Zelaron Gaming Forum - They're after me.

So this one time, I was on Zelaron. The FBI came knocking on my door and siezed my rightful property. It's not as if I cared, except the metallic implant in my head was dictating otherwise. I was mad with power; the only way to cleanse myself was to run. To RUN.

I ended up in a ditch with DFD. He had the same run-in with the communists that I did. Only difference here is that DFD had teleportation technology. I feared betrayal...I knew this sort of technology was of experimental nature and that DFD could only be half-trusted. I seized his hobo hat, and wouldn't you know it...the ditch had shifted in shape. I was now in a modern New York subway, rats et all. "This hobo technology is advanced," I said. I did not hesitate to pull out my pocket bike I had acquired in 'nam, and whisk myself away.

While riding down I-95, I didn't know what to expect. Maybe a nail on the road, maybe a small pebble. A sharp twist of fate could have delayed my trip. I was afraid, afraid of time itself. I feared DFD...maybe he was a communist too. Maybe he didn't drop me off on I-95 after all...perhaps he sent me on the road of insanity.

My destination looming over the horizon, I felt a stinging senstation down my neck. It induced the unmistakable aroma of a probe. Who's trying to read my mind? Why? What did I do? No one to trust, no one to ask. A man in blue, lonely. As time passed, I felt the information trickle into my spine. But what information did they want? I was not so sure they even wanted information, but perhaps wanted more the essence of life itself. A faux dream they were chasing. A dream on a pocket bike, headin down I-95.

I reached a redneck pit BBQ, on the brink of insanity. Like a zombie to brains, my insanity attracted me to the delicious scent of BBQ sauce. I was afraid something like this would happen, as this could be the chance the communists want. The NEED they want. I refolded my pocket bike, and reemerged it into a fork and knife. It's BBQ eatin' time.

I finished my meal, inspecting each bite for probes; one metallic chip in my head was enough. With a plate full of cleanly sucked bones, I engaged the auto-clean on the fork and knife, and retracted it into my pocket. I left a check. As I was about to leave, a buff white woman grabbed my arm and swung me into a table. "Your fancy paper money ain't no good here," she said. I stood up...my ears started to ring...the pain on my neck returned. The chip was activated.

I rose from my mess. The veins in my head throbbing, my eyes filled with the desire of challenge, the desire for rage. My energy at its peak, I asked "Is....is there any way I can pay?" The buff white woman trembled, perhaps in fear, but perhaps in the thought of what was next. "There is a way...you must win an ice cream eating contest with me." Ice cream. My rage had turned to passion, my competetive instinct overwhelmingly turned louder. To win the ice cream battle, was to win the sport of Gods. I reached into my pocket, and emerged a bowl and spoon. The battle was on.

Tune in next week for Part 2 of "They're after me: Ice cream rage - mantralord vs. buff white lady."