Symposia:
Short Stories About Modern Life
by
Hercules Bantas
Epub version published by Smashwords
All other electronic versions published by Campusnet
Copyright Hercules Bantas 2009
Every civilization needs to reflect on what is or is not important. In times gone by, it was knowledge, love, or honour. Things have changed.
At the dawn of Western society, great thinkers and writers such as Plato, Aristophanes, and Euripides bent their minds to the many problems that beset our fledgling civilization. Their toil played no small part in making the West what it is today. Time marches on, however, and Western civilization has evolved and changed. Sadly, Plato and his toga-wearing contemporaries are no longer all that relevant to your average iPod toting consumer.
Symposia re-casts the work of these three Hellenic writers in a way that works in today's fast paced world: A Virtual Life brings Plato's The Symposium to the online world of Sword of Valour, while Gert, Graham, and Andy share a drink and more in Consuming Passions. Sammy spills corporate blood in KPI, which is probably what Plato would have done if he found himself trapped in a corporate nightmare. Cad and the Sacred Cow is the modernisation of Euripides' Heracles, and explains The Great Financial Crisis. Now we know who is to blame. Impure Silicon, inspired by Aristophanes' Clouds, shows that while times may change, people are a constant.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents contained therein are products of the author’s imagination. Events and characters in this book are totally fictitious and any resemblance to actual incidents, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TLDR: It’s all a bunch of lies I made up. Honest.
A Virtual Life
The room is dark and feels strangely crowded despite there being only two men occupying the space. They sit side by side in front of two computer monitors that are the room’s only source of illumination. Even though the light is dim, it is possible to make out several other computers lined up on tables against three of the four walls. At the rooms centre is a table piled high with empty pizza boxes and beer bottles. An almost complete silence accompanies the gloom, broken only by the occasional tap-tap-tap of fingers on keyboards and a faint chattering noise, on the very cusp of hearing, emanating from the headphones that both men wear.
The images on the screens are spectacularly colourful. A fluid and dynamic scene of a fantasy army: warriors in heavy armour carrying swords and shields, leather clad archers armed with longbows, cowled monks armed with staves, and wizards dressed in flowing robes and carrying wands and orbs that crackle with arcane power. The scene is the same on both screens but the perspectives differ slightly.
‘Are we all here?’ asks the smaller of the two men into the microphone attached to his headphones. He taps the spacebar on his keyboard and one of the heavily armoured warriors on his screen jumps up. It wears the label “Horc” above its head. The intensity of noise coming from the headphones increases to an almost audible level.
‘We’re just waiting on Twoswords’ group,’ says the broad-shouldered man beside him, pressing the “w” key on his keyboard which propels forward an archer wearing the label “Pamen”. ‘They were held up at the Ogre camp.’
‘Twoswords, how long are you going to be?’ Horc asks into his microphone.
‘Just coming around the corner now boss,’ comes the reply in the headphones of both men. ‘We got jumped by a gank squad at the ruins. It was amusing watching them run when they realised who we were.’
Horc smiles to himself. All the characters on screen are wearing a cloak that bears the distinctive insignia of the famed Enemies of Shadow. ‘I hope you killed them all,’ he says.
‘That’s why we took so long,’ Twoswords replies. ‘One of the bloody Stalkers went into stealth and it took us ages to find her.’
‘Since she’s almost here, I’ll move my people into position,’ says Pamen. ‘Okay, groups four, five and six follow me. We need to move to the rear of the keep without the enemy seeing us. That means no ganking randoms.’
Horc watches half the army on his screen file away after Pamen. ‘For those of you who may have been afk when we went through this before, I’ll run through the plan again,’ he says into his microphone. ‘We need to get into this keep in order to take out General Tzamos, who drops the Acid Armour. No guild has been able to defeat the General thus far on any server, so getting this done will expand our epeens to monstrous proportions. Unfortunately, the evil guild Chaos Incorporated is complicating our already difficult task. I’ve heard around the traps that they don’t like us very much, and they find the thought of monstrous epeens on EoS members deeply offensive.'
Several members of the guild laugh at this statement, and the chat-box on Horc's screen. He pauses a moment to let the frivolity wind down. 'Stealthbomb has been inside,' he continues when the laughing has faded away and the "rofl's" have finally stopped scrolling through his chat-box. 'He reckons that there are about 50 or 60 Chaos Inc waiting to take us out before we get to the general’s door. We are fortunate, however, that the defence of the General has been organised by Chaosman, Chaos Inc’s less than illustrious leader. Chaosman’s plans usually come fully equipped with a fatal flaw, and this one is no exception. Stealthbomb reckons the silly buggers have set up camp at an open intersection in the keep without posting guards at the rear door, which leaves them open to attack from two sides. We are going to split into two companies.'
Once again, Horc pauses as the guild get fractious. 'Groups one, two and three, made up mostly of healers and heavy melee will be the first company and will come with me through the front door,' he continues when the noise finally dies down. 'We will hit Chaos Inc from the front and draw their melee away from the squishies. Once we have their attention, Pamen will lead the ranged and light melee fighters of company two in an assault on their back lines. If we do this well, we can take out their healers before they know what’s hit them, then clean up the other squishies and melee at our leisure.’
‘Ok, we’re here and in position,’ Pamen’s voice comes through the headphones.
‘Sending out the ready alert,’ Horc says, watching his screen where six red buttons have appeared along the left hand side, five of which turn green almost immediately. ‘What’s holding you up now, Twoswords?’
‘Just waiting for a debuff to expire,’ comes the reply, followed a few seconds later by the last button turning green.
‘OK, let’s move out,’ says Horc. ‘Remember, company one needs to concentrate on staying alive until company two hits the back lines. It’ll be 60 seconds after our initial contact, which I will announce, so no risky behaviour unless it’s absolutely necessary. Do you hear me, Kamikazeblue?’
‘Yes boss,’ a high-pitched voice answers.
Horc leads a stream of avatars through the monstrous doors of the virtual keep into the maw of a hideous army of ghouls and goblins. Screaming and cursing in their repulsive tongue, the evil legions of Chaos Incorporated charge the intruders. ‘Contact,’ he says into the microphone, and falls silent as he concentrates on applying his virtual weapon to the unreal horrors on his screen.
Twisting and turning, Horc the armoured avatar wields his virtual weapon, causing havoc to all enemies around him. Despite his mighty efforts, two sword-wielding ghouls are able to dodge past and attack a cowled monk standing several meters behind and to his left. Cursing, he disengages from the goblin trying to run him through with a spear and spins on his heels, skewering one of the ghouls with his long sword. Bringing his sword back and across, he severs the head of the goblin that has followed him while simultaneously kicking the other ghoul with his armoured virtual foot. The monk brings down his stave and a blinding flash of fire reduces both ghouls to twitching virtual corpses that quickly fade. Horc notices the body of the goblin crawling forward in a spirited attempt to regain its head, which has the label “Chaosman” floating above it. Running forward, he finishes it off with his sword and because the dead goblin is the avatar of the guild leader, he /bows to the corpse before it fades away. He is of the opinion that it always pays to be polite. ‘Bloody regen,’ he mutters into his microphone. ‘You okay there Healsforyou?’
‘Yeah, thanks boss,’ says a voice through his headphones.
Turning to face the hideous charge once more, Horc can see volleys of arrows and burning fireballs in the distance, a sure sign that Pamen’s group has engaged from the rear. The evil charge falters as many of the ghouls turn to face the new threat. Pressing the advantage and bolstered by the healing energies of the monks, Horc and his virtual army fall upon their dithering enemies and carnage ensues. By the time the two companies meet again, every member of Chaos Incorporated has met virtual death and all signs of battle have faded away. There are no corpses littering the ground, no burning buildings belching acrid smoke into the air. There has been no death. There has been no destruction.
‘Well done, people,’ Horc says into the microphone, ‘that battle was massive and awesome, possibly even epic. My counter says we took out 67 Chaos without one casualty. Outstanding! This has been a victory that they’ll be talking about on the forums for months to come.’
‘I’m posting a little taunt as we speak,’ says the voice of Twoswords. ‘Let’s do the General right away. I’ve got to pick up the kids from school in a couple of hours.’
‘Ok,’ Horc says. ‘I’ll re-arrange the groups and when all the debuffs wear off we’ll “do” him. Just don’t tell Twoswords’ husband.’ There is a general twitter in the headphones.
‘The bastard is dead below the waste so he wouldn’t give a shit,’ replies Twoswords, adding an edge of embarrassment to the twittering.
Horc taps furiously at his keyboard for a few minutes, and then looks up at the screen. Satisfied that all is prepared, he sends out the ready signal and this time all six buttons turn green simultaneously. Screaming a terrible battle cry, the massed legions of Enemy of Shadow charge in to do battle with the formidable General. The fight is long and arduous and the General’s murderous ways keep the monks busy, tending the wounded and resurrecting the fallen.
Eventually, however, the mighty virtual warriors of EoS triumph, and the hitherto undefeated General bites the dust before exploding in a shower of loot. For their trouble, each of the participants earns the title “The Respected” and a small bag of virtual gold. Horc is the first warrior in all the lands to don the fabled Acid Armour of the General, and his troops let out a cheer when he first puts it on. Lot allocates the rest of the booty, and several members receive powerful weapons and trinkets that they proudly display to their peers. It is agreed by all that Twoswords should receive the potent Sword of Virility for her outstanding contribution to the battle, and because all geeks love a little irony.
The two men get up off their chairs and stretch their legs.
‘Taking five,’ Horc says into his microphone and removes his headphones.
‘Beer break,’ says Pamen and does the same. He runs out of the room and returns with two bottles of beer so cold that moisture, condensed out of the dank atmosphere of the room, runs down their sides.
‘That was fucking awesome!’ says Horc, accepting a bottle. ‘We killed the General, we have the armour. We are gods!’
‘Now that we’ve done it, it doesn’t seem so tough,’ Pamen says. ‘With enough healing, three tanks and a shitload of DPS, he’s a piece of cake.’
‘Yeah, but remember that you have to time it all perfectly. Hit him too hard, too early and you can kiss your healers goodbye. He goes ape shit if he has more than 70% health and you hit him with anything that takes more than 2% of his health in one shot.’
Horc sits back down and takes a satisfied swig of his beer.
‘Are you going to publish a guide on this one?’ Pamen asks.
‘Nah,’ replies Horc thoughtfully. ‘I’d like to get him to farm status first and gear up the guild so we have an advantage over everyone else. Once that happens, I’ll think about it.’
‘What if someone else figures it out?’
‘Yeah, that could be a problem. We need to reduce the chance of that happening,’ Horc says. ‘We’ll set a permanent guard on the keep doors and come down hard on anyone who tries. Our biggest threat is Chaos Inc, and you saw what just happened to them.’
‘Oh yeah, I sure the fuck did,’ Pamen answers enthusiastically. ‘They won’t be tangling with EoS again anytime soon.’
‘Yeah, which is a bit of a shame,’ says Horc and dons his headphones again. ‘OK folks, we’re back. We’ll set a guard here, groups one and four should do nicely. Group one at the front and group four at the rear. There’ll be DKP for every hour done on guard duty so you won’t be missing out. Feel free to farm the area while you’re here. If you see a force big enough to threaten the General, send out a muster alert and hold them off until help arrives. He’s our little puppy now and we’re going to try and keep it that way. Everyone else, port to Central for a little dragon farming.’
Beside Horc, Pamen puts on his headphones and manoeuvres his character to the front of his group. Suddenly, a thunderous knocking rings out. The men look at one another.
‘Was that in game?’ Horc asks.
‘I don’t think so,’ says Pamen, taking off his headphones. Another knock confirms their suspicions. The real world is trying to intrude upon their virtual reality. Pamen looks at Horc, who puts his finger to his lips and makes a shushing noise. Pamen nods his head in agreement. Both men sit still and quiet, hoping to convince the real world that no one is at home. No such luck, however, and the knocking thunders a third time.
‘Slava, I know you’re in there,’ screams a feminine voice. ‘Open the fucking door or I swear I’ll go home and burn all your Pratchett books.’
Pamen explodes from his seat. ‘I’m coming, sweetness, I’m coming!’ he calls as he races to the front door.
‘You better be or it’ll be the only coming you’ll be doing for the next six months!’ says the voice.
Pamen, aka Slava, opens the door to a petite young woman who, from the looks of her, could not possibly have caused such a loud noise. ‘Hey Dimi,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?
‘It was going great till I married you,’ she says, pushing past him and making sure to stamp hard on his foot on her way through.
‘Ouch,’ says Pamen, jumping up and down while holding his injured foot. ‘That’s not nice. What the fuck is your problem?’
She wheels around to look at him, arms akimbo and feet planted firmly on the ground. ‘What’s my problem? What’s my problem? It’s been two days since anyone has seen either of you two dildos, that’s what’s my problem.’ She turns and continues her advance towards the dark room. ‘You could at least come home to sleep.’
‘Why?’ asks Pamen. He knows he is heading towards disaster but is unable to stop his mouth from talking. Two days without sleep on a diet of Pizza and beer can dull even the sharpest mind. ‘Sleep is for the weak,’ he mumbles.
The petite woman pushes into the dark room and confronts a cowering Horc. ‘For God’s sake, Alaric, you’re in your thirties. Stop playing computer games and go find someone to fuck,’ she says, looking at him and then at his computer screen. ‘You certainly can’t fuck a cartoon,’ she continues pointing at his computer, but the image of Horc’s avatar draws her eye and drains the urgency from her words. ‘Wow, is that the General’s Acid Armour you’re wearing?’ she asks, pushing past Alaric, aka Horc, for a closer look. ‘Oh my god, it is! Did you guys do the General? Fucking legends!’
Alaric (virtually Horc), beams proudly, and Slava (virtually Pamen), puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
‘A couple of days AWOL is a small price to pay for becoming a legend, don’t you think?’ Slava says.
Alaric dons his headphones and sits back down at his computer. ‘That’s it for Pamen and I today, people, we gotta run. You know, work and stuff,’ he says, but all the while his fingers are busy typing away at the keyboard. Dimi looks over his shoulder at the screen.
‘Damn right Pamen has wife agro,’ she says, ‘and there is isn’t a fucking de-taunt out there that can save his arse.’
‘That’s the general consensus,’ Horc says. ‘Pamen left his mic on when he ran to the door, they heard the whole thing. Twoswords wants to know when you’re going to log on again. She’s been saving a drop for you.’
‘Tell her to send it to Matahari, she’s an alt I’ve been working on,’ Dimi says. ‘Better still, give me the mic.’ She reaches over and picks up Pamen’s headphones.
‘Hey Swords, how’s it going?’ she says, and sits down in the chair. ‘What you got for me?’
Slava looks at Alaric, but he is staring intently at his screen and typing furiously. Feeling left out and alone, he turns on one of the other computers and sits down.
‘I thought so!’ exclaims Alaric after a few minutes, jolting Slava out of a rather enjoyable bout of self-pity. ‘Matahari has been running with us for ages. She only logged off a few hours ago, just before we decided to hit the General.’
Dimi looks up from her conversation with Twoswords and smiles at the two men. ‘Why do you think young Slava still has his testicles? At least I know where he’s been and what he’s been doing.’
Slava decides against logging into his wife’s game account- out of common courtesy and not because she has changed the password- and instead browses the official forums. ‘I see you’ve been active on the forums, my love,’ he says. ‘Your trolling ways have earned the guild a reprimand from the moderators.’
Dimi shrugs and turns back to her screen. ‘Hey Swords,’ she says into the microphone, ‘open up a private chat channel. I have eavesdroppers here.’
After a few minutes browsing the forums, Slava looks up with a “hang on a minute” look on his face. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he says. Imagination has never been his strong suit. ‘If you knew where I was and you were watching the whole time, why did you come here and break my nuts?’
Dimi looks around at her husband and shrugs. ‘I got lonely,’ she says. ‘You should, at the very least, inform your wife when you’re planning on leaving reality for the better part of a week.’
‘Fair enough,’ Slava replies,’ but it wasn’t planned, it just happened.’
‘Yeah right, and the bouncy email you set with the message “Gone to Hell, be back Friday” was a complete coincidence.’
‘Okay, so there was a little preplanning involved,’ Slava says, blushing at the ease with which his little fib was exposed. ‘I thought you were going to stay at your mother’s place for the week. Why’d you come back?’
‘Gary dropped the terrible ones in for some free babysitting,’ she says, referring to the twin tots of terror that are her nephews. ‘And from the look in dad’s eyes I could tell it was going to be me that did most of it, so I thought I’d come home and spend some quality time with my man. That was two days ago.’
Alaric looks up from his keyboard in alarm. ‘Two days ago? How long have we been at this?’ he asks, scrabbling for his mobile phone. ‘Holy shit, it’s fucking Wednesday, I’ve got a meeting with Melniak in a couple of hours!’ he exclaims and jumps out of his chair. Unfortunately, he is still wearing his headphones, which hook into his spectacles and send them flying across the room. Grumbling and squinting myopically, Horc gets on hands and knees and scrabbles in the gloom for his glasses. The cry of triumph when he finds them is truncated by his head colliding with the central table as he gets up off his knees. ‘I’m going to go for a run to clear my head before heading out,’ he says as he dashes out of the room. ‘Lock up when you go,’ he calls from the other side of the door.
Alaric races into his bedroom, changes into his running gear and sets off into the morning gloom. Running has been an escape from reality for as long as he can remember. In fact, between running, television, and leading a virtual army, he rarely spends any time at all in the ultimate reality. It’s just a place where his body hangs out while his mind wanders from world to world looking for something to do. He is well aware that lady luck has dealt him a fortunate hand. A natural communicator, his particular genius is that he can make himself understood even when using computers. This freakish skill has allowed him to build a career as a consultant to organisations eager to harness the marketing power of the new communication technologies- despite the fact that no one has actually found any marketing power in the new communication technologies. Nonetheless, the faceless bureaucrats that these organisations secrete insist on throwing vast sums of money in his direction in a vain attempt to conquer marketing’s latest, and totally imaginary, frontier. All of which has made him a very rich man and allowed him the luxury of picking when, where, and with whom he wants to work.
Smiling at his good fortune and plotting his next move against the dastardly Chaos Incorporated, Alaric’s body moves him along a well-worn path at a gentle pace. Down the road he ambles, through the park, across the big intersection, and right into the path of a silent, speeding, and fully electric Toyota. After a short, painful moment, his mind takes to wandering on its own, leaving the crumpled body behind.
Slava’s mobile phone rings. Upset at yet another disturbance during his allotted gaming time he picks it up with the intention of turning it off, but a glance at the screen shows that it is Alaric’s mother, his aunty, calling. Aware that she is a sensitive woman and that failing to heed her call could start a bitter family feud that may cut even deeper into his gaming time, he reluctantly answers.
‘Hello Thea, what’s up?’ he asks. His mouth drops open as she tells him the news. ‘I’ll be right there,’ he says and rushes out the door, grabbing his wife on the way through.
Within a few minutes, he is helping his ashen faced aunty into the car. Together, they drive to the hospital where they are ushered into a private room in which a very battered and unconscious Alaric lies.
With his aunt sitting crumpled in a chair beside him, his wife long gone to be alone with her grief, Slava sits by Alaric’s side as the minutes and hours pass. Eventually, Alaric’s eyelids flutter open.
‘Ma?’ he says. ‘Are you here? Where is Slava?’
Thea stirs in her chair, but she seems confused and unfocused.
‘Your mother is here, mate,’ Slava says. ‘We’ve been waiting here together, waiting for you to open your eyes.’
‘I’m glad you’re here with mum, Pamen,’ Alaric whispers, his words faint but clear. ‘It would be terrible if she was alone at her son’s death bed. Take care of the guild, cousin. EoS must not die with me. Promise me, Pamen, promise me.’
‘I promise,’ Slava chokes, tears rolling down his cheeks.
‘Good, that makes me happy,’ Alaric nods and reaches out to his mother. ‘Please Ma, don’t cry. It was a good life,’ he says. ‘I have one last wish, Ma, you must grant it to me. In my wardrobe is a locked box. Open it. I want to wear those clothes to the grave, and drape the flag in there over my casket. Please do this for me, as my last wish,’ he says faintly. With a satisfied look on his face, as if he has finally accomplished all that there is to accomplish in the span of a human life, Alaric draws a final breath.
(ii)
Sometime later, Slava finds himself sitting at his computer feeling detached and alone, the madness induced by Alaric’s death many hours behind him. He cannot recall a time when he and his older cousin had spent more than two or three days apart. Even on his honeymoon, Alaric and his then girlfriend had booked in at the same resort. A brief smile touches his lips as he remembers Alaric complaining that, while she was great in bed and fun to be around, their relationship was doomed because she didn’t like computer games.
They were sons of immigrants; their fathers were brothers who, together with their wives, had fled the economic and political turmoil of their homeland. The families shared a house for many years, ostensibly to save money, but in reality it was the comfort and security provided by familiar faces and customs in a strange and apparently hostile land that kept them together. Thus, the two spent their early years like brothers, and even when the strange became mundane and the families moved into separate houses, the lure of the familiar kept them close.
Slava and Alaric had played together as toddlers. They had indulged in illicit beer drinking together as teenagers. They had avoided responsibility together as adults. Now Alaric is gone and Slava hurts. Not quite knowing whether it is the right thing to do, he navigates his browser to the guild website. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he writes a short message about Alaric’s death and gives the details of the funeral, humbly requesting that all guild members who live in the area attend and pay their respects. He copies the message onto the official game forums before switching off his computer and shuffling off to his bed where he falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.
In the past, Thea has overseen family tragedies. She was the shining light that guided them through the darkness, but this time her grief is so great that it has overwhelmed her. She is unable to function beyond a superficial level, breaking down often and barely able to speak. The rest of the family are as disturbed by Thea’s state of mind as they are by Alaric’s death, and are unable to offer any support beyond the occasional kind word. The responsibility, therefore, falls on Slava’s broad shoulders and he toils through his pain.
Despite her grief stricken state, Thea is adamant about one detail- that they honour Alaric’s dying wish. This is why Slava looks down at a corpse dressed in shiny plate mail armour with a fake jewel-encrusted broadsword resting on its chest, and why a banner bearing the EoS symbol lies over the casket. Anxiety, a companion almost as familiar to Slava as was Alaric, is making itself felt through his pain and grief. Alaric had never been a gregarious fellow and had very few friends. What if they gave a funeral and nobody came? Looking at the corpse, Slava is ashamed at the thought that, quite possibly, a sparsely attended funeral may be a positive development for Alaric’s memory. Turning from the inappropriately dressed remains, he ducks out of the side door of the church to have an illicit cigarette before anyone arrives.
Outside, the sun hides behind black, roiling clouds making the day dark and gloomy. Cupping his hand in front of his face to protect against the fierce wind, Slava strikes a match and applies the flame to a cigarette held between his lips. Inhaling deeply, he lifts his head and takes in his surrounds for the first time, looking out over the church courtyard and the wide boulevard beyond. Bitter, life stealing, blue smoke wafts from between his lips as he stands staring at the unbelievable scene before him. Hundreds of people stream past the fence towards the church and at least some of them are here for the funeral. Definitely all the ones dressed as heroes, goblins and ghouls.
Crushing his barely tasted death-stick beneath his heel, Slava darts back into the church hoping to catch his aunty before she sees some of the more colourful characters attending her son’s funeral. A little foreknowledge may be the difference between a hissy fit and a heart attack, but he is too late. Some of the colourful crowd have already entered the church, and a group of three imitation avatars have engaged Thea in conversation. ‘Aunty,’ he calls, as he takes the holy steps three at a time, ‘it’s okay, they’re Horc’s friends.’
Thea turns surprised eyes in Slava’s direction. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she says to the assembled pseudo avatars, ‘this is my nephew Slava and he loved his cousin very much. I think the grief has upset him.’
‘It’s understandable,’ says a leather clad avatar with a familiar voice.
‘Twoswords?’ asks Slava as he reaches the colourful company.
‘Pamen!’ she exclaims and embraces him.
‘You know one another?’ asks Thea. ‘Does Dimi know? And who is Horc?’
‘Alaric was Horc,’ says Slava, disengaging himself hurriedly from Twoswords embrace lest his wife see and get the wrong idea. Even though Twosword’s outfit is a good imitation of what she wears in game, Slava is very conscious of the fact that it accentuates rather than protects. While unsuitable for battle, it has the potential to cause considerable conflict.
‘It was his in-game name,’ he continues, ‘and all these people here are his friends that he played with.’
Thea casts her eye over the growing crowd in the church. ‘All of them?’ she asks. ‘Even the ghouls in the corner?’
‘Most definitely,’ Slava replies, ‘he was very popular.’
‘Alaric? Popular?’ says Thea, sounding more than a little surprised. She looks out over the crowd again and smiles for the first time in many days. Even in death, Alaric is full of surprises. ‘Then we had better let them talk,’ she says and hands Slava a piece of paper. ‘These people have come to ask if they can say a few words about my son. If they were truly his friends then we should not stand in their way. The speakers will appear in the order they are listed.’
Slava looks at the paper and notes four names: Chaosman, Yrril, Twoswords, and Pamen. ‘Aunty, these aren’t even proper names,’ he complains. ‘They’re just the names of characters, and I’m one of them!’
‘Are they known to you?’ she asks.
‘Yes, but only as characters in a game. I’ve never actually met them in person,’ he says.
‘I’m sure you can work it out,’ Thea responds, ‘help a frail old woman. I am going to sit down with your parents now, Slava. You have been such a help. Only a little further and it will all be over.’
Slava watches as his aunty strides away. The large numbers of people coming to pay their respects to Alaric have had a positive effect on her and she seems more like the Thea that they all know and fear. He can think of many words to describe her. Frail is not one of them.
Church functionaries shoo Slava and the small group of colourfully dressed mourners to the pews as the religious service gets under way. Slava prays for a little divine help during the speeches because he can foresee nothing but disaster. He wishes Alaric was here and then remembers that he is, dressed in plastic armour and in no condition to help.
Once the gods have been appeased, the church functionaries drag Slava to the altar before disappearing through a door behind the stage. Never the best at public speaking, Slava blinks at the crowd and then consults his notes.
‘We grew up as brothers, Alaric and I, facing everything together and in all those years I cannot recall a single unkind act. I have always found it strange that Alaric, for all his goodwill and kindness, was such a misunderstood man in our family, considered by many a loner and recluse. The numbers here today would indicate that he was anything but. Alaric spent much of his life sitting at his computer from where he made many, many friends. Many of you here today may have known him as Horc and have never met him face to face, but that does not mean you did not know or care about Alaric.’ Slava consults the list that Thea had handed him earlier. ‘I would like to introduce Chaosman, Horc’s greatest rival and leader of Chaos Incorporated,’ he says and cedes the lectern to a small man dressed as a goblin warrior (complete with green face paint) and wearing a cape decorated with a stylized illustration of a severed arm.
Chaosman stands up at the lectern and produces a handful of paper from beneath his cloak. He shuffles the scraps into an arrangement that pleases him and then takes a moment to read the first page. ‘Horc was not my friend,’ he says, leaning towards the microphone. Slava drops his head into his hands and wishes Alaric were still alive to see this. Chaosman appears to be no more than 15 years of age.
‘In fact,’ continues Chaosman, in his squeaky pubescent voice, ‘he was my sworn enemy. I have many, many enemies because of my leet fighting skills and tactical genius, but Horc was my greatest one. He was different from all the others because he was honourable. He knew what honour was, he knew how to behave honourably. Many guild leaders think they know about honour, but they are neubs compared to Horc.’ Chaosman looks down at his notes and shuffles onto the next page. ‘The last time I saw Horc,’ he continues after taking a moment to read the new page, ‘we was involved in a big battle in which he zerged us and defeated us by overwhelming numbers. I had him at my mercy when he must have hit his iwin button and cut my head off. Instead of lol-ing at my corpse like every unhonourble guild leader neub out there, Horc bowed. He bowed because he knew that I was a leet fighter and he had won by luck. He bowed because he knew what honour is and what it means to be honourable.’
Once again, Chaosman pauses and shuffles his notes, taking another moment to read the new page. ‘But this is not the only time Horc was honourable towards me and my guildies. He understood that while we are evil in the game, we are not really evil in the real world. Not always that evil, except when I get angry, and then there is trouble, but that does not happen much anymore. Much.’ Chaosman pauses to wipe the sweat from his brow, transferring much of the green face paint from his forehead onto his sleeve.
It is obvious to Slava that public speaking is a weakness in Chaosman’s skill set, nearly as bad as his tactical nous.
‘One day, we was having a big war in the Darklands. Me and my guildies were doing okay, even despite being zerged by Horc and EoS and we was outnumbered at least 3 to 1,’ Chaosman pauses and consults his notes. ‘No sorry, it was in the Heinous Caverns, not the Darklands. Anyway, the server was having some troubles on that day and disconnected more than half of my guildies. I thought, this is it, it’s going to be a massacre, they have us outnumbered ten to one. But Horc stopped fighting! He told his guild to wait! He did that because he was an honourable man and did not want to take too much of an advantage. Other guild leader neubs who are unhonourable would have chopped us up as we logged back on one by one, but not EoS. They are honourable and Horc was honourable.’ Chaosman returns to his notes and shuffles them again, taking time, once again, to read the new page.
Pamen, sitting in the front pew, has his face in his hands and is trying his hardest to contain the peals of laughter threatening to force their way out of his throat and into the world. Some things demand a laugh, regardless of where and how they come about. He remembers that day in the Hidden Cavern. Even after the disconnection, Chaos Incorporated had greater numbers than EoS. Risking a giggle, he looks up at the sweating pseudo Goblin who is fiddling with his cloak as he focuses on his notes. There stands the leader of a guild of at least three hundred people. He drops his head back into his hands to hide the monstrous grin that he can feel on his face.
‘Another time, while we were farming Giants,’ Chaosman continues, ‘Horc and Eos show up to also do some farming. Usually, if other guilds show up there is a big war to see who gets to farm, but Horc is honourable. He stopped his guild and said that, because we were there first, we should have the farm spot. It may be that my leet skills scared Horc a bit and because they did not outnumber us that time, but I think it was more because Horc was honourable. Other unhonourable guild leader neubs would have attacked and had their arse handed to them,’ Chaosman puts down his notes and looks out at the crowd. ‘I’m a man of action, a warrior and tactician with massive skills, but not all that good at making speeches,’ he says, putting the pages back under his cloak, ‘and words sometimes give me trouble. But I don’t need no notes to tell you that every time I saw Horc, I knew it was going to be a good day. I will miss him. Also, sorry for saying arse in church.’
Chaosman shuffles off the stage and Pamen, driving the grin from his face with some difficulty, replaces him. ‘A moving tribute from Horc’s greatest enemy,’ he says, ‘I would like to introduce Yrril, professional gamer and long time associate of Horc.’
A well-groomed young knight in imitation chain armour takes the stage. He produces a neat sheaf of notes that he puts on the lectern and subjects the crowd to a hostile stare. ‘It grieves me to be here today, saying goodbye to one of the few genuine friends I have made in game,’ he says. ‘Horc was a very tolerant man, generous with his time as well as with his money. Many of you already know that I am a gold farmer, and have shunned me because of this. In that way, you are all unlike Horc, who accepted me as a friend. He accepted me for who I am, rather than rejecting me for how I earn a living.’
Yrril looks defiantly at the crowd and adjusts his notes. ‘The game was very young when I first met Horc, barely out of Beta and full of bugs. I was fresh out of high school and looking for work. Together, Horc and I took on and overcame many of the toughest challenges that the game had to offer, challenges that to this day are difficult even for full, well-geared groups. Those were dark days for me; my folks were riding me for not having an income. Hanging with Horc was the only light in my life, and I looked forward to our time together. It was Horc who suggested that I start selling in game items for real money as a way of making a little cash until I could get a job. He would always pass on any high value loot that we found so that I would have something to sell. Eventually, he stopped taking any loot at all, saying that taking on some of the tougher encounters as a two-man group was reward enough for him. As time passed, my way of earning a few dollars became a full-blown business and while this was great in one way, it was also a little sad. I had to put business before pleasure, and grinding was better for business than chasing elusive drops, so Horc and I stopped two manning together. But even after all these years, he would still /wave if ever our paths crossed and often invited me to raids and guild runs during the slow hours.’
Yrril stops and wipes a tear from his eye. ‘Despite our long history, the early days are not the strongest memory I have of Horc. That honour goes to what I call the charity raids. A few months ago, Horc came to me to seek a little help. He told me that a guild member of EoS had come upon hard times and that he wanted to give them a hand, so he had organised a series of raids the loot from which was to go to this person. He wanted me to sell the items on their behalf, as I had a strong and established distribution network. The events raised over five thousand dollars, and to top it all off, he insisted that I take a commission because selling game items is how I make a living and he didn’t want to take food from my table. It was an amazing effort, and made me proud to call him my friend.’ Once again, Yrril stops and looks at the crowd. ‘Although I never actually met Horc in person,’ he continues, ‘he has had a profound effect upon my life. He was the most generous person I have ever known, but not just generous with money. Horc was generous in a way that is so rare in these crowded times. He gave freely of his time and of his affection. He made it his business to treat people with respect, because he thought that everyone is worthy of respect. He gave of his time, not for the accolades or the attention, but because he sincerely wanted to. My condolences go out to his family, and to all of us who considered him a friend,’ Yrril concludes and, wiping another tear from his eye, leaves the stage.
Pamen slowly makes his way to the lectern. After Chaosman’s comic performance, Yrril’s speech reminded him of his pain and loss. Taking a moment to compose himself, he looks again at the note Thea had handed him. ‘Twoswords, a veteran member of Enemies of Shadow, will now say a few words about her guild leader,’ he says, his voice shaky and emotional. The leather clad Twoswords takes the lectern.
Unlike the others, Twoswords does not have any notes. ‘I have known Horc for many years, right back from our UO days,’ she says. ‘He was a great leader and friend, but more than that, he was a kind man who acted ethically and morally at all times. Yrril told us about Horc’s act of generosity to help a guild member get back on their feet. I was that guild member. For years, I had been suffering in a bad relationship. One day, I was two manning with Horc when things came to a head between my former husband and me. Horc heard the whole thing and he was appalled that a person could treat a loved one the way he treated me. I told Horc I wanted to leave, but did not have the resources, nor would I accept money from someone I had never met. Horc respected that, but he said that it would be immoral if he did not do everything in his power to help me. You see, Horc believed that there are responsibilities that go along with rights. He told me that we all had the right to live free of violence, but we also had the responsibility to help when we see violence perpetrated on others. The charity raids were his way of getting me the money I needed to escape without giving it to me himself. He also respected my wish that no one else should know about my circumstances,’ Twoswords stops and looks down at the lectern, fighting back the tears. ‘He kept that promise till the day he died,’ she continues, then bursts into tears.
Slava gets up from his seat intending to help her off the stage but Twoswords shoos him away.
‘A few weeks ago, Horc and I met in person for the first time. Alaric was exactly the man I expected him to be. We met as friends and we parted as friends. He was, as Chaosman has told you, an honourable man. We had been meeting regularly ever since. I insisted he keep our meetings quiet even though there was nothing actually going on between us. After many years of pain, I felt insecure and just needed to know he was the man he appeared to be before I made a commitment. He is gone now, but I’m sure he understood my hesitation, and my grief is for the future lost rather than the past regretted,’ Twoswords stops, fighting back the rising tide of emotion. ‘Alaric was disappointed with life in what he referred to as the “ultimate reality”,’ Twoswords continues when her emotions are once again in check. ‘He told me how, when he was growing up, he and his friends were full of hope and optimism, determined to follow their dreams and live full and satisfying lives. As the years passed, he watched the heroes of his youth fade into nothingness, as one by one his friends surrendered their dreams and adopted lives more ordinary. He told me of the horror he felt when he realised that he too was moving along that same path. The game was his way of fighting back. In the game, he could be the person he wanted to be. He could be an honourable man, he could be a man motivated by higher ideals.’ Twoswords looks up and directly at Thea. ‘While our loss greatly saddens me, I am thankful that I got to know Alaric as well as I did before he left us. He changed my life, and for that I will be eternally grateful.’
Slava takes the stage as Twoswords returns to the pews. He looks out over the assembled pseudo avatars sitting respectfully in the pews. In the entire world, he thinks to himself, there couldn’t be too many scenes like this. Feeling drained and spent, he longs for this to be over so that he can log into the game and forget his troubles for a little while. ‘Horc was Alaric, and Alaric was my friend,’ he says from the lectern. ‘He was a wealthy man, but lived his life as if money was irrelevant. He was a successful man, but always placed his happiness before his work. He had no children of his own, but was devoted to his family. He was a popular man, as the turnout at this funeral demonstrates, but many believed him isolated and alone. He conducted his life in the ultimate reality in the same way he did in the game. Sadly, honour, generosity and a desire to live ethically seem not to be highly favoured in these times. The way Alaric lived his life asks many questions of how we live ours. We pride ourselves on knowing what is and is not valuable, and yet spend so much of our lives looking for fulfilment. The question we must ask is; how do we define value? Is a life spent collecting baubles and trinkets a life well spent? Is a life spent pursuing individual goals a life spent alone?’
Slava pauses as an immaculately presented ghoul gets up from his pew and approaches the stage. He gestures to Slava to come closer. The two have a whispered discussion that leaves Slava smiling. He returns to the lectern and turns to the assembled crowd. ‘That frightening ghoul was none other than Deathsknell, also known as Troy Barrot, lead developer of the game. He has just informed me that Horc will continue in game as leader of the Capital Defences. He will be wearing the General’s Acid Armour, which General Tzamos will no longer wear or drop. Horc will be the final challenge that the forces of evil must overcome should they ever try to capture the Shining Citadel. Alaric is dead. Long live Horc. I will see you all in game.’ So saying, Slava shuffles slowly out of the church, pausing only to kiss his aunty and ask his wife to come home with him.
Consuming Passions
It had become an annual event. Every year during the grand final, they'd gather at Graham’s place to eat. It began with just three of them, brought together by fate and a dislike of football. As the years passed, word spread through the neighbourhood that there was alternate entertainment on what had become a de facto Holy day. There was a general rejoicing amongst those with an aversion to watching sweaty men grapple, and they happily joined the festivities at Graham’s, where balls of a certain type were taboo.
Using his oversized tongs, Graham re-arranges his famous homemade sausages on the grill, careful to keep one side to the flame to get an even colour and consistency along the length of the tube. Most people leave him alone when he is with his sausages, frightened away by anti-social behaviour in years past. Now, thanks to one or two unfortunate incidents, it is widely known that getting too close to Graham when he is at his barbecue will gain you tong burns in embarrassing places. Only the other two originals, Andy and Gertrude, dare to go near him when he is cooking. They stand apart from the general frivolity, clutching drinks and chatting quietly.
It’s only been twenty minutes since he arrived, but Andy is already showing signs of excess, slurring his words and standing at an unnatural angle.
Graham shakes his head and looks at Gertrude, who shrugs.
‘What can you do,’ she replies to his unasked question, ‘he gets like this at least once or twice a week.’
Andy watches Graham fuss over the sausages. ‘I’m still here, you know,’ he says without raising his eyes. ‘Just because I’ve had a couple of beers doesn’t mean that I’ve lost my status as a person.’
‘Sorry Andy,’ says Gertrude, putting her hand on Andy’s shoulder, ‘I didn’t mean to offend but you’re already pissed and you only just got here. Did you have anything to drink before you came?’
‘Drink? No, nothing to drink,’ Andy says, ‘and I’ve only had two glasses of beer since I got here.’Graham shakes his head and attends to his sausages.
‘C’mon folks, lighten up. We’re celebrating not being at the football. Remember?’ says an exasperated Andy. ‘Celebrating, having F-U-N. So I had half a tab before I got here, big deal. I’m just getting in the mood. Not like you two tightwads, standing around being all stiff and serious and shit.’
Graham allows himself to be distracted, momentarily, from his sausages. ‘Grow up Andy,’ he says, ‘getting wasted daily is for kids. You’re in your thirties, in case you hadn’t noticed. It’s time you started to take yourself a bit more seriously and make something of your life.’
‘What, become more like you two,’ Andy says, making a horrified face. ‘It’s not me that needs to re-evaluate, my friends, it’s you. I know I’ve only got a limited time before oblivion reclaims me, so I’m making the most of every precious second, minute and hour. What’s the use of slaving away at the coal front if I can’t enjoy the fruits of my labour?’ Graham shakes his head and Gertrude looks at the ground. Andy makes a disgusted sound and drains his glass. ‘I’m off to get a drink, can I get you anything or have you gone teetotaller on me?’
‘Just the usual for us both,’ says Gertrude, looking at Graham who nods. Andy shuffles off.
‘You shouldn’t ride him like that, Graham,’ Gertrude says when Andy is out of earshot. ‘You’re not his dad you know. He can live his life how he wants.’
‘We're his friends, Gert,’ Graham says, without taking his eye off his sausages. The second row is giving him trouble this morning, cooking a little faster than the rest. ‘It's our duty to tell him, even if he doesn't listen.’
Gertrude shakes her head and looks unconvinced. ‘C'mon Graham,’ she says. ‘It’s not as if you're a great achiever. You work fifty hours a week and what have you got to show for it? Nothing, that’s what. You squirrel all your money under the mattress and let it rot. In a way, you’re as bad as he is. You work and work and work and have nothing to show for it.’
‘It’s a strange “way” you’re talking about, then, if you think I’m as bad as Andy,’ Graham replies while shuffling sausages in and out of the second row, trying to distribute the extra heat evenly. ‘I have a nice nest egg in the bank, thank you very much, and a very pleasant lifestyle.’
‘Yeah, right, lifestyle. You call yourself a foodie but you’re too much of a tightarse to go out to a good restaurant. All you do is create elaborate sausages and read library books.’
‘I am not a tightarse, thank you very much,’ Graham says, carefully turning the top row of sausages, ‘I am simply more aware of value than your average consumer.’
Gertrude snorts her derision as Andy comes dancing back carrying three drinks, shirttails flapping in the breeze.
‘Hey serious sausages, here are your drinkies,’ Andy says, placing two of the glasses on a nearby table. ‘Have you meet Larry from number 37 across the road?’ he asks, balancing on the balls of his feet. ‘Really cool guy who carries an assortment of powders on him at all times.’ Without waiting for an answer, Andy bounces off leaving Graham and Gert shaking their heads.
‘These sausages are just about ready,’ says Graham, ‘pass me the platter.’ Gertrude gives Graham the platter without a word and then watches silently as he carefully starts taking sausages off the grill, taking the darkest first and inspecting each before putting it on the platter. ‘Okay everyone,’ he bellows when the grill stands empty, ‘the sausages are ready. Come and get’em, and remember if you think they need a spruce up, please use the chutney on the table under the veranda. I will personally kill anyone I see putting any horrible, mass produced condiments on my sausages.’ Gertrude secures herself a couple of sausages, and grabs another for Andy before scuttling out of the way of the stampede. She stands alone as Graham does his rounds, making sure the scourge of ordinary ketchup doesn’t taint his sausages.
By the time Graham returns, Gertrude has eaten both her sausages and is considering eating the one she got for Andy.
‘I've been thinking about what you said before,’ said Graham as he places another two sausages on Gertrude’s plate,’ about being a tight arse and all, and I reckon you’re being a little unfair.’
‘Really?’ says Gertrude, after taking a bite of one of her newly acquired sausages. ‘How so?’
‘Well, I just don’t see a point in buying useless crap and filling my house with stuff that I don’t want or won’t use.’
‘Yeah, sure you don’t. You just don’t want to spend your hard earned. Anyway, it’s not really what I was talking about. Why don’t you invest your money instead of stuffing it in your mattress?’
Graham looks perplexed. ‘I do invest my money. It’s in the bank earning interest.’
“That is just ridiculous, Graham,’ Gertrude says, her attempt at looking exasperated foiled by the sausage she was chewing. ‘Investing is more than just sticking all your money in a crappy bank account. Gerald and I have a range of investments. We have two investment properties and use a margin loan to invest in the share market.’
Graham watches as Peter from across the road prepares to cook his famous chilli steaks. Peter has a ritualistic approach to cooking and always arranges the barbecue so that the sun shines over his right shoulder while he tends his meat. ‘You have three mortgages?’ he says. ‘Wow, no wonder you and Gerald work so many hours. What’s your monthly interest bill?’
‘Ah, Graham, you are so innocent,’ Gertrude replies, wearing an expression that she thinks makes her look worldly and wise. ‘In order to make money, you need to spend money. Well known fact.’
Andy picks this moment to return, dancing towards them shirtless and slick with sweat. He takes a sausage off Gertrude’s plate and looks around with unfocused eyes. ‘Where’s Gerald, Gert?’ he asks, gyrating to a rhythm that only he can hear. ‘Working again?’ Gertrude blushes and nods.
‘I hope he’s not neglecting his duties as a husband,’ Andy says, winking at Gertrude and waving his sausage provocatively. ‘A woman like you needs lovin’, if you know what I mean.’ Before either Gert or Graham can respond, he dances away into the crowd gathered around the grill.
Gertrude finishes her sausages and picks up her drink. ‘The hours we work are also an investment. By the time we are both in our fifties, we will have a considerable portfolio of assets and will be able to reduce our hours considerably.’
‘So what you’re saying,’ Graham says, ‘is that you’ll work longer hours now so that you can work fewer hours when you get older?’
‘Yeah, something like that,’ Gertrude says, considering the logic of her life. ‘Makes perfect sense.’
‘What if there is a recession and all your assets get screwed?’ Graham asks.
Gertrude shrugs. ‘You can’t live your life in fear of the sky falling on your head, now can you?’
‘You’re right. Luckily you own the house you live in,’ says Graham. ‘A little bit of security is always a comfort.’
‘Yeah,’ says Gertrude, wondering whether mortgaging the family home to pay for the matching SUV’s was such a good idea after all.
Graham wanders off and returns with two drinks, one of which he gives to Gertrude. ‘So, your mum said that you and Gerry were thinking of starting a family,’ he says.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-27 show above.)