Those weird war-dudes have taken over our LAN gaming center
Whoa, hey, Ray – before you go inside, I gotta tell you, CyberSlam Games and Coffee hasn’t been itself this week. Here, look through the window with me. See ‘em? Those guys aren’t playing Counter-Strike. Oh no. Those warmongers are all about Battlefield 1942.
It started with that guy – no, the tall guy in the tie. He founded the ultimate Battlefield team in order to win some sort of tourney. He’s relentless. He and his buddies confiscated the eight machines behind the espresso bar and turned the place into the Cabinet War Room.
See? They’ve got maps all over the walls. Between rounds the whole team does push-ups. They’re freaks – they play Battlefield all hours of the day and night! Not like us normal people who play Coutner-Strike 24/7. I mean, look at that one guy! He’s got a parrot on his shoulder.
Now look, they’re drawing all over their maps with dry erase markers. See? They’ve got the whole map gridded with numbers and codes. This morning, the guy with the fuzzy hat led them in prayer and then they all piled into the bathroom stall. The captain yelled “CLEAR!” and then they kicked open the doors and ran into position to their computers two-by-two. And there! The guy with the tool belt pointing at the model of a tank with his pencil? Stay away from him! He’s been drinking the Schnapps since 3 PM. At dinner he clubbed Marty with a sausage because he sat down at the guy’s computer for a round of CS.
So, here’s what I’m thinking. They’ve got this huge tournament this weekend. We can’t let them win, man. If they win, they’re gonna be in the pro circuit forever. That means even MORE training – we’ll never get our LAN center back. We gotta put our heads together and find a way for them to go down. The weakest link is probably the guy in the button-down shirt – Crenshaw’s his name – he keeps running over teammates with a jeep.
I think it’s time to start “Operation Mata Hari.”
Mata Hari. Operation Mata Hari. No, Hari. HARI! Not “Dirty Harry.” No, Mata … MATA … like that chick from world war I – okay, you know what? Nevermind. Just – just, nevermind.
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