secret hotel and weird PoV ending. And now I’ve gotten all the puzzles, so I’m at 523+135+6. I still have not found all the audio logs, so I guess one more ending to go.

One can get the 664 puzzles by finishing one of several puzzles last, but the “last” puzzle would seem to me the environmental puzzles associated with the “Secret of Psalm 46” video. Ostensibly, one would solve that last puzzle, and see that one had done 664 puzzles, and wonder if that number meant anything. I Googled it– and there’s not much (or, there’s a whole heck of a lot, because pretty much everything has been mentioned, ever, online. The internet really is almost Borges’s “Library of Babel”). But what popped up at the top is Monserrat.

664 is the area code for Monserrat, a small island in the Caribbean. Hello, island? It doesn’t have the same shape as The Witness island, or, it sort of does if you want it too badly enough- roughly oval, with a mountain on one end (actually, it’s a live volcano).

But one would have, ostensibly, just listened to a lecture that pointed out the folly of trying to find meaning in all these numbers and coincidences. Or, if not folly, the meaninglessness of such a task. And yet, in that lecture was mention of Masquerade, a book that acted as a treasure hunt for a real, actual treasure buried in a real place.

Then again, Masquerade said, in no uncertain terms, that there was treasure to be found. The Witness does not make this claim. And besides, what would one do, fly to Monserrat? If one could afford to just up and fly to Monserrat, what does one need with treasure.

Afterall, the other video lectures speak to:

  • Art as interpretation only, with science being the only discipline where reality is created (via change)
  • Giving up what you “want”
  • Recognizing that you are all that exists and where you are is the only place that exists
  • Completing a task is a kind of death
  • There is no one reality, but levels of complexity that depend on a define one another.

Taken together, this all speaks to there not being any significance to the Montserrat Coincidence. If one were to go there, to “check things out,” the trip itself would (have to) be its own reward.

We look for meaning in things, desperately, and the result is art. That’s all fine and good, and one could take a trip to Monserrat to look for meaning there. No matter what one found, one could write a book about the trip. Or make a documentary. Or post a blog of photos taken on location. The search for meaning creates meaning. There’s a seductiveness to that– back in the day when scientists were really getting fired up about quantum mechanics, they were, more or less, finding all of the stuff that they thought they would find. It was almost as if they created realities just by looking at them. Schrodinger’s cat, Heisenberg’s Uncertainty, all of that coming into play via real-life experiments.

The Witness is a piece of art. (What else could it be). I suppose if enough people got enthused about the Monserrat Coincidence, and did something about it, reality could change. The island might see an uptick in tourism. The game’s creator might decide to go there and hide clues to the game’s sequel. But now we’re getting into the realm of will. How would you feel if you were to have come across the game a year from now, solved all 664 puzzles, looked it up, got excited, flew to Monserrat, and found a bunch of gamers there who said they did the same thing as you, found nothing, and decided to make something for people to find anyway.

A little disappointed? I would be. Not unlike when the writers of “Lost” finally admitted that they were making it up as they went along. We want there to be meaning and purpose. But at the end of the day, there is no meaning without a Creator and a Grand Design, and let’s face it, belief in a creator can only stifle curiosity.

Hather, Crusader

Daily writing exercise, 750words.com

Backstory for one of the characters I play in Diablo 3.

fiction by Jason Edwards

Hather, Crusader, born of the unholy union between an Angel and the human woman he seduced. Ludicrous to say he. It fell from the sky, a casualty of war, and destroyed a farm in its falling. A young girl came across the body, not alive but possessed of never-dead, and she was taken by its utter beauty, that touch of God, a shred, a figment, and for itself her sudden awe struck it, too, as a mirror is struck, a wicked kind of incest, rendered it a he in her emerging lust and they locked, she becoming a woman even as it became a man, and for a moment they were as one, and a child was conceived. Nephalem. Of course, the woman was a girl once more and died in child birth.

But before she died she was outcast, of course, and the baby was to be given away, sold, for slavery, for wolf food, for ballast in the dark art of some necromancer’s spell. But the baby was half angel, half possessed of the never-dead, and lived. And grew. Taller and stronger than those around her. Beautiful in a terrible way. Only the blindest of lust merchants were too soul-blackened to be afraid, and they for their efforts wound up broken, sometime in half.

When the Crusade came through on a march from one holy place to the next, she joined them. Despite their strict forbidding. She attached herself to a knight, himself a sad and brooding man having lost his wife and child in a fire, having only joined the Crusade because he was too cowardly to work his own death himself. He barely noticed her, ignored utterly the whispers and gossip that ran through the army and its baggage.

She watched his every move, in camp, in battle, and soon she too took up arms. her size and strength lent themselves well to combat, and when the camp was assailed one night by brigands, it was Hather who stood triumphant over the bloody bodies. Alas, one of these was her master, who had finally won his hard-sought reward.

Hather dressed herself in his armor, took his name, and carried his standard in the wars. After a time, few remembered where she’d come from or that there was even a knight before her. And her deeds in fighting were glorious. This army of holy knights beat back infidels in every dark corner of the globe, their leader taking them deeper and deeper into lands long forsaken for their demonic influence.

The deeper they went, the harder she fought, and though they always won the day, pyrrhic victories whittled the crusader’s forces. The fought devils, demons, hellspawn, and slew them all, until the company was but a dozen men and Hather herself, each of them hardened and honed by surviving terrible engagements to be evil’s greatest fear.

Their leader was possessed of a holy zeal, bordering on the unnatural, and he found passage to some of the most terrible places in existence. The fought the damned’s lieutenants, entire legions of evil incarnate, cutting a swath through hell until they came finally to Lucifer’s throne, Pandamonium, where they faced Diablo himself.

Ludicrous to say himself. Diablo, it, the Prime Evil, fifteen feet tall, razor sharp claws of steel, a mouth full of fangs dripping with poison, eyes of fire, and horns drenched in the gore of those judged wicked. Hather was numb-struck, for all the prime evils have that same shred, that figment of God, but in the devils, corrupted, turned in on itself, a rip in the fabric of God’s universal existence.

In all her years of battle and warfare, Hather had only ever fought through skill of arms and triumphed by virtue of her might and strength. But on this day she found herself ovecome with rage-lust. She flung herself at Diablo and locked with him in terrible combat. As Diablo called his minions around him, the last of the Crusade’s company fell, as did the devil spawn, until only the Prime Evil and Hather remained.

They fought for days, Pandamonium falling down around them. Hather’s sword flashed, her shield slammed against Diablo’s attacks, which grew more and more feeble as the fight raged, and though Hather, too, received grievous wounds, they only made her swing her sword faster, until Diablo’s body was cut in two.

Hather stood over the Prime Evil’s body, and knew that this was only the beginning. For evil never really dies. Hell melted away around her, and she was left standing on a plateau at the foot of Sanctuary. In the distance, a star fell from the sky, a sign that her journey must begin again. And so she rode, this time alone.

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