Short Story Weekly: Ramblin' Raiders LEET

     This Short Story Weekly is a Sci-Fi, stand looking back now, is  partially, subconsciously  influenced by books like A Clockwork Orange, and Ready Player One, both of which I noticed after I started writing. 

The last thing I ever wanted to do was kill my seahorse. It was a noble Pisces steed, and it was gallant cyber show, and real bossa nova wingding capitalist. The Milton Berle was quinine forsythia, a mellow 2099, rocking in another fritz of a century. Killed my seahorse, had to do it, couldn't go another day without a pop duster, real Dr. Pepper style, gotta love Dr. Pepper style. 

   Living in the Chi, it was real chia pet man, all loss, no gain on the bullies, but I never gave a shitstain, man, I was a real go-getter mother fucker. Pass the Faygo kinda guy, not much less than a haypenny sitting on a mouse turd. Still, I was a nasty gasher, one of the best, and in-need of a good bag. Haven't bagged since Romulus 1. Still, OPP-sicRR was my tag, and I was a stone-cold killer, no-lag excuse, I gashed with the best. 

    I had thousands of frags, millions of muggles watching from afar, batty boy bad asses bopping in the plasma, couldn't hold a candlestick park to my ass. I rocked their bums in the 4K, and sliced their eyes in the V.R.  You ask around, you know me, people do. They think I'm batty boy, real quinine, but I'm just that damn good.  For a Gary Cooper, I was putting on the Ritz, not many follow, but it was all bass, no treble. 

    The tourney was live at five, the teams were picked, Ramblin' Radiers was our birthmark, and we are the baddest flower pots to ever drop on a bandit's it's head. First place was 500K,  not too shabby for a  LAN, not that I was complaining, because I was hurting, and after killing my seahorse, I was gonna have to really break the swine, dig up the old satchel because I was done good with no chump change to even keep the wind turbines running. 

     I gathered my group, our clan was strong, we had not taken a frag in a long time. The name of the game was Furyite: a classic model 2-D shooter with 3-D peripherals. It was running on the Surreal Engine 2 a predecessor to some old fogey dinosaur, that could barely start-up my tablet.  It was a five-on-five winner-take-all death match, as classic as it gets for a John Wayne showdown. 

   We gathered on the server,  the game was set, real Milton Berle, real class-act the other clan was, already on time. We would slaughter them, Ramblin' Raiders didn't leave anything unfinished on the killing floor. I had a montage of past rounds flicker in my mind's eye. All those frags, all those wins/losses, the algorithm surrounding my membrane-sheeted grey box. We were ready. 

     Loaded up, headed out, the match began in thirty seconds, and I was without a single opponent that had the time, or the talent. That money was all for the Raiders' taking, and it was going to be super sweet.  OPP-sicRR, JetsamRR, AlloyboyRR, SapphireUnicornRR, and DeviliciousRR  made up the Ramblin' Raiders, and we were taking on Hiatchii296FF, with his four wingmen: Gopher_HoleFF, SallyRideorDieFF, MortalWombatCarFF, and XerxesScattershotFF of the clan Frequent Flyas. 

     The map was Nuketown, one that's been around since the 128-bit era. This variation was almost too real, super real, crazy Donkey Kong bullshit, but it was the exclusive look. The match stars instant epistle, like it was going on since the dawn of time. I get out my buzzsaw, and it was gonna be all Lestherface for the first round, tearing up assholes real fast. After Hiatchi fell, the frest followed. Jetsam, my righthand boombastic blammer, went all John Wayne, real six-shooter-like,a,no took out there of the four wingmen. Rrequent Flyas were down, and went all Hindenburg on the map. Fifteen more rounds until we ran the map.  Five up, five down, we lost a few good men along the way, but we took to he first round, and I could feel that cold hard cash in my carpal tunnel grip. 

      The next round split the difference, it wasn't our map, it wasn't our time, and we went to sudden death. We lost on Winter Row, falling 16 rounds to 12. That was a nasty onslaught, went Nagasaki in. no-time.  The third round, was a new map, forced upon us by the aN hosts, and it was brutal, really, really brutal. It was a firefight like no other. The game was set, fourteen to fourteen. ThenFrequent Flyas capped me, and I was out a round. Next thing I know it's fifteen to fourteen. We were behind, and they had match point. 

      Then it was over....boom, boom, boom, boom, and one nice thud against the back of my avwtwr's  head. My pappy would've said we were pwned. I called it tenderfooted. So we lost the match, we lost the money,and life began to make less sense to me....why was I here, why was it that no matter how good we knew we were,mew lost in Chi, and the reality was we were still in Chi. I guess, we were done, but it was all horrorshow. 

       Years later, I  grew up, dropped the turf slang, and left the Ramblin' Raiders to Jetsam. They went on to be world champions, and now I xerox 3-D prints for thirty dollars an hour, fucking slave wages. In-the-end, shit was cold. So why tell this story? Why admit I was that close to being Final a Boss? We were in a time of Milton a error, the classiest ass ever, and now I was delving deep in the era of Tom  Arnold.....life just sucked silver robot balls. 

     Thank you for reading this obscure story about playing video games. I don't get it either, but maybe the point isn't supposed to get it, but if you hated this story, I truly apologize, but I like it, it's a weird little thing, and I honir it for what it is.