Morning Glory

Remove all ads!

Shortly after the eighth hour of the day was he awoken as he had asked on the evening. «Where am I?» asked his eyes, his mouth not responding the urge from his mind. «Do you remember what you asked me in the evening?» «To have me awoken by all means possible», a sudden revelation struck his half-functional mind. «Have the
tea». He looked around helplessly until expressly handed the cup whereat he was gazing, and he learnt that he had to sit in his bed to drink. He took his tea like a schoolboy takes his first girl in life and sticked his legs out of the bed in a heroic attempt at further awakening. After a prolonged catatonic moment, he stood up unfirmly, his face muscles protesting to their best, and navigated to the hall, deftly avoiding doom at the hands of the furniture. «Good morning» would be what he said if parsed into common from what appeared to be heavily bastardised orcish.

Having thus properly exchanged salutations, he swayed back to his chamber and forth, tightening and loosening his fists, nodding his head up and down. «Coffee... coffee...» said he unto himself. «You surely know in this state you will sooner break the machine than make any coffee» translated the instant reply. «Right. Let me resume vertical position first» he second-guessed himself. However, as he resumed vertical position, it became clear to him that his stomach would rise against caffeine. «Be it. I shall not back on my way.» he thought before taking double shot maximum load espresso with half normal water. He intended to work hard from early morning, producing countless lines of code, yet at that time it was already apparent that that would not be. He devoted himself to current affairs for two hours and with the following half an hour of flirting with an old friend so brutally interrupted, he chose to invade the realm Battlenet with sword and fire, wreaking havoc to the noobs. There is indeed nothing like the smell of a conquered base in the morning.

 

Nice piece, Chev....

*sniggers*

Sorry, had to say that...

 

Several days later, it came unto his slowly agonising mind that his stats had far exceeded his actual skill. Too much newbslaying had caused him to lose the claw. He lost the sharp edge. After losing to his henchman, he realised he needed some rest. He had not slept for days, and not slept well for ages, such was the process of battlenetisation of brain he had undergone. Even without newbs being scared off, further newbslaying became pointless as it would only have increased his victory count, thus attracting seasoned veterans. He would soon suffer a rapid change in his driving stat development tendency. That could not be. He therefore elected to create a doomed nick and start playing rapid no-thinking one to one games with his henchman and practically all other games with whomever possible. Playing in noob teams against veterans and inevitably loosing would be the price of practice needed to kick the very asses of the said veterans sore when the time comes. The usual nick would cover sure wins, to preserve the glory of the name. He had risen too far without learning the ways of the masters.

Playing with masters makes one, but every enemy was a good enemy for practice. Even computer. For even though not all blood is equal, all looks the same on sand. Blood and tears on the sand, with clangor of iron overwhelming. Die, noobs! The Newbslayer lives. He is only dormant. You will yet bow all to his supreme uberness. You noobs with big stats too. «May the Newbmaster commence his training!» says the ancient prophecy of great sage Uberundo.

First would go one to one rush training. Never too much, for no one knows when a good old lame rush will come in handy. Then would follow BGH and making its lame tactics part of normal routine. Computers first, noobs second. Masters for the testing of progress. And mini BGH, for learning to crash opposition in close quarters. Defensive tactics need to be practiced. His henchman had always had an uncanny knack for rushes so he would have him rush and rush and rush so as to put his own defensive capabilities at a cruel test.

 

Substitute "self-confidence" for "stats", and you've pretty much nailed it.

Although "slowly agonising mind" seems appropriate.