To MOO and back

As I sit here writing this it is twenty to four in the morning. I am up this late due to a relatively obscure (I hope) MOO. MOO, if anyone who didn’t instantly think of cows is wondering, MOO stands for MUD object oriented. This is extremely annoying as it is possibly the only example of an abbreviation living within another abbreviation. MUD stands for Multi-use domain and you didn’t need to know any of that.

So, hellMOO. HellMOO can be made to sound like a perfectly normal modern game. It is set in a post apocalyptic world, where you must do anything to survive. It has a skills system and a levelling system but that is where the comparison to normal games ends. It is entirely text based, with vivid descriptions replacing what might have been grimdark brown and bloom graphics and you start off the game, your very first; mission, quest, whatever, killing rabid orphans in the local orphanage. You can now see where it starts getting good.

The orphans, with such names as “Baby Timmy” and “Little Susie” can all be killed for cash and xp. You hunt them down, type in “Kill Baby Timmy” and a automatic fight sequence occurs where you are told that you just carved a chunk out of Baby Timmy’s leg. There are also fatality moves that happen often enough, which have you doing things like shoving your knife through their back and spearing their weakly beating heart on the end of your knife.

In typical roleplay style, you can and will need to fulfil some needs. Hunger, thirst and bladder are all present, leaving you to hack the legs off of the toddlers you slaughter and eat it raw, whilst sipping water from the tap and then pissing on their corpse. Yes, you can do that. If you want to, and the victim is male, you can wash down their penis with a mouthful of moonshine.

Another need that needs fulfilling is the stress meter. This is filled by sexual frustration and stressful activities and drained in a few ways. You can have consensual sex with the other players or prostitutes or you can use the grab and strip commands to rape the young orphans that are running amok. This is a game where within five minutes of playing you have probably ripped someone’s heart out, eaten a penis and raped an orphaned child.

The character building in hellMOO has you running around your hometown in search of items to bring into the bomb shelter. These items affect your skills later on; you can get a pocket knife for blades, a ninja mask for sneak, a lighter for torture and even a pair of panties to improve your fuck skill. Yes, there is a fuck skill. Now might be a good time to mention that you start out in the game as a 13 year old.

There really is too much too hellMOO to fit in one review. I’ve said as much as I can to peak your interest in the game and I would hope that you can least try it. It’s very confusing at first though, so if you are trying it out read this guide.

It should get you on your way to your first murder/rape in no time.

The glorious PC master race

The glorious PC master race

My ascent into the ranks of the master race of gaming began one dark August night, as my first windows computer since I was 11. Since then my gaming thirst had been quenched by the combined might of the Xbox 360 and the Nintendo Wii and my computer ran on Mac OS. Surely, by now, many of you will have stopped reading and ran off, screaming and ranting of Macfags and consoletards or some such nonsense. Of course; this article talks about how I went from this to how I am now, which is equipped with a decent PC and gaming my way to certain social death. This, is an exaggeration, you will need to get used to that concept, I use it often.

My PC currently has a variety of games on it but I am mostly playing TF2. You see, I was, until recently, playing this on the Xbox 360 and the leap from console to PC, in this case at least, is amazing. The unlockable content is all available, the game has been patched, the community plays better and are more friendly occasionally. It was glorious. As I have said before, the master race.

http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1310/1391558239_217c7232ea.jpg
Top notch work as usual, google.

The Xbox version, by comparison; looks far, far worse. Glitches have spread like bacteria and multiplied, the unlockables are no where to be seen, we are left with the 5 or so maps that TF2 had when it very first came out and last and probably worst, the userbase is made up of people from Xbox live. I have it from an extremely reliable source that Xbox live kids are the same people responsible for youtube comments and yahoo answers.

http://lh4.ggpht.com/_MsZb8mYFoCs/SfNMBot-NPI/AAAAAAAAGGU/Ve8LiutLOq8/s576/gf-period-yahoo-1.jpg

Yep. These guys.

I’m not saying that either side is better of course and if you read the title or rest of the article, that seems like a lie. I assure you it isn’t. The reason I think this way is probably just because the few games I wanted to play a lot were simply quite a lot better on PC. TF2, Oblivion and a lot of Xbox games. You may be wondering why I mentioned the Wii once up there then abandoned it. It failed me, let it never darken my television again.

Grim Work video

So, it is finally made. No writing update this week though. I'll probably be using some of the other things i've written to make more films so expect more of it on the youtube account. I'll say if it's been updated. http://www.youtube.com/user/humanshumanshumans enjoy

Fancy Dress pt.2

Hahaha so so so late. Next week, probably slightly late as well, i will be linking you to the video of the A grim work that i mentioned i would be doing at some point. Along with some sort of writing as well of course. Ah well. Look this way to the thrilling conclusion!

We are now up to date. Martin is sitting outside the house, his face a deathly shade of white. Oh yes, he is sad, very sad indeed. This is because he doesn’t quite realise what has happened. What has happened, of course, is that he has ceased to be a man. He is now a creature of limbo, rejected for now by both heaven and hell, his ghoulish figure is cursed to walk the earth until decisions are made as to where he is going. In short, a ghost. This is a vitally important thing to know if you are in that sort of situation. Martin, not being the one for supernatural nonsense, does not realise this.

He stands up. The rain falling through him as he trudges along the road, trudging is a hard thing to do as a ghost, as it implies heavily treading on the floor but Martin was determined that trudging was the best thing to do. He was confused. He felt the knife sink in his neck but now he was up and walking and he felt surprisingly happy. “No,” he thought, “I am trudging through the rain, I am angry and confused and I am not happy.” Now Martin was trudging through the rain; angry, confused and not in the least bit happy. At all. Nope. With that bit of happiness out of the way he decided to set his priorities straight. The word phone drifted through his head. His phone was still inside because we were made to leave them in a bowl by the door. Right; inside then, he looked over to see the door gaping wide open.

Inside, he spotted the bowl almost immediately. A garish, striped, plastic thing. The sort of thing made for throwing away. He reaches in and picks up his phone, with little to no difficulty. He places it in his pocket *seefh bang* it falls through and hits the floor. “A hole in my pocket,” he mumbles reassuringly. He then realises that he is reassuring himself and that cannot be a good thing. He picks up the phone and notices the missed calls and text message alerts plastering the top of the screen. He looked down at his thumb hitting the button just in time to see it go clean through it. He threw the phone to the floor and ran out the door. He had been in the dark inside and as he ran out the flashing red and blue lights swarmed for attention over a woman being pushed into a car and a body being hauled into an ambulance in a body bag. He needed to get away, to get home.

On his way home he took his hat off, still in fancy dress as he was, he looked pretty ridiculous. He grabbed at the hat, perched atop his head and in a fruitless attempt to remove the spectral garment, tripped over a crack in the pavement and fell. As he fell, bracing himself for pain that never came, he could feel nothing. He didn’t feel scared about the fall, he wasn’t worried about injury. In place of his is emotions was a gap. It felt strangely empty, almost as strange in fact as when his knees and one of his arms went through the floor. He screamed.

“Calm down,” he told himself, as he slowly built up an intense state of panic. “It’s just the blood loss, you’re having hallucinations.” The second part of this statement came in his head rather than out loud which made him feel much better about everything. He righted himself and decided to go home, if he ran he could make it in time to tuck his son into bed and he could probably blag a few days off work. Right, that sounded good.

As he reached his house, his head was rushing with the events that happened today. A flash of silver as something was plunged into him. The wail of sirens as an ambulance arrived. He lent up against the door gasping for nothing through the fake beard attached with string to his face. The hairs flew into his mouth and fell to the floor. He was on the verge of fainting as he began to remember exactly what had happened- the knife; he was stabbed, crazy people, ambulance. He fell through the door and landed in the floor. He suddenly jumped back out of the floor, remembering why he rushed so much to get here. Sneaking up the stairs, he groggily reached for the handle of his sons room. His hand slipped off. Well, through to be more precise. He tried opening the door several times, until finally the door clicked and slowly swung open.

His son lay in bed, barely staying awake waiting for his dad to come home. The door swung open and he looked up, but no-one was there. He got up and looked outside, before closing the door. He got into bed and looked around. In the corner was his father; to him a pale white, almost transparent old man with a gaping knife wound
Running word count: 1412
in his stomach. The fancy dress costume still on him, he had forgotten. His son screamed and dove under the covers. But as Martin ran to him, trying to console him. He began to glow from within and simply disappeared. He had successfully scared someone and was considered worthy of another life.

Fancy Dress pt.1

Holy shit, it's actually a friday update? Yep. This is something I am writing for English, when I'm finished it will be about 1300 words; anywhere between 1000 and 1500 really but, it's probably about 1300. This is only about 50o of the 1300 words at the moment but I think if it's cut off here, it can seem like my usual length stuff. Next week: The thrilling conclusion!

Martin West was just a man. I would, at this early stage, like to point out the importance of the use of the past tense in the previous sentence. It is very important. As of now he is sitting on the pavement outside his house looking very sullen indeed: his face a deathly cold shade of white, it seems as though there is something wrong, people swarm near him but nobody notices; the usual activities that you expect a sullen ex-man to be participating in. There is a good reason for this. He is a man torn asunder by grief; ropes securing his arms are tied to the twin horses of guilt and regret. To modernise this they could be cars. Back to the matter at hand; the man is sad, at least, he was a man. There is a story behind this strange, vaguely supernormal event. Here it is.

Martin West stood still, completely rooted to the spot and displaying many of the qualities of an oak tree. “Ah... Hello there.” He muttered, under everyone’s breath but his own. Before him stood Susanne the Debt collector. She stared him in the eyes, the kind of stare that made you wish you weren’t frozen to the spot by the kind of stare that freezes you to the spot. Then she decided to speak.

“You’re late” her voice seemed to be forced out of her mouth, as if it didn’t want to hear itself, which was understandable. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard or for a less cliché approach; like an un-oiled seesaw manned by the two most determined children to ever exist. “You’re late, your money is late and Mr. Brown doesn’t stand for that sort of thing.” It was at this point she remembered that she was carrying a large knife and talking with her hands as much. “So?” She said, awaiting a reply from the now ridiculously nervous Martin West stood before her, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

“In my defence; there is no Mr. Brown, I have to debt to him or indeed anyone else and you have recently escaped from the local crazy house. I would very much appreciate it if you lowered the knife, please.” By this point of course Martin was so scared that the simple, speech limitations that came with being terrified had left him entirely, along with what there was of his courage and all of his sweat. He now stood like a statue awaiting almost certain death.

“You make a fair point, statue-like man, but I’ll have you know that the last man who tried to confuse me with tricky rhetoric died of several stab wounds to the neck” she smiled the smile from hell as the raised the knife as though she was fencing, “have at you, good sir!”

Martin could do nothing but stare blankly into space as the knife slid into his neck, for a brief moment metal replaced his muscle, his blood and his skin then left nothing. Susanne knocked Martin to the floor, sitting on his chest and continuously stabbing at his throat as she hummed an eerie song and the onlookers; all dressed as various animals, historical figures and such, stared in blank shock as the fancy dress party was bought to a halt.

Hitchhiking

I couldn't find the real origin of the "Hitchhiker's thumb" due to a condition that effects the thumb going by the same name. Damn it google. Oh yeah, this is supposed to be set in like, Victorian era England, therefore; horses and carts. Ah, and if you have the time follow the banner to venganza, under the blog archives. It's pretty lovely.

A man stood alone, in a field. This man, although he would never know it, would go on to create a worldwide phenomenon. He had been walking for hours and in the grand scheme of things, he may not have walked at all. No closer to his destination than he was before. Off in the distance he saw the worn away path that passed as a road. People would often ride their horse through here, sometimes pulling a cart behind them. He decided to try it and set off with renewed vigour, towards the path. He got there just in time to flag down a horse and cart; his luck seemed to be changing. A man stepped off the cart and held up a piece of paper to his face. It read: “John Butler, wanted for: Gross dereliction of payment x3.” He pulled it away and held the paper next to his face, the artist’s impression giving him an idea of what he looked like. He gulped as he saw the look of glee wash over his smug face.
“You know what this means? Eh? You know what the punishment is for this sort of thing?” He laughed at him through every word, not with his voice, but with the smirk printed seemingly permanently on his lips. John shook his head; resigned now to his fate, even if it wasn’t him; this man was convinced. That was all that counted. The man came closer to John, the smell seeming to leap from him directly up John’s nostrils and said five words, which made John reel back in horror. “Say goodbye to your fingers.”
“What‽ No! You can’t…er… not without a fair trial!” Said John, frantic to get even the slimmest chance at keeping his fingers.
“Sorry mate, no trial for you, I cut your fingers off, my mate here patches you up…” John looked at thumb of the man and to where he was pointing. In the cart was a doctor. “… And we leave you here. I’ve got my orders. Don’t worry though; I’ll be leaving your thumb. Can’t be too cruel now, can we?”
With that the man pulled out a large, jagged knife from his pocket and before he knew it he was being held by his wrist. A second later he felt the warm metal pierce his little finger, he looked down. Beyond the blood now pouring from what was once was his little finger, he saw the look of happiness spreading along the man’s face and further still the doctor in the background, waiting idly for the man to finish. He looked down again, only his index remained. He faded from consciousness.
John woke in a haze, he had lost a lot of blood and his head was still spinning. He remembered what had happened and quickly looked down at his fingers or, where they used to be. All that remained was stumps, burned where the wound was to heal it over. He clenched his hand into a crude imitation of a fist, his thumb the only thing to look the part. He sat up, feeling grass beneath him; he was still near the road. He looked around for a way to the nearest town. A horse off in the distance pulled a cart towards him. He stuck his mutilated hand in the air, still clenched. His thumb the only thing poking out; the cart began slowing down and, walking towards it, asked where they were going. “Just down the road, to the market town. We’re traders.” Came the reply.
“May I request a ride there?” Slurred John, still slightly dizzy from the blood loss. “I am quite incapacitated. As you may well be able to see.” He held his hand up for the traders to see. They seemed shocked.
“You’ll need to get a doctor for that lad. Get in, we know a man.”
John thanked them and climbed into their cart, sitting next to the man who had been talking to him.
“A good way of getting our attention that was. We figured you were sticking your thumb out. We were gonna ask you why. Better’n stickin’ your hand out at least.”
And with that, the hitchhiker’s thumb was born.

Professional Nazi

This is, I think, the first script I have uploaded here so it might not make for ideal reading material. A couple of things; New logo lol and some information. I will be eventually making this script and probably "A grim work" into videos with Humans Humans Humans (AKA a few friends of mine) I'll keep you updated on it from here and tell you if we get it filmed. But I ramble, enjoy:

We see a man in a suit standing around, anywhere will do. Somewhere completely unrelated perhaps? Such as a park or beach. He is walking along the beach seemingly uninterested in the camera and is walking along with no regard to where it is.

Presenter

Well, today we have the opportunity to speak to one of these people about the that they do. We are going to the house of one of these men.

Shot of the man turning and walking into the distance. Scene changes, we are now in the house of PROFESSIONAL NAZI. The camera is positioned over his shoulder and we can see the back of his head, a large light or lights are being shined onto the PRESENTER.

PRESENTER

So, what exactly does your job entail? Tell us as much as you can.

PROFESSIONAL NAZI

Well, I'm mostly freelance, it works in a similar fashion that a small business would; I am phoned by someone who requires my services and we arrange the location, levels of racism and method of payment, simple really.

PRESENTER

It's a bit of a taboo subject though isn't it? And I imagine it's been hard keeping yourself anonymous with the current amount of attention on people in your situation.

PROFESSIONAL NAZI

It has been hard, yes, I won't deny that but it comes with the profession I'm afraid and I can't stop any of that from happening. It has always happened, as you would expect, mainly whilst I was on the job but it still affects me, you know?

PRESENTER

Yes, yes. Of course. Now, a pressing question and, obviously we don't expect you to reveal the names of any clients but...well. What type of people hire you? And for what situations?

PROFESSIONAL NAZI

Well, well... All sorts really! People you wouldn't expect to be doing it. I get people asking to go to things like funerals and be racist there or just doing for a stag night or something, you know, for a bit of a laugh, the one I find funniest is the KKK. They ring me up all the time asking me to fill in for them at their silly meetings. I must tell you it is funny there, you've no idea, but you know, brotherhood confidentiality (he laughs)

PRESENTER

Well finally, and sorry if this seems a bit rude but you don't strike me as the type to get into this. Why choose this career?

PROFESSIONAL NAZI

Well, I must tell you now, I am not a racist man and as for the career choice, who said i chose it. It's not the sort of career you choose, you fall into it after failing damn near everything else. No-one chooses the life of the professional nazi.

PRESENTER

Well, thank you for your time.

PROFESSIONAL NAZI

No problem.

Camera fades to black as the interview comes to a close.