All of this is entirely the work of Aaron, alias MFP. He is the one to send all of the praise to. I had nothing to do with it, save for starring in it. I repeat, this is not mine, I'm just hosting it.

One day, this will be so. "It's my density. I mean, my 'destiny'."

EXT. LIVERPOOL JOHN LENNON AIRPORT. NIGHT.

A HANDSOME MAN walks from the terminal building, in a suit and carrying a briefcase. He is approached by a MINION, in a driver's uniform. The Minion holds up a placard, which has three letters scrawled on it in black felt tip pen.

It reads: "J-Bo."

MINION: Are you J-Bo, sir?

HANDSOME MAN: Blaze. Johnny Blaze.

MINION: This way, sir.

The Minion leads the Handsome Man to a very rocking car, and drives away into the night.


EXT. LIVERPOOL CITY CENTRE COACH STATION. NIGHT.

A coach pulls ino a parking bay, and eases to a sighing stop. People spill out from the open doors; a stream of disgruntled and travel-sore humanity vomited into the city streets. One of the people is wearing black clothes, a trenchcoat and a sarcastic smile. The MAN IN A TRENCHCOAT steps from the coach, and into the coach station. He is met by a HANDSOME GUY IN A BERET.

MAN IN A TRENCHCOAT: Hello, Aaron. You look French in that hat.

HANDSOME GUY IN A BERET: Shut up, Stew.

MAN IN A TRENCHCOAT: Are we getting a taxi?

HANDSOME GUY IN A BERET: Oui.

The two men walk towards the taxi bays, talking about how cool they both are.


INT. LIVERPOOL CITY CENTRE. MCDONALDS. NIGHT.

Two men are talking as they chew their plastic food. One is a MEXICAN-LOOKING FELLOW, and the other is a WHITE GAMER. They both have luggage by their feet, and look travel-sore. They are eyeing each other the way people would in a Wild West shoot-out. Neither dares blink.

WHITE GAMER: You...uh...want some of my milkshake?

MEXICAN-LOOKING FELLOW: I don't drink the milkshake of the White Man. It's high in fat, for a start. And secondly, the -

WHITE GAMER: No, look, that black guy behind the counter made it.

MEXICAN-LOOKING GUY: Oh. Promise?

The Mexican-looking Guy suspects treachery.

WHITE GAMER: Promise.

The Mexican-looking Guy cautiously takes the drink and slurps from a different straw that he puts in the hole at the top of the beaker.

WHITE GAMER: I don't have germs. We can share straws, you know.

MEXICAN-LOOKING GUY: (Eye starts twitching) I don't like you.

WHITE GAMER: I don't like you, either. Why the fuck did I have to travel with you, anyway?

MEXICAN-LOOKING GUY: Because I wanted to find out if you're really called Arist or Smith, and if not, what your real name is. And plus, I wanted to annoy you.

WHITE GAMER: I'm not telling you my real name.

(Awkward pause)

MEXICAN-LOOKING GUY: Um...want my leftover fries?

WHITE GAMER: (Pauses). I don't like you.


INT. LIVERPOOL TRAIN STATION. NIGHT.

An AMERICAN GUY is walking around, looking completely lost. He keeps asking passers-by the directions to his destination, but he is unprepared for the English attitude of both hating the American accent in use, and just being generally rude to strangers. He huddles in a corner of the Men's toilets, and starts to cry.

A YOUNG CANADIAN enters. It is obvious from his appearance that he is cheeky and a complete smartarse most of the time.

YOUNG CANADIAN: Why are you crying, dude?

AMERICAN GUY: (sniffles) Wait, I know you...

YOUNG CANADIAN: You wish.

AMERICAN GUY: No, really. You're off the Forums...

The Young Canadian freezes and goes for a serrated dagger he keeps in his left sock.

YOUNG CANADIAN: Oh, am I?

AMERICAN GUY: Yeah, you're Adam. I saw your photo once.

YOUNG CANADIAN: And you are?

AMERICAN GUY (wipes his eyes). I'm Blizzardwolf, although MFP calls me Mikey. No one ever remembers me on the Forums. At least, that's what I always say to MFP over ICQ.

YOUNG CANADIAN: Stop talking in letters. And come along...we're late.

They exit the men's toilets.


INT. MFP's HOUSE. NIGHT.

STEW and AARON are sitting at a table, eating pizza and drinking cider with wine shooters, just for the fuck of it. There are assorted nerd books and character sheets around, and the odd scattering of dice. All the dice next to Aaron display numbers above 6 on their faces, because he's the kinda guy who arranges dice in that way. For luck.

STEW: They're late.

AARON: They are indeed.

FADE OUT.

The screen displays the legend 'One Hour Later'.

FADE IN.

The same scene, although with more people. AMADO is fiddling with the edge of his bandana as he shakes his head, disputing one of Stew's rulings. JOHNNY BLAZE is relaxing, trying to look casual and cool, and succeeding. ADAM and AARON are both halfway to being high. Stew is all the way to being high, and slurring his replies to Amado in regards to the actions of a vampire elder who just told
Amado's character to "Kiss my arse, bigot." SMITH is patting MIKEY on the shoulder and reassuring him that people on the Forums do actually know who he is.

SMITH: They do, man. I swear.

MIKEY: Okay, well, if you say so.

SMITH: That's the spirit.

MIKEY: Yeah, you're right. I contribute, right? I matter! Yeah. Thanks, man.

AMADO: Wait a second...

(Awkward pause)

AMADO: (pointing at Mikey) Who the Hell is that guy?

(Mikey unleashes another flood of lonely tears.)

ADAM: The thing about dope, is that -

AARON: It tastes nice?

ADAM: No, it -

AARON: Rhymes with Obtenebration?

ADAM: What the fuck are you talking about?

STEW (interrupting): Everyone roll Stamina plus North American Fly-Fishing Lore to dodge this...this...um...

AMADO: I got nineteen successes.

JOHNNY: How? You liar.

SMITH: How? You fucker.

ADAM: How? You dirty Mexican.

AMADO: Easy, I have thae the Flaw 'Hatred' for white people, which means I get to add my Racist Slurs secondary ability to every roll I make against a white opponent.

ADAM: Oh. Fair enough.

JOHNNY: Does airnyone lahk cars? Ah know a lawt abaht cars. Fayst wuhns, slow wuhns, liddle wuhns, big wuhns...Ah know loads abaht awl of 'em.

AARON and STEW: (Giggling) You talk funny.

JOHNNY: (Also giggling) Naw, eet's y'all who talk funny.

ADAM: Right, I rolled fifteen successes on my roll to shoot Amado's character.

SMITH: I rolled ninety thousand successes for the same action, and used my Celerity of 40 to take extra actions.

STEW: And what are those extra actions?

SMITH: I'm going to beat Amado's character to death after I've shot him.

JOHNNY: Ah, well, technically, the [insert spiffy firearm name here] would only do abaht 5 dahce o' daymmige, so ah don' think y'got it raht, there.

AARON: (Giggling) You talk funny.

AMADO: Biz-atch to the freaky-deaky niz-atch, mo'fo, check me one time, now, aye?

STEW: (Giggling) You talk funny, too.

JOHNNY: Dang, Smith! Why you gotta go an' eatin' up awl thuh whole of them Doritos, dude?

SMITH: (Looks at Amado.) When I get angry, I get hungry.

JOHNNY: Dang.

AARON: (Whispered) What does Dang mean?

ADAM: It's like Damn, only for Americans.

(A handgun drops out of Johnny's jacket pocket as he leans across the table to get some dice.)

STEW: Those are so illegal, man.

JOHNNY: Gawd-daymn-sheet, boy, what thuh hayl are yew talkin' about?

AARON: Wow, a real gun. I thought they were only in films.

SMITH: Hey, Amado, look at this, you dirty Mexican bastard.

AMADO: What's that, honky?

SMITH: NOW YOU DIE!

AMADO: Bring it on, biz-atch, to the niz-a (THUMP) Ow, muthafucka!

SMITH: Yeah! Take th (WHACK) Ouch, you bastard!

STEW: God, I'm so cool.

AARON: Me too.

(Loud crash as Amado and Smith under the table, wrestling.)

AARON: We need to do this again. This is the best gaming group, ever.

JOHNNY: Ah'say, dang, boy. Yew're daym raht.

FADE OUT, to the sounds of fighting.

INT. MFP’S LIVING ROOM. GAME NIGHT.

AARON and STEW are present. Aaron is on the sofa, flicking through channels with the TV remote, going from BBC1 to Channel 5 in quick succession. Stew is sitting on a red beanbag, next to a lamp, and making hand-shadow-shapes against the wall. One looks at least vaguely bird-ish.

STEW: Look, a raven.

AARON: Oh. I thought it was a car.

Aaron goes back to channel-hopping.

TV: (Flick) “And in Northern Ireland, the peace process was again held up by…” (Flick) “Another arty short film, that drew media comparisons to Angelina Jolie’s performance as…” (Flick) “Kelly! Kelly, no! You’ve got too much to live for! I love you! I love…” (Flick) “Your final answer? Are you sure? It’s a lot of…” (Flick) “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh…harder, harder…”

STEW: Oh, leave that on.

AARON: Shhhh. I think I hear something.

(There’s a muffled thumping.)

AARON: It’s coming from the cupboard.

STEW: Crap, I forgot to check on Smith today.

Stew stands up and goes over to the cupboard. He opens the door to reveal a blood-covered Smith, bound with telephone cord. His gag has slipped from his mouth.

SMITH: DIRTY BUTTFUCKING SON OF A MEXICAN BITCH!

Stew closes the door again.

AARON: He sounds like he’s still angry.

STEW: I would be too, if Amado had bitten both my ears off.

AARON: I thought that part was quite funny, myself.

STEW: Yeah, but he didn’t need to swallow them.

AARON: Good point. That was a trifle gratuitous.

STEW: Shall I check on Amado?

AARON: No, I called the hospital an hour ago. They said with a few months of physiotherapy, he might be able to walk on crutches.

STEW: A few months? Oh shit…

AARON: What’s wrong?

STEW: That means he might miss the game tonight.

AARON: No, I pretended to be his dying English uncle, who needed him at my side tonight, so the ambulance will drop him off in his wheelchair at about 8. I did feel little guilty, though. I mean, he needs the rest.

STEW: No way. He wouldn’t wanna miss tonight’s game.

AARON: Good point.

STEW: And it’s his turn to buy the fucking pizza. When I had that spinal injury, I didn’t pussy out of things.

The phone rings. Aaron grabs it.

AARON: Howdy.

JOHNNY’S VOICE: Ah’m runnin’ late, dude. Be there as soon as ah cayn.

AARON: (doing a battle droid impression) Roger-roger.

STEW: Never do that again.

Aaron hangs up, looking at the phone strangely.

STEW: Johnny going to be late again?

AARON: Yeah. I heard gunfire in the background.


EXT. LIVERPOOL CITY CENTRE.

JOHNNY is walking in a big white cowboy hat, a business suit, and carrying a bag large enough to contain, for example, a few firearms of varying sizes. A PASSER-BY steps into view.

JOHNNY: Hey there, Englishman. Ah’m a-wonderin’ where yuh nearest phone booth is bein’?

PASSER-BY: Excuse me?

JOHNNY: Gawd-DAYM-it, boy. The phone! Y’know? The telephone? I heard that you guys had that over here, at least.

PASSER-BY: Oh, I see. You’re from…right, okay. We call them phone boxes, here.

JOHNNY: That’s crazy talk.

PASSER-BY: Yes, quite. There’s a phone box over there.

JOHNNY: Mah Gawd, man, what’re yew sayin’? Ah say ah wanna 'phone booth'.

PASSER-BY: Yes. There’s a phone box over there.

JOHNNY: Ah say a phone BOOTH. That’s ker-azy talk ag’in. Yer babbling! Yer hysterical! CALM DOWN!

The Passer-by moves away at speed. Johnny goes to the phone box and picks up the receiver.

JOHNNY: Ah’say, kin ah make a colleck cawl, to…

OPERATOR: A what, sir?

Johnny is close to snapping point.

JOHNNY: Oh, Loh-ard. A colleck cawl, daymnit.

OPERATOR: Oh, we call them Reversed Charges Calls here, sir.

JOHNNY: Ah hate thee-yus cun’ry.


INT. MFP’S LIVING ROOM.

The front door explodes inwards, showering the room with debris. Johnny steps calmly into the room, carrying a shotgun.

JOHNNY: Ah couldn’t fahnd the doorbell.

AARON: The door was open, Robocop.

In the room are the gamers. SMITH, who has bandaged ears, sitting on a beanbag. AMADO, who is wheeling his wheelchair around Smith in a slow representation of Indians circling the White Man’s wagons. STEW is smoothing the creases out of his trenchcoat and being sarcastic to AARON, who is smoothing the creases out of his hat, and being sarcastic to Stew. ADAM is calmly reading a copy of Great English Jews, and smirking to himself.

ADAM: Hey, wait, where’s Mikey?

Everyone looks up, even Smith, who is bandaged and now quite deaf.

AARON: Who’s that?

STEW: Who?

AMADO: Where’s who?

JOHNNY: Ah say, who?

SMITH: WHAT? SPEAK UP!

ADAM: You know, that guy. Blizzardwolf.

AARON: Dunno any Blizzardwolf.

STEW: Me either.

SMITH: WHAT?


FADE OUT.

The legend across the screen reads One Hour Later.

FADE IN.


The ‘Rage Across the Forum’ Gaming Group are seated at the table, involved in a scene of very intense roleplaying. Every face reflects the seriousness of the moment; the tension, the emotion…the very atmosphere of the room is thick with suppressed pathos for the moment at hand.

Stew clears his throat.

STEW: Are you sure?

ADAM: (Nods). I’m sure.

STEW: The consequences of failing this roll are…well…

ADAM: I know. I know. I’m ready. It’s the only way.

AARON: I dunno about this. I mean, it’s risky. Smith, what do you think?

SMITH: WHAT?

AARON: About this situation. What do you think about it?

SMITH: WHAT?

AMADO: Seriously, Adam, think carefully before those dice leave your fingers. If you fail…

ADAM: I know. I’m rolling. I’m going for it.

The silence is broken only by the clattering of dice on wood. And Smith playing with his bandages.

STEW: You succeeded.

There is general rejoicing.

STEW: Right, so, with 3 successes on your roll, you buy the ice cream successfully, without frenzying on the store owner for calling you a filthy Kike and making fun out of that little Jewish hat you wear sometimes.

ADAM: Rock on.

SMITH: WHAT?

There’s a knock on the door. All eyes turn to the direction of the sound.

SMITH: WHAT?

ADAM: Who could that be? We’re all here. Aaron’s here. Johnny’s here.

JOHNNY: Fuck-yeah.

ADAM: Stew’s here. Amado’s here.

AMADO: Shiz-nit to the biz-kit, muthfuckalicious, one time.

ADAM: Uh…yeah, and I’m here. Smith’s here.

SMITH: WHAT?

The door opens, and in walks MIKEY/BLIZZARDWOLF.

MIKEY: Hi, guys. Sorry I’m late.

The silence is almost painful on the eardrums. Adam clears his throat.

ADAM: And you are?

JOHNNY: Who’s this, gah? Ah’m on mah vay-kay-shun, an’ I don’ need no house invasions by no strangers.

AARON (Whispered) You’re on what?

JOHNNY: Vacation. Vay-kay-shuhn.

AARON: Is that like Viagra?

AMADO: He means he’s on a mo’fo’in’ shiz-nee to the biz-nee to the Disney, break from work, bee-yatch.

AARON: Oh. Oh, I see. Is that like Viagra?

STEW: I think he means a holiday. I think ‘vacation’ means ‘holiday’.

AARON: We really need to get this sorted out soon.

ADAM: Hell yes. At least we’re past the Pants confusion. I don’t ever need to see that again.

All eyes turn to Stew, who blushes.

STEW: Um…sorry about that. Easy mistake to make.

(Another pause)

MIKEY: I said, Hi guys.

SMITH: WHAT?

AARON: Who are you? Get the fuck outta my house.

MIKEY: (starting to cry) But…but-but-but…buh…buh…

AARON: Johnny?

JOHNNY: Yeah, man?

AARON: Go do something American to that man over there, please. He’s in my house for some reason. Go ‘be American’ at him.

(There is the chuh-CHICK of a shotgun shell being chambered, and Johnny rises from the table like something out of Terminator.)

JOHNNY: Ah cayn’t shoot an unarmed man...although ah aym temptid.

STEW: Uh…I heard he’s really from Afghanistan. I swear.

JOHNNY: The bitch muss die!

(He fires, and Mikey is thrown out of the doorway into the street from the impact.)

AARON: Stew, that was bad form. Insinuating that that stranger was part of the Taliban was an evil thing to do, and it certainly wasn’t funny.

STEW: I know, I’m sorry.

Stew and Aaron both start giggling.

AMADO: You’re stereotyping someone because of their nationality. And that’s wrong.

Despite being deaf, Smith looks at Amado, stunned.

SMITH: Who are you to talk? You judge any and all, on their skin colour and background. You’re the one who made that ‘Sssssssss’ gas chamber noise to Adam when he decapitated your last Sphere Magic-wielding Abomination with True Faith.

AARON: Why’s that wrong? I was doing that, too.

STEW: Me, too. I thought it was because he was a Follower of Set.

SMITH: I don’t know why I put up with this. I really don’t.

Mikey crawls through the door, bleeding. He scrapes weakly at Johnny’s foot. The shotgun barrel is inches from his face, and Johnny smiles like Megatron.

MIKEY: No…

Johnny fires. Mikey dies.

JOHNNY: Such heroic nonsense.

AARON: Fuck it, we’ve half-killed Amado and Smith, and also…
a total stranger.

JOHNNY: Kewl, huh?

STEW: I think Aaron means we need new people. I’ll call
Silverfeet.

AARON: I’ll call Soulsong. He’ll be up for it.

SMITH: I’ll call Amado’s mother, because I’m dating her.

AMADO: I’ll call Smith’s mother, because I’m sick of paying child welfare fees for his white arse. I told her I wanted her to have an abortion, but she was all like, ‘No, I want a baby. I'll call him Smith'.

SMITH: You’re not my father.

AARON: You can stop that shit, right there. Both of you.

JOHNNY: Oh, I geddit. ‘Ssssss’. Gas chamber. Because Adam is Jewish, raht? Hey, thayt’s priddy funny.

AARON: Oh, Jesus. Oh God, no.

FADE OUT.

INT. NEVILLE’S FUNERAL PARLOUR. NIGHT.

We see two UNDERTAKERS preparing a DEAD BODY. One is a boss-eyed hunchback, the other an upper-class German immigrant.

UNDERTAKER 1: Mathter, the body ith prepared.

UNDERTAKER 2: Thank you, Igor.

IGOR: A pleathure, mathter.

UNDERTAKER 2: And now, I, Doctor Wankenstein, am ready for my greatest creation yet.

IGOR: If you thay tho, mathter.

DR. WANKENSTEIN: I do say so, Igor. Throw the switch.

Igor throws the generic lab switch. There are sparks and science-stuff happening. The dead body twitches.

DR. WANKWENSTEIN: IT’S ALIVE!

IGOR: Well, thort of, mathter.

DR. WANKENSTEIN: It’s…undead?

IGOR: Much better, mathter.

Dr. Wankenstein strokes the corpse’s face like a mad German lover, and smiles like a mad German whore finally free of her bout of pubic lice.

DR. WANKENSTEIN: Do you know what this means, Igor?

IGOR: Cheap labour in the public sector of a kind unrivalled since the large swathes of immigration in the mid-1960’s, under the Conservative government of the time?

DR. WANKENSTEIN: Uh…no. I was thinking of something a lot more along the lines of a cheesy, Hollywood style of violent revenge.

IGOR: Oh. I dig.

DR. WANKENSTEIN: What happened to your lisp?

IGOR: It fell out.

DR. WANKENSTEIN: It…

IGOR: Don’t ask. You’re wasting revenge time, and these posts have a 10,000 character limit. Including spaces. Get to the story, quick, before you run out of space.


INT. MFP’S HOUSE. GAME NIGHT.

The Rage Across the Forums Gaming Group are seated around the big table. AMADO, dressed in a another bandana and ‘street’ gear, is not sitting in his wheelchair. He is lounging on a 5 foot-high pile of bean-bags, like some kind of fat Sultan. STEW, AARON, ADAM, and JOHNNY are scribbling dots onto character sheets. SMITH is already finished, looking with disdain at the slowpokes.

STEW: How do you spell ‘Murder’?

ADAM: Why?

STEW: It’s my Melee specialty.

ADAM: My Brawl specialty is ‘fighting’.

AARON: Clever. I like that.

JOHNNY: Mah Far-arms speshulty is ‘mantras.’

ADAM: What do you mean? Mantras? Like, slogans?

JOHNNY: Fuck-yeah. Lahk, “Guhns don’ keel people, people keel people.”

ADAM: Ah, justification for the barbaric firearms laws that America has. I like it.

JOHNNY: Shut up.

STEW: How do you spell ‘Getting the Ladies’?

AARON: Why?

STEW: That’s my Charisma specialty.

There is a knock at the door. They all look up.

ADAM: That better not be a zombie.

All eyes turn to Adam.

SMITH: Why would it be a zombie?

ADAM: I dunno. I just had this feeling…

Stew answers the door, and comes back to sit at the table. A GAY MAN follows him.

AARON: Who’s this Benny?

STEW: Some gay guy.

JOHNNY: (mumbles) How-mo-sexuals…

ADAM: What does Benny mean?

AARON: Bender. Benny. (points at the Gay Man.) Who are you?

GAY MAN: I’m Soulsong.

AARON: You seem gayer in real life.

SOULSONG: Thanks. Call me Jim.

AARON: No.

SOULSONG: Um…okay.

SMITH: Please, find yourself welcome. Sit here, next to me. Please don’t be upset at the remarks these heathens sometimes utter. Know that here, in all this rabble, I represent some small core of civility and decency.

AMADO: Who the Hell are you, fucking Ghandi??? Jeezy to the Chriznee on a motherfucking Cross.

There is another knock at the door.

ADAM: That better not be a zombie.

STEW: That better be the pizza.

JOHNNY: Thayt bedder be Shannen Doherty from Beverly Heels Nahn-Oh-Two-Wuhn-Oh, in a tasteless two-piece thong bikini.

All eyes turn to Johnny.

JOHNNY: Yew nivver know.

AARON: Dang…

STEW: Hey…um…you there. (Points at Soulsong.) Um…gay guy. Go answer the door.

SOULSONG: Sure thing. (Smiling, irritatingly happy, he goes out of the room to answer the door.)

AARON: Why are you sending him? You know what gay people are like with pizza. It fuels their deranged sex drives.

STEW: I know, but this way, if it’s Shannen Doherty, she’ll make it into this room untouched.

JOHNNY: Mmmmmmm…pure.

AMADO: I –

AARON: You don’t get a say in this, ‘El Gringo’. You leave our white women alone.

SMITH: People, people. (deep breath) Friends. Let’s all take a step back from this hostility. Perhaps we can –

AMADO: Shut up, Ghandi.

(Another long silence.)

SMITH: I still don’t like you.

Soulsong walks back to the table and sits next to Smith again. He is still happy.

STEW: Well, who was it? The pizza guy?

BLIZZARDWOLF stumbles into the room. He is quite, quite dead, and is easily recognisable as the corpse from Scene 1, with the hunchback and the Dr with the silly name.

BLIZZARDWOLF: Musssst….eat…flessssssshhhh…

JOHNNY: Ah don’ agree, sonny. (Cocks his shotgun.)

ADAM: I fucking told you. Didn’t I say so? (Waves in the general direction of the corpse) A fucking zombie. Do you listen to me? No…

AARON: I tried to listen to you, but that gay little Jew hat you wear threw my attention.

Amado is staring at the zombie, scrunching his face up tight and going red with the effort.

SMITH: What’s up with you, are you crapping yourself?

AMADO: No. I’m trying to get Imbued.

BLIZZARDWOLF: Musssssst…eeeeat….brainsssss…

ADAM: (stands up and confronts zombie) Look…we don’t know who you are, but if you just leave us alone, Johnny Ringo over there won’t have to kill you. Again.

SMITH: He seems so familiar, somehow. Almost as if…wait, I know him!

Everyone turns to Smith, and the zombie’s rotting, maggoty, nasty-skinned decayed face breaks into a smile.

BLIZZARDWOLF: You..know…me? Rrrreally?

SMITH: Oh, wait. False alarm. I thought it was Amado’s Mum.

BLIZZARDWOLF: RRAAARGH!

The zombie dives at Adam, starting to chew on teenage Canadian brain.

AARON: Fuck, don’t kill him! He’s our token Jew. He’s our obligatory member of alternate faith!

Soulsong pulls the zombie off a still-alive Adam.

ADAM: I…I feel weird. I feel, less…Canadian.

STEW: Half your brain is gone. You’re probably more American than Canadian, now.

The zombie starts eating Soulsong.

AARON: He’s killing our new token queer!

Amado takes advantage of the confusion to wheel himself in his wheelchair slowly and painfully behind Johnny. Johnny, being American, is ‘diffusing the violent situation’ by waving an American flag in people’s faces and brandishing firearms.

SMITH: Johnny, behind you!

Amado strikes, the brake handle of his wheelchair pulled off and rammed into Johnny’s back as a makeshift dagger.

AMADO: For the revolution! Die, white trash, die!

Aaron and Stew leave the room, talking quietly.

STEW: Everyone keeps dying. While I appreciate this is a work of fiction…

AARON: The zombie proved that.

STEW: Well…yeah. But while I appreciate this is a work of fiction, the police are going to start turning up soon.

AARON: You have a point. We need a patsy. Someone we can say “Here he is, officer. This is the guy that ate Smith’s ears, put Amado in a wheelchair, killed Johnny by stabbing him in the spine with a wheelchair brake handle, ate half of Adam’s brain, and resurrected this zombie who seems to recognise us for some reason.” We need that kinda scapegoat.

STEW: Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

AARON: Yeah, but we can’t use him.

STEW: Why not?

AARON: He’s new.

STEW: I guess.

AARON: And too gay. You know what courts of law are like for gay people. The jury will give them a sympathy vote just because gays like to make love to the bottom of another man.

STEW: Well, I –

AARON: Don’t go there.


INT. MFP’S LIVING ROOM.

Aaron and Stew re-enter. Adam, freshly bandaged, is rolling some dice, sitting at the table. Smith and Amado are talking quietly about the game. Johnny and Soulsong are scribbling little dots onto their character sheets. There is no sign of the Mikey-Zombie.

AARON: What happened?

ADAM: Simple. We –

AARON: No, I’d like to hear from someone who isn’t Jewish, please. I get scared talking to people with bits of their willies missing.

AMADO: We –

AARON: No, I’d like to hear it from someone who isn’t a racist.

SOULSONG: We –

AARON: Or a bender.

JOHNNY: Um…cayn ah tawk?

Aaron and Stew mull this over. Stew gives Aaron a little nod.

AARON: Yeah, okay.

JOHNNY: Wayl, we was –

AARON: No, actually, you talk like a retard. Smith, explain it for me.

SMITH: Well, basically, we all know you’re making these Rage Across the Forum posts up on the spot.

AARON: It’s true, yeah. I didn’t really think anyone would read them, and I can’t bring myself to try real hard to make them funny or edit them in any way.

SMITH: And we knew that half way through, you realised you had no fucking idea what to do with a zombie, and how to get rid of it. Especially if you were keeping the trend of no-one knowing who the zombie was.

AARON: Uh-huh.

SMITH: So we got rid of it for you. And now we never need bring it up again.

AARON: Excellent. Thanks, guys. But what about Johnny getting stabbed?

JOHNNY: Thayt hurts, boy, buht ah’ll live.

AMADO: Pity.

ADAM: And seriously, Soulsong’s not that bad. We were just talking about his character for the game. Seems like Soulsong’s not such a bad guy.

AARON: Fair enough.

ADAM: Except that he’s gay.

AARON: Well, obviously.

AMADO: Right, take your seats. It’s time to actually play, for once…

FADE OUT.

INT. MFP'S LIVING ROOM. GAME NIGHT.

There are several gamers present. They are spread like a layer of slackers over the furniture, laying on chairs and beanbags, or, in one case, sitting with a palpable air of racial tension, in a wheelchair. This is AMADO, a delightful bundle of insightful, offensive and foul-mouthed skin-bias. He is wearing a T-shirt that says something bad about white men, and something good about white girls.

Another figure enters, remarkable from the others in that she is female. One of the guys stands up in shock. This is not Amado, because he is in that wheelchair for a damn good reason - he *can't* stand up. It's also not SOULSONG, because Soulsong is a bit of a gay, and girls don't make him want to stand up, let alone anything else.

Silly person.

The guy standing, and cutting a handsome figure as he does so, is AARON.

AARON: Um...you're not supposed to be here. It's game night.

The female figure is smaller than the others, and she is a little cutie. Her name is JESSICA, and she is Aaron's girlfriend.
JESSICA: These are your...'friends'...?

AARON: Yeah.

Everyone waves.

AARON: Well, not that guy.

He points to BLIZZARDWOLF.

AARON: No fucking idea who he is. I think Stew knows him.

JESSICA: Which one is Stew?

AARON: That guy.

The guy in question is indeed STEW, and he makes a facial expression which he thinks makes him look quite charming.

SOULSONG: He's quite charming, isn't he?

Stew drops the charm, like it was a leper's head in his hands.

JESSICA: Riiiiiight. So, how long will you be? I mean, pretending to be werewolves and throwing dice at each other can't take too long, right?

There is stunned silence, broken only by ADAM, who is quietly Jewish, in a corner.

ADAM: What did she just say?

AARON: Honey, please, I hate it when you put it like that.

JESSICA: Like what? You pretend to be werewolves, right?

Another pause as everyone seeks a way out of this which involves them all still looking cool.

SMITH: Well, yes...

JOHNNY: ...and no. Suhmtahms, we preeh-tayned we're vairmpahs, or evuhn muhjishuhns.

JESSICA: What's his problem? He sounds retarded.

STEW and AARON: He's American.

JESSICA: Seriously, Aaron, please give this hobby up. It's nerdy and sad. It's hard to say to my friends that you can't come out because you're sitting in a room with other guys, pretending you are vair...vairmpa...y'know, werewolves.

AARON: Jessica, Jessica, Jessica. Tut-tut. You know me. It's not like I like Star Trek.

SOULSONG: Good idea, let's play Star Trek.

AARON: Shhh. And think, Jess...it's not like I like some real nerdy stuff like Dragonball Z, or wrestling.

Smith slowly crosses his arms over his DBZ T-shirt, and Johnny likewise covers his faded yellow Hulk Hogan "Hulkamania RULES!" T-shirt, by hugging a cushion to his chest. Like a big American baby.

ADAM: Johnny, go put a sweater over that thing. You've been wearing it a month now.

JOHNNY: Cover it up?

ADAM: Yeah.

JOHNNY: That is tactically dangerous.

SMITH: And stop quoting Terminator.

JOHNNY: That exceeds my mission parameters.

AMADO: Hey, Adam, do you ever miss that bit of your penis that's missing?

ADAM: No. Do you?

Another pause.

JESSICA: Is it...

AARON:(Interrupts) Yes, it's like this a lot.

JOHNNY: (Holds up a photo.) 'Scuse me, Ma'am?

JESSICA: Uh, yeah?

JOHNNY: Have you seen this boy?

STEW: Wait, that's a joke from Wayne's World. How'd that get in here?

AARON: Shut up, dude. I'm tired after a day at work and a night with my girlfriend. I'm writing this through half- closed eyes.

STEW: Oh. Sorry. Carry on.

JESSICA: Anyway, I'll be upstairs in the bedroom, naked except for my white socks, which I know you find real cute, and maybe covered in something you can lick off me. Okay?

AARON: Okay, honey.

Jessica exits. Aaron calmly returns to lying on his beanbag.

AARON: Right, whose turn was it?

SOULSONG: Mine. My Initiative was 17, because of my Gift, Spirit of the Gay.

SMITH: Excuse me? Spirit of the Fray, right?

JOHNNY: (Mumbles about how-mo-sexyules.)

SOULSONG: Oh, sorry, I did it again, didn't I?

ADAM: Dude, I was fine with you using Gayzor Claws, and even Primal AnGay.

SMITH: Although I did think Lambent Gayme was pushing it.

AMADO: Me too.

ADAM: But seriously, you need to get a grip, here. If you keep talking about your Ahroun starting with a Gayge of 5, I'll go mad.

AMADO: And we really need to sort out the whole Children of Gaya, thing.

An awkward pause follows.

STEW: Aaron, can I have a word?

AARON: Sure.

Exit Aaron and Stew. They go into the kitchen.

INT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.

STEW: Dude, I think Soulsong fancies Jessica.

AARON: That's unlikely. He's a benny.

STEW: Well, I think he fancies Smith, too.

AARON: That's unlikely. Smith's ugly.

STEW: Okay, cool. Just wanted to make sure.

AARON: Wait, Stew...have you noticed that there are so many fucking characters in this now, that I'm having trouble making an episode revolve around more than one or two of them?

STEW: I have, yeah. (He nods sagely). That's okay. I imagine the next one will be about someone else, right?
AARON: Yeah. Johnny, Amado and Adam going to a...uh, what're those places called? You know, where Jews talk about God and stuff, and have bits of their knobs cut off.

STEW: Church.

AARON: No, that's for normal people. The Jewish version, I mean.

STEW: A mosque. Something about Mecca, right?

AARON: No, that's for Pakis.

STEW: You can't call them Pakis anymore, dude. That's racist.

AARON: What is it now, then?

STEW: Darkies, I think.

INT. LIVING ROOM. NIGHT.

Aaron and Stew Re-enter.

Johnny is performing primitive surgery on himself, with a sharpened D10. He neatly cuts and slides a bit of his face off, and hands it to Amado.

SMITH: Gross.

ADAM: Yuck.

AMADO: Coooooooooooool.

Under Johnny's skin, is chrome. With half his face missing, half of his silver skull is revealed, with one red eye.

AARON: You've ruined my carpet, dickhead.

The carpet is indeed covered with blood.

INT. INSIDE JOHNNY'S HEAD.

We see a red screen, with AARON, SMITH and BLIZZARDWOLF. The image of Aaron flashes, and the writing alongside says AARON/MFP. ENGLISHMAN. Smith's image flashes, with the writing SMITH. CLOSET HOMOSEXUAL. WETS THE BED. POTENTIAL TARGET. Blizzardwolf's image flashes up, and the words read TARGET UNKNOWN. IGNORE.

Then, more white writing flashes across the screen, along with the words "You've ruined my carpert, dickhead."

Other sentences flash up, in a list, reading:

POSSIBLE ANSWERS:
- I am sorry.
- Fuck you, asshole.
- Hasta La Vista, baby.
- How many successes do I need?

The words "I am sorry" flash again.

INT. LIVING ROOM. NIGHT.

Johnny looks at Aaron.

JOHNNY: Ahm, sawrry.

AARON: It's cool. Don't worry. Fuck it, you ate all the chips, you bastards.

JOHNNY: (Taps his head.) No. There is still one more chip. In here.

ADAM: Oh, shut up. Aaron, is there any molten steel we can lower him into?

AARON: Depends. Johnny, will you do the thumb thing at the end? Y'know, like this? (Does a thumbs up.)

JOHNNY: Fuck you. Asshole.

FADE OUT for the advert break.

BLACKNESS. Then, a heartbeat thumping in the background.

Letters of fire appear across the dark screen, saying, "The darkness is all around you..." the writing fades. Then, more fiery letters appear, "...and in the darkness, you feel fear..."

More blackness. Then, in fire letters once more - "...Out of the darkness, comes the scent of evil..." The heartbeat speeds up quickly, getting louder, and the fire letters read "...and now you must..."

The scene changes, now showing STEW, sitting at the gaming table.

STEW: ...Roll Dexterity plus Dodge, or you'll be stuck in the Lasombra's Obtenebration 2 effect for another turn.
The heartbeat stops dead. Stew smiles.

STEW: You fucking *dig*, biz-atch?

Violent, badass metal music starts up fast, riffing guitars and thundering drums. We see a montage of clips flashing before our eyes.

Stew getting slapped by a sexy girl. "Ow, baby!" He turns, whispers something into the ear of another girl, and is slapped again.

Johnny, dressed up as Robocop, fighting Amado, who has dressed up his wheelchair to look like ED-209. "Think it over...creep. Drop your weapon, or there will be...trouble." Johnny unloads a huge machine gun into Amado, who laughs it off.

Adam, looking harshly at himself in the mirror as he puts on that Jewish hat thing. "You talkin' tuh me? I don't see no other member of the religion responisble for killing Jesus here, so you MUST be talkin' tuh me."

Smith, looking condescending and well-mannered, in a James Bond suit, and pulling a gun. "You, my good sir, are a racist fellow. Care to dance?"

Soulsong, driving a speeding car, looking desperate. He brakes suddenly, with screeching tires, outside a building with a neon sign saying "Men, Men, Men. Guys, Guys, Guys."

The scenes fade, and the blackness returns. The letters of fire appear again, with the heartbeat.

Rage Across the Forums: The Movie. Coming soon.

One last scene flashes up. Aaron, sitting on a beanbag, looking confused. "Woah, wait a second..."

More Blackness. A voiceover of Aaron saying "...hold on, who the fuck is THAT guy?"

The fiery letters come up one last time, saying "Game night has fuck all to do with sports any more."

[This is the start of an actual ongoing storyline. Cower, mortals. -ed.]

INT. MFP'S LIVING ROOM. GAME NIGHT.

We see two faces. AARON and STEW, both looking handsome and English. They are looking directly into the camera.

AARON: Can he hear us?

STEW: Yeah.

Stew's face vanishes from shot, and emerges a moment later. Green writing flashes up onto the screen, covering the two guy's faces.

PRIME DIRECTIVES:

1) Serve the public trust.
2) Uphold the Law.
3) Pay Aaron back that fiver that I owe him.
4) Talk about guns all the fucking time.
5) And cars, too.

The writing fades.

AARON: Is he working yet?

STEW: Yeah. Should be.

Stew looks directly at the camera again.

STEW: You're gonna be one mean mother*fucker*.

Stew's face moves off-screen.

AARON: I love this guy.

FADE OUT.

MFP'S LIVING ROOM. GAME NIGHT.

Aaron and Stew are present, standing over the body of JOHNNY. Johnny sits up.

STEW: Better?

JOHNNY: Yayuh. Thaynks.

Johnny takes a machine tool and fixes a few loose screws in his temple. He mutters something about OCP and babyfood.

Aaron sits at the table, setting all his Hunter: the Reckoning dice in neat order, making them all say '9' on the face pointing up. SMITH and Stew are also present at the table, competing to see who can make the highest dice tower out of Vampire: the Masquerade dice. It appears to be Smith, incidentally.

There is a loud knock at the door.

SMITH: Did you hear that? They've shut down the main reactor. We're done for.

All eyes turn to the front door. Sparks start to fly around the door edges, as if someone were cutting through with a steel cutter.

The gamers take positions hiding behind various bits of furniture.

SMITH: We can take him. Whoever it is. We don't need to hide. It might just be the pizza guy, anyway.

AARON: Oh, shut up. The pizza guy wouldn't cut down my door with some kind of super cutting thing, would he? Anyway, you're a geek and a gamer. What are you going to do, throw dice at him?

STEW: Use your plastic lightsaber?

AARON: Or mine?

SMITH: Point taken.

Heartbeats speed up all round as the sparks around the door cease. Mechanical breathing is heard from the other side of the door.

SMITH: That sounds just like Darth V -

AARON: We know.

STEW: Shut up.

JOHNNY: Hide.

The door falls forward with a loud crash. A figure dressed entirely in black steps calmly into the room, looking around.

SMITH: Fucking Hell, it *is* Darth Va -

AARON: (Hisses) Shut up, fuckface...

The breathing continues, and as the figure in black hits the light switch, it is revealed that it is indeed Darth Vader. The Dark Lord of the Sith tosses something onto the table. The camera zooms in to see them.

A tube of Werewolf: the Apocalypse dice.

Stew and Aaron both stand, looking resolute.

STEW: You're going to pay for that door, Vader.

AARON: Right, Stew, you come at him slowly from the left, I'll -

STEW: I'm taking him NOW!
Stew runs forward, straight into Vader's projected lightning. He is thrown to the side of the room, unconscious.

VADER: Is this the best you can do, Aaron? I'm disappointed. I'm beginning to wonder why the Forums hold you in such high regard.

AARON: Yeah, me too. Me too.

VADER: As you can see, my powers are far in advance of your own. It should be me that hosts The Forum Gaming Group.

AARON: I don't *think* so, McFarland.

Vader pauses. The heavy, mechanical breathing continues.

VADER: How did you know who I was?

AARON: I'd recognise your arrogance anywhere.

VADER: Oh?

AARON: And you were wearing that suit when you gave me my signed copy of Rokea yesterday.

VADER: Ah.

Vader pulls his helmet off. It is indeed, Blackhatmatt.

BHM: Hi there. I'm White Wolf's Matt McFarland.

JOHNNY: Nice skirt, girly-boy.

More lightning is thrown, this time at Johnny. He is thrown against the wall, and into a pretty nasty instant coma.

BHM: Kilt, fucktard. Kilt.

AARON: Regardless of your Barbie-like attire, you'll not win here. Rage Across the Forums is *my* chocolate chicken pot-pie, dude. Maybe you could guest ST a session.

BHM: Maybe. Or maybe, I'll just kill you and take your gamers.

BHM hurls lightning at Aaron, who is also knocked out.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN.

The room shows the wreckage of a collossal battle. BHM stands triumphant atop the bodies of the gamers. Strewn everywhere are normal gamers, a gay gamer, and a Jewish gamer. Amado is the only one still standing, and that is a fairly relative statement, because he's technically in a wheelchair. The wheelchair squeaks as he tries to 'flee'. Matt, being a fucker, gently kicks the wheelchair over, sending Amado crashing to the ground. Added to the pile of normal, gay and Jewish gamers, is now a Mexican-looking gamer.

BHM: Ah, victory.

There is the funky buzz of a lightsaber. BHM spins to see Smith, unhurt because he hid the whole time, holding a purple lightsaber up.

SMITH: This party is over.

BHM: Ah, Smith. Don't be stupid. You're vastly outnumbered.

SMITH: In what way? There's one of you, and one of me.

BHM: Oh, yeah. Nevermind.

Lightning fires out of Matt's fingertips, knocking Smith out cold.

BHM: Such heroic nonsense.

Silence settles over the scene, broken only by Matt's Vader- breathing.

And then, quietly, in the stillness of the room, there is movement. A figure, hunched over, weak with months of neglect and having to scavenge for food on the streets, walks into the room. His skin has gone a bit green from sleeping in dumpsters, he is extra-stooped from rickets and scurvy, and his command of English is weakened by the fact that no one has spoken it to him in many, many weeks.

BHM: You!

BLIZZARDWOLF: Yes. Me, it is. The end it is, for you.

BHM: Uh...who, exactly, are you?

BLIZZARDWOLF: That matters not.

BHM: Fair enough.

He fires lightning at Blizzardwolf, who catches it in his palm and absorbs it.

BLIZZARDWOLF: Grown powerful, you have. The Dark Side I sense in you.

Adam slowly comes around, mumbling Jewish things.

ADAM: Wait...Matt McFarland?!

He turns to Blizzardwolf.

ADAM: You told me that he betrayed and murdered my father!

BLIZZARDWOLF: No. Your father he is.

BHM: What the...? Shut up, both of you.

He lightnings Adam, just because it was starting to get silly. While there is indeed a veritable legion of Mattspawn over the world, this was most likely not one of them. He'd never let any kid of his become a fucking Jew.

BHM: Anyway, small, hunched, green stranger.

BLIZZARDWOLF: Blizzardwolf.

BHM: Indeed? Anyway, it's obvious that we must settle this with lightsabers, whatever your name is.

BLIZZARDWOLF: It's Blizzardwolf.

BHM: That's what I said.

BLIZZARDWOLF: No you didn't, you said...urk!

"urk!" is the noise Blizzardwolf might make when, say, he is killed by Matt's force lightning. In this case, it is
exactly what happened.

BHM: That takes care of that.

Matt picks up the bodies of Adam, Smith, Amado and Johnny, throws all of them into a trunk, and leaves.

Aaron and Stew come round.

AARON: Ouch.

STEW: Ow.

AARON: He stole all our gamers.

STEW: Bugger. What should we do? Get them back?

AARON: I guess so. It's the only way to beat him. Without Ghandi, Wheels, The Dandy Jew and J-BoCop, we're not much of a group.

SOULSONG: I'm still here.

AARON: Quiet, Benny. We need to beat Matt.

Blizzardwolf chokes as the final drips of his life flee him. His last words are whispered.

BLIZZARDWOLF: Beat him? Victory? Not victory.

There is a tense pause.

BLIZZARDWOLF: Begun...the Nerd War...has.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN.

INT. A MODERN, CLASSY, WELL-FURNISHED LIVING ROOM.

Several figures sit around an expensive glass table, tied to their chairs. In front of each figure is a small pile of limited edition Grandmaster Storyteller pure emerald dice, each side bearing a glittering number intricately made from diamond. The paper that the players are using as character sheets is beautifully thick and great for colouring in little dots on. Each sheaf is worth several thousand dollars, being the flesh of the world's last Naggy- Tuk-Tuk tree of the Southern Reaches of the Congo.
At the head of the table is a man clad in a tight-fitting ThunderCats T-shirt. He has the smarmy grin of a man who has lost a lot of weight recently, and has a career that could only be classed as 'a touch on the cool side'. This is MATT, and he is the only one not tied to a chair.

MATT: See? Do you see, my new Roleplayers? Didn't I say that all gaming materials would be of the highest quality if you joined me? Did I not say that, once allied with me, your every gaming experience would be paramount to rapture? Look on your character sheets, inked in the blood of the last Dodo, on paper from the world's last Naggy-Tuk- Tuk tree. Look at your dice made from pure emeralds with diamond numbers Now, stay seated, my gaming brethren, for the roleplaying experience of your lifetimes.

One of the figures is a bit of a badass. He sneers at Matt, and points at the table. This is AMADO.

AMADO: See, here, mista. Now, I dig what you're saying about the phat dice, muthafucka, but, see, Aaron had Doritos, biz-atch. And, see...you don't, baybay. You ain't got no Doritos at all. I thought *that* might have been a Dorito, but it turned out not to be. It was, like, something else, instead. Dig?

There are general murmurings of agreement from the other figures. Matt seems panicked. Dorito-shortages were something that had simply not crossed his mind.

MATT: There can be Doritos! Look! See!

He clicks his fingers, and a LACKEY enters from the door, carrying several bowls of Doritos on a big tray.

AMADO: Now that's what I'm talkin' bout, nigga.

The group take a moment to digest this seemingly apparent racial slur, and then get back to the plot. Matt clears his throat.

MATT: Now, has everyone spent their Freebie points?

ALL: Yes, sir.

MATT: Excellent.

SMITH: Just one thing, I was wondering if I could take my Interrogation to -

MATT: NO! I have banned Interrogation.

LACKEY: So sayeth Matt, so shall it be.

MATT: Quiet, Lackey.

SMITH: Why?

MATT: I *write* these books, you little son of a bitch. That's why. Right, you all wake up and get ready for your daily tasks, except for Smith's character, who dies writhing and screaming in painful death.

SMITH: Uh...but...

MATT: That'll learn *you*, boy.

JOHNNY: Ah wuhz won'erin' if ah could -

MATT: NO! You may not!

JOHNNY: But...

MATT: What do you mean 'but'? You know nothing, fool! Did yooooooooooooou write Rokea? No. No, I don't think you did.

JOHNNY: But we're nawt playin' Ro -

MATT: ANSWER ME!

JOHNNY: Uh, naw, ah didn't wraht Rokea.

Matt sighs, contented at last. He chuckles slightly, and in that chuckle dwells the hint of madness.

MATT: I wrote it. Not you.

JOHNNY: I know -

MATT: Me. Me, and not you. Case closed. Now, back to the game.

Another figure speaks up. This figure is as gay as the day itself. He is the YMC in YMCA.

SOULSONG: I miss Stew and Aaron.

ADAM: In a gay way?

SOULSONG: Yeah, a little. But mostly in a roleplaying way.

MATT: Excuse me? What did you just say?

SOULSONG: I said I miss Stew and Aaron.

MATT: Speak not their names here, fool.

There is a pause as the engines of trickery thrum into life within Soulsong's mind. He smiles.

SOULSONG: Um...whose names might those be?

MATT: Aar - hey, I'm not falling for that crap.


INT. AARON'S HOUSE. GAME NIGHT.

Handsomely, some might say charmingly amazingly, AARON and STEW stride down a long line of people. The line of people stretches from the front door to the kitchen. Aaron and Stew pause at the first in the queue, and Stew holds a pen and clipboard, ready to record details.

AARON: Your name, candidate?

CANDIDATE 1: Mythdude.

Stew scribbles. Aaron speaks.

AARON: Hello, Mythdude.

MYTHDUDE: Hi. You can call me Ratman, if you like.

AARON: Do I have to?

MYTHDUDE: Uh...no.

AARON: Well, what's your Forum handle?

MYTHDUDE: Mythdude.

AARON: So...and stop me if I'm going to fast here, why, *exactly* would I call you 'Ratman', if your handle is Mythdude?

MYTHDUDE: Well, people call you 'Aaron'.

AARON: That's because my name is Aaron. I sincerely doubt that your name is Ratman.

MYTHDUDE: It might be. You don't know. You won't know unless you hire me for the new Nerd Group.

AARON: Then I'll never know, and a saddening loss it is. NEXT!

CANDIDATE 2: Hi there.

Stew scribbles. Aaron sighs like an action hero and melodramatically runs a hand over the surface of his black beanie hat as if he were styling his hair.

AARON: Hello, Candidate. And you would be...?

CANDIDATE 2: JuJu. And WolvenRangesID.

AARON: Correct me if I'm wrong, but surely you're not allowed to be two people. Physics, and indeed, reality itself, has a great deal to say on the topic. Mainly negative, I believe.

JUJU: No, it's like you being Aaron and MFP, rather than that other guy being Ratman and Mythdude.

STEW: Like me being Stew and Digital Raven?

JUJU: Yeah.

AARON: Ah. Excellent. And what could you bring to the new Nerd Club?

JUJU: Well, I can Fluh-CHING! just like you.

AARON: Please, do so.

She goes through the motions.

AARON: Pathetic.

JUJU: Well, I'm friendly and I talk to you over MSN sometimes. And I draw real nicely, too.

STEW: She has a point, Aaron.

AARON: Yup. Juju, you're hired.

JUJU: Rock on!

AARON: No, let me finish. You're hired on the provision that you never say "Rock On". Sadly, you have violated this clause in your first moments as a member of Nerd Club, and we're forced to let you go.

STEW: You had it all, and you threw it away.

AARON: Bye now. NEXT!

CANDIDATE 3 steps up.

AARON: Hello, Candidate 3. What's your name?

CANDIDATE 3: Blizzardwolf.

AARON: Excellent. Excellent. Lizard Golf. Great game, that. Superb game. I play it all the time. NEXT!

BLIZZARDWOLF: But...

AARON: Excuse me, but I *did* say "Next". NEXT!

CANDIDATE 4: Hi there.

AARON: Hello. Be brief, because I tire of stupidity. Why should we hire you?

CANDIDATE 4: My name's Silverfeet.

AARON: So?

SILVERFEET: I'm British.

AARON: You're hired.

Stew scribbles affirmatively. The three share brief patriotic nods, and promise to talk more later over Earl Grey tea.

AARON: NEXT!

CANDIDATE 5: Hi there!

AARON and STEW: Fuck off, Ratdude.

MYTHDUDE: It's Myth -

STEW: Mythman, whatever. Fuck off.

CANDIDATE 6: Me next, right?

AARON: Yep.

CANDIDATE 6: I'm Mark. Mark Rein-Hagen.

Silverfeet, Stew and Aaron share another chuckle.

MRH: Why are you laughing? I created this whole hobby!! I AM YOUR GOD!!!

AARON: You are also the RPG equivalent of Spinal Tap. Go away.

MRH: But...But...

STEW: Door, Arse, make the connection yourself, dude. Ciao.

AARON: Buh-bye.

Mark leaves, looking saddened.

AARON: Oh, wait...Mark?

Mark turns, eyes bright like a child at Christmas. The hope in his face brings tears to the eyes of many nerds in the recruitment queue.

AARON: Thanks a *whole* bunch for Kindred: the Embraced.

MRH: Really?

STEW: Why, Aaron, do you see? It would appear that in addition to manners and etiquette, our ancestors also forgot to leave sarcasm in the colonies when we left with all our tea all those years ago.

AARON: So it would seem. Go away, Mark.

MRH: So...so you didn't like Kindred: the -

AARON: No-one did. I doubt even you did.

MRH: No, not really. Bye.

AARON and STEW: Bye.

AARON: Damnit, this sucks. I wonder how the guys are doing now that Matt McFarland turned out to be an evil Sith Lord who kidnapped all of them to create his own Nerd Club?

STEW: That sentence was a little loaded, there. I thought you had an English degree?

AARON: I do. I'm just a little rough when I try to do exposition. Sorry.

STEW: I forgive you.

AARON: Thanks.


INT. MATT'S GAMING ROOM. NIGHT.

Matt stands at the head of the table, red with anger. The others are still tied to the chairs.

MATT: Roll your dice!!!!!!!!!!!

ADAM, a little Canadian guy, sighs with extreme patience. Living so close to America, he is clearly used to dealing with uppity, trigger-happy folks like this Matt fellow.

ADAM: I can't. My hands are tied to this chair. All of our hands are tied. That's why none of us can roll dice. That's why none of us have rolled dice all evening.

MATT: Lies. All lies. There have been no dice rolls because my advanced and in-depth ultimate breed of storytelling has overruled the need for dice.

ADAM: If that were the case, I'd be fine. It's not the case, however. It's a big fat lie. Look how many characters we've been through. About nine each. It's because we can't roll soak dice.

MATT: Lies. Again, more lies. It's because the story comes first.

ADAM: No, really, it's because -

MATT: I don't think that yoooooooooooou wrote Rokea. I think that, in fact, it was meeeeeeeeeeeeee that wrote it. Am I wrong? Am I *wrong*? Because I don't think I'm wrong, here.

Matt thrusts a finger into Smith's eye.

MATT: You there! Boy!

SMITH: OW! What...what is it?

MATT: Am I wrong, boy? Did this little Canadian fellow write Rokea?

SMITH: My eye hurts.

MATT: Answer me!

AMADO: Dude, dude, dude. Easy there, brah. Take a leaf outta tha izzy-bizzy to the chiz-nee little book of calm, and hear me out, one time, aye, killing me softly, two time.

MATT: I...I'm sorry, what?

AMADO: It ain't about the Rokea, baby. It's about -

MATT: What do yooooooooooooooou know about the Rokea? NOTHING! Nothing, I say! So how do you know whether it's about them or not? Eh? Eh?? Eh???

JOHNNY: Lissen, mayn...

MATT: I think you little buttheads need to bear in mind one thing, here. *I* wrote Rokea. And that's that.

SOULSONG: I miss Aaron and Stew.

ADAM: In a gay way?

SOULSONG: We already used this line.

ADAM: Oh, yeah. Sorry.

FADE OUT.

Rage Across the Forums: The Tender Years

INT. A NURSERY. DAYTIME.

The scene opens with a wide-angle pan of a nursery, decorated in pastel blues. Walking around the room are several BABYSITTERS, all smiling and chatting happily to each other. In the centre of the floor, is a very large playpen, with a bunch of cute little babies enclosed within the mesh boundaries. The babies giggle and stuff at irregular intervals.

It is the scene of contentment. We zoom closer to one baby, wearing a tiny Transformers T-shirt (Optimus Prime), and a white nappy/diaper. The baby has the beginnings of a rogue-ish goatee and moustache on his face. This is LITTLE AARON. He reaches OUT OF SHOT, and pulls an oversized beanie hat over his head. It slips and covers his eyes.

LITTLE AARON: Blinded, by the Gods!

Another baby crawls over, with long brown hair and sarcasm etched on his pudgy little features. This is LITTLE STEW, a cohort of Little Aaron.

LITTLE STEW: What are you doing?

LITTLE AARON: My hat slipped. Help me. My arms are too small and useless.

Little Stew helps Little Aaron by setting the hat straight. It is difficult, because his own arms are tiny.

LITTLE STEW: I feel like a T-Rex.

LITTLE AARON: What, the band?

LITTLE STEW: No, the dinosaur. With the little arms and stuff.

The camera pans across to another baby. This one has darker skin than the others, and is wearing a red bandana. A Babysitter tickles the baby, who is LITTLE AMADO.

BABYSITTER: Coochie-coochie-coo. Who is a cuddly-wuddly little buggy-wuggy?

LITTLE AMADO: I seriously hope you ain't talkin' about me, biz-atch.

The Babysitter clearly only hears cute baby giggles in reply to her inane prose. The adults can't speak Baby Talk, evidently.

BABYSITTER: Cuddly-wuddly boo-bee-doo-bee-doobs.

LITTLE AMADO: You're fucking insane, honey.

Another baby crawls over to Little Amado. He is wearing a Dragonball Z T-shirt. Little Amado sneers at the other boy, who is LITTLE SMITH.

LITTLE AMADO: Hey, white baby.

LITTLE SMITH: Hello. Say, how about us being pals, huh?

Little Smith's happy enthusiasm is painful to see in action.

LITTLE AMADO: How about you white-skinned little motherf -

His racist tirade is broken by the intrusion of a Babysitter, who lifts him out of the playpen and into the sky. There is a hallowed pause as Little Smith sees the other baby vanish into the outside world. The world 'outside' the playpen.

LITTLE SMITH: Shame. He seemed like such a nice guy.

Little Smith crawls on, bumping into another baby. This baby is wearing Tom Cruise-style sunglasses, from Top Gun, and a Spiderman T-shirt.

LITTLE JOHNNY: Hey, cool-cat.

LITTLE SMITH: Hi there.

LITTLE JOHNNY: Like my shades? They are Aviators, baby.

Little Smith grins as if he understands what is being said. He doesn't, of course.

LITTLE SMITH: Wow. Will you be my friend? I always wanted a friend with able-dayber spades.

LITTLE JOHNNY: That's not what I said, little man. I was greasing on about my 'shades', baby. But sure, we can be pals.

LITTLE SMITH: Sweet.

LITTLE JOHNNY: Swingin'. Now go get me a dummy, or a pacifier, or whatever they're called in America, baby. I need something to put in my mouth, and I don't know what girls are yet.

LITTLE SMITH: Sure, buddy.

Little Smith crawls on, past another baby, who is surrounded by a veritable legion of crayons, felt-tip pens, and colouring pencils. The baby is scrawling all over her colouring book, making orange swans, blue sheep, and red elephants. This is LITTLE JUJU. Little Smith seems about to talk to her, but she is engrossed in her art. He crawls on.

LITTLE AARON: Dude?

LITTLE STEW: Yeah?

LITTLE AARON: One day, we're gonna grow up to be way handsome.

LITTLE STEW: I know. We rule.

LITTLE AARON: We sure do.

There is a pause as the babies take this in.

LITTLE STEW: Little Aaron?

LITTLE AARON: Yeah, Little Stew?

LITTLE STEW: Are we vain, at all?

LITTLE AARON: No way.

LITTLE STEW: Oh, cool. I thought we were vain.

LITTLE AARON: We ain't vain. Just better than everyone else.

LITTLE STEW: Cool beans.

Little Smith crawls into view.

LITTLE SMITH: Hey guys.

LITTLE STEW and LITTLE AARON: Hey, Little Smith.

LITTLE SMITH: I need a dummy or a pacifier, for Little Johnny to suck. I think he's teething, or something.

Little Stew and Little Aaron both turn their fat baby heads at the same time, both looking at a corner of the playpen where one baby sits alone.

LITTLE STEW: Try over there. That guy has a sucker.

Little Smith crawls on over.

Little Aaron and Little Stew look at the baby in the corner, wearing pink-ish clothes and sucking a dummy. The baby is a boy, but is dressed, some might say 'gayly', in pink.

LITTLE STEW: He's always sucking that thing, man.

LITTLE AARON: That's a habit forming, I swear.

Little Smith reaches the lonely baby, sitting in his corner.

LITTLE SMITH: Hi there.

LITTLE SOULSONG: Hello.

CUT TO another side of the playpen, where a babysitter gently puts a crying baby back in with the other babies.

BABYSITTER: There you go, little guy.

The baby does not stop crying. It is wearing a crazy little Jew hat. This is LITTLE ADAM.

LITTLE STEW: Why is that kid crying so much?

LITTLE AARON: I dunno.

A bigger kid enters the scene. He is a few years older than the babies, about 5 or 6. He is picking his nose as though his nasal canals hold some kind of treasure in their depths. He absently wipes a slimy finger on his black cap. This is the babies' big brother, LITTLE MATT.

LITTLE MATT: Hey, losers.

The babies move away slightly. Little Smith is happily playing with a toy shark, pretending it is a magic fish-plane.

LITTLE SMITH: Weeeeeee! Splash! Zoooooooooooom! Splash!

Little Matt excavates his other nostril, wipes his finger on his hat again, and steps into the playpen.

LITTLE SMITH: Weeeeeeee! Zoooooom! Splash! Zoooo - Oh, hi Little Matt.

In his infant fists, Little Smith clutches his favourite toy - his little plastic shark.

LITTLE MATT: Hi, loser.

Little Smith, with the innocence of the young and stupid, shows Little Matt the plastic shark.

LITTLE SMITH: Look, it's my fish-plane.

Little Matt shakes his head slowly.

LITTLE MATT: No. No, I don't think it is.

LITTLE SMITH: It isn't?

LITTLE MATT: No. I think it's MY fish-plane.

He punches Little Smith in the face, making the baby cry like a...a...um, a baby. He grabs the toy shark and stomps back over to Little Stew and Little Aaron.

LITTLE STEW: Hey, Little Matt, cool toy!

Little Matt punches Little Stew, and clutches his shark.

LITTLE MATT: Mine! You know nothing about the fish-plane! I am KING of the fish-planes!

Little Stew and Little Aaron share a look conveying their doubts as to Little Matt's sanity. Little Matt sits in a corner, after stealing Little JuJu's colouring pens and some paper. He starts scribbling the "giDE to MI FISHPlain", which imaginatively involves shapeshifting fishplanes that turn into men sometimes. He punctuates the text with boogers, used as periods.

LITTLE AARON: Hey, Matt?

LITTLE MATT: Yes, loser?

LITTLE AARON: Why is Little Adam crying so much?

LITTLE MATT: He's Jewish.

LITTLE AARON: So?

LITTLE MATT: He's just got back from 'the chop'.

There is a pause as Little Aaron and Little Stew consider this.

LITTLE STEW: Fucking Hell.

LITTLE AARON: You said it.

A Babysitter enters the scene, lowering another baby into the playpen.

LITTLE BLIZZARDWOLF: Hi there!

LITTLE STEW: Um...hi.

LITTLE BLIZZARDWOLF: I'm Little Blizzardwolf!

LITTLE STEW: Um, that's cool. I have to look over here now.

Little Stew turns to look at Little Aaron.

LITTLE STEW: Dude, scope the new kid.

Little Aaron looks at the new baby and winces as Little Blizzardwolf grins and waves.

LITTLE AARON: He seems easily forgettable.

A pause.

LITTLE STEW: Who does?

The two babies share a comradely chuckle.

FADE OUT.