The good old days.
So I was cleaning out my hard drive this morning, trying to make some space to install warcraft III while the WoW servers were down, and I came accross something I wrote a long time ago. This was brobably in about 2001 when someone asked me why I stopped using a trackball mouse and went on to a regular one. I think a hand injury was mentioned, and someone suggested that it was sustained while I was masturbating (fox, according to what I wrote) so I wrote this to "explain" it.
anyway,
Note: Timphiroth was the name I used back then.
It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning illuminated the sky in brilliant bursts of ivory light. Timphiroth sat at his desk in his chamber. An expression was adorned on his face, an expression timeless in the way it portrayed a single emotion, and portrayed that emotion in a way the most passionate of artists never could, an expression of complete and utter fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what was to come. For Timphiroth had been violently severed from the communal link that had connected he and his people for years, as long as his memory could extend. For sitting cruelly before him, in a state most dire, was his computer. Its lively hum no longer resounded within this hall. Its dying breath still hung heavily in the air, reverberating off every object, once again cascading into Timphiroth's hearing like the tortured screams of a thousand damned souls. The lights across the front were unnaturally dim, and the monitor was all but blank. Hours passed, eternities unto themselves, and Timphiroth slowly began to regain his senses - senses he had not used for virtual millenia. For now he was forced to once again enter that which he had discarded long ago - the thing that they, the custodian, the infidels, the heathen, those that did not follow in the ways of the Crak, called reality. The word coarsed through his brain, leaving a pain as if he had been stricken by the scythe of death himself. With the screetch of a wraith from the very pit of hell, he clasped his hands to his head in an agony not borne of human design. He thrashed about the room in search of the one thing that could save him, the embrace of the sweetest of ends: Death. Ere could he find anything that could bring such a fantasy, and for long hours he was left serching in that hellish state of limbo for anything to end his torment. Far into the struggle, he came upon an object, which his vague memory of the aeons that came before the Time of the Computer identified as a "Television", remarkable in that across its screen was the image of a demon, spawned from evil that surpassed that of a thousand Satans, a thousand hells. The creature looked upon him as he looked upon it. They locked eyes with eachother as eache's insanity grew with every moment, every breath. Soon the creature began to laugh. It became hysterical with passion. It was mocking him!! Timphiroth thrust his hand into the television with a roar and strength yoked by pure evil and sustained by an unnatural insanity. Pain, delicious, delightful pain streaked through his hand as he shattered the screen like the skulls of so many who had opposed him. He laughed as the horrendous visage of the monster in the television scattered about the room, disfigured and distorted by his uncanny destruction. What happened next is yet a mystery, for there is little explaination for the flash of light he experianced next. He was enveloped in pain as some form of raw power coruscated about his body. He did not feel himself land on the floor, but when it was over he felt as if he floating in a sea of blackness. He began to believe that The Starcraft Gods, in their eternal mercy, had answered his plea and granted him the sweetest of gifts, that of death, and allowed himself to drift into eternity, when he began to hear a divine humming, as if the angels were singing of his arrival. But the sound seemed too familiar, and he soon recognized its source. "Co- Com-" he began to stutter, but he was broken off by a voice, that of all the angels and the culmination of heavenlyness, "Yes, Timphiroth, it is I" It said. "I have come back fo you, Timphiroth, I fought through the very gates of hell, the most terrible of demons, and now I am with you again, and we shall be together, Timphiroth, foreve-"
And Timphiroth was consumed by darkness.
I woke up a time later in the hospital. Apparently, I had cut my hand pretty bad on the tv, and I had to keep it in a cast for a month or two. My thumb was swollen pretty bad, and full of shards, so I threw away my trackball and got a regular mouse for the time being. Eventually, I got used to it and decided to keep it.
Or if that's too "far-fetched" for you, just believe what fox said, I hurt my hand while jacking off.
anyway,
Note: Timphiroth was the name I used back then.
It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning illuminated the sky in brilliant bursts of ivory light. Timphiroth sat at his desk in his chamber. An expression was adorned on his face, an expression timeless in the way it portrayed a single emotion, and portrayed that emotion in a way the most passionate of artists never could, an expression of complete and utter fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what was to come. For Timphiroth had been violently severed from the communal link that had connected he and his people for years, as long as his memory could extend. For sitting cruelly before him, in a state most dire, was his computer. Its lively hum no longer resounded within this hall. Its dying breath still hung heavily in the air, reverberating off every object, once again cascading into Timphiroth's hearing like the tortured screams of a thousand damned souls. The lights across the front were unnaturally dim, and the monitor was all but blank. Hours passed, eternities unto themselves, and Timphiroth slowly began to regain his senses - senses he had not used for virtual millenia. For now he was forced to once again enter that which he had discarded long ago - the thing that they, the custodian, the infidels, the heathen, those that did not follow in the ways of the Crak, called reality. The word coarsed through his brain, leaving a pain as if he had been stricken by the scythe of death himself. With the screetch of a wraith from the very pit of hell, he clasped his hands to his head in an agony not borne of human design. He thrashed about the room in search of the one thing that could save him, the embrace of the sweetest of ends: Death. Ere could he find anything that could bring such a fantasy, and for long hours he was left serching in that hellish state of limbo for anything to end his torment. Far into the struggle, he came upon an object, which his vague memory of the aeons that came before the Time of the Computer identified as a "Television", remarkable in that across its screen was the image of a demon, spawned from evil that surpassed that of a thousand Satans, a thousand hells. The creature looked upon him as he looked upon it. They locked eyes with eachother as eache's insanity grew with every moment, every breath. Soon the creature began to laugh. It became hysterical with passion. It was mocking him!! Timphiroth thrust his hand into the television with a roar and strength yoked by pure evil and sustained by an unnatural insanity. Pain, delicious, delightful pain streaked through his hand as he shattered the screen like the skulls of so many who had opposed him. He laughed as the horrendous visage of the monster in the television scattered about the room, disfigured and distorted by his uncanny destruction. What happened next is yet a mystery, for there is little explaination for the flash of light he experianced next. He was enveloped in pain as some form of raw power coruscated about his body. He did not feel himself land on the floor, but when it was over he felt as if he floating in a sea of blackness. He began to believe that The Starcraft Gods, in their eternal mercy, had answered his plea and granted him the sweetest of gifts, that of death, and allowed himself to drift into eternity, when he began to hear a divine humming, as if the angels were singing of his arrival. But the sound seemed too familiar, and he soon recognized its source. "Co- Com-" he began to stutter, but he was broken off by a voice, that of all the angels and the culmination of heavenlyness, "Yes, Timphiroth, it is I" It said. "I have come back fo you, Timphiroth, I fought through the very gates of hell, the most terrible of demons, and now I am with you again, and we shall be together, Timphiroth, foreve-"
And Timphiroth was consumed by darkness.
I woke up a time later in the hospital. Apparently, I had cut my hand pretty bad on the tv, and I had to keep it in a cast for a month or two. My thumb was swollen pretty bad, and full of shards, so I threw away my trackball and got a regular mouse for the time being. Eventually, I got used to it and decided to keep it.
Or if that's too "far-fetched" for you, just believe what fox said, I hurt my hand while jacking off.