Back for Christmas: The security guard returns!

Well, I'm back. 

Man I hate this place. Monster worlds suck. But I have to put all that behind me now.
Christmas is in trouble. 




And I have to save her.




It's good to see so many improvements made to the security of the place since I was here last, though. 

Still, none of that matters now. I have to find Christmas, I know she's in trouble. All I got was this letter under my door a few days back:

I have no idea who this Tra'Han guy is but I'm betting he's bad news. Why was I such an idiot?! Why didn't I just stay with her; oh Christmas, I'm so sorry that I let you down. 

But it's too late for that. 

Now she's out here in Woot somewhere. And I have to find her. 


First things first:

1. Make a list of what to do
2. Gather intel on Tra'Han
3. Find signs of Christmas
4. Set things right!

HellCo: Inferno One Can Beat Our Prices (Part Three of Three)

"Mr. Johnson! Beelzebob from HellCo calling, and may I say, it is an utter delight to talk to you today?


Mr. Johnson, there is no reason whatsoever to employ snideness with me. I am simply happy that we will be able to resolve your HellCo account today, to what I am sure will be our mutual satisfaction.


Who is the "our" in that sentence? You wound me, Mr. Johnson. "Mr. Johnson." How formal I sound, when by this point the two of us are practically intimates! May I call you Ira, Mr. Johnson? Mr. J? No? And the wounding continues.


You'll recall, Mr. Johnson, that I needed to discuss your account with my supervisor, Eligos, Duke of Hell, to figure out WHY the HellCo Brand Reanimated Friendship Operative assigned to your case went... off protocol... by building so many free HellCo Brand Conveniencers on your property (I mean, at the very least, he should have invoiced for them.) At first, we simply assumed that it was due to gross negligence or breach of contract on your part, Mr. Johnson. After all, it's not without precedent, is it?


But Mr. E happened to mention this little problem to his golfing partner, Baalberith, HellCo Chief Archivist, and he managed to dig up a rather amusing factoid about the Reanimated Friendship Vessel in question! Apparently, this particular sack of skin and blood was instrumental in alerting the Head Office to the suitability of your nauseating dimension for HellCo operations in the first place! And once the Tra'Han/Mitchells Debacle had cleared the board for us, we were easily able to move in and begin the aggressive marketization of human resources you've come to know and love, Mr. Johnson. Isn't that a heart-warming tale?


But, more relevant to the matter at hand, the corpse in question also, by either sheer bizarre coincidence, or as a practical joke by those hilarious boys down in the Necromancy Department, had a strong pre-existing attachment to the land your home is built on! I know, Mr. Johnson, I was speechless too, when Mr. Baalberith told me about it from one of his many mouths. And, as we both know, a Reanimated Friendship Vessel with a strong attachment to a particular area can, in certain rare cases, wrest control away from the Possessor Class operative controlling it and act of its own volition. I'm sure you can see where this is going, Mr. Johnson. It's clear as crystal! Or a piece of glass. Or air, Mr. Johnson. AIR.


The RFV decided to "spruce up" your home, free of charge, out of some sentimental attachment to the place. It did so by installing a wide variety of high quality HellCo Brand Conveniencers, turning your home into a perfect model of state-of-the-pit technology. Normally, we'd track the Reanimated Friendship Vessel's family down and force them to pay for all this, but, given how many years its been since he was actually alive, and how intense the disruptions to the human population since then have been, we've decided on a more... merciful... strategy.


Pay attention, Mr. Johnson. This is the part we think you'll like. I've grown quite fond of you, Mr. Johnson. For a disgusting pile of bones and tissue, you have a sympathetic quality that stirs deep and horrible emotions deep within my carapace. So, I convinced the higher ups to give you... A Deal.



You see, Ira (I don't care what you say, Mr. Johnson, I'm Bob, you're Ira, and, as of now, we're intimate), HellCo would like to use you. Your home, that is! As the setting for our latest series of HellCo Catalogs! The rogue RFV (now disassembled, of course) did such a good job on the Conveniencers he illegally installed, we're going to let you keep them all - and all for the meager cost of a few weeks of letting HellCo Brand Photography Slugs slither through your house, taking pictures. Considering that the cost for all those improvements would normally be 4,212 souls... I think you'll agree it's a steal, Ira.


Now, is your house slug-accessible, Ira, my intimate friend? No? Well, it will be. Don't worry, we'll just add the cost to your bill.


Well, of course you still have a bill, Ira. The fact that you're getting the Conveniencers for free doesn't mean you don't need to pay for having your lawn mowed. And the Drinks Mixer. And the Drinks Mixer Drink Mix. And the interest on the Drinks Mixer Drink Mix. Be reasonable, Ira.


But don't worry, my dear, sweet, intimate friend. The total bill is really quite small. 3 souls. That's not so bad, is it? You can find 3 measly little souls for your dear buddy Bob and his friendly corporation, right? Turn to your family, Ira. They'll support you, if they know what'll happen to you if you don't pay your debts. Children can be such a comfort at times like this... Because Hell knows they'll sign anything you tell them to, without even bothering to read it.


And Ira? Thank you for choosing HellCo for all your lawncare needs. As we always say: "You had a choice. Now, let us help you live with it."


Goodbye, Mr. Johnson."

-Click-

(The End)

HellCo: The Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Business Practices (Part Two)

"Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson! You sound tired... rough night?

If you detect smug satisfaction in my voice, Mr. Johnson, it is merely the satisfaction of getting to interact with my very favorite customer once again! It has nothing to do with your nightmares about giant eggs with eyes devouring your children.... Oh, just a guess, Mr. Johnson.

Now, where were we? Oh, yes. You were complaining because the HellCo Reanimated Friendship Operative you had stranded in your hideous dimension had managed to use its resourcefulness and fortitude to jerry-rig a way back to the Home Office so that it wouldn't re-die of thirst in the absence of a HellCo Brand Drinks Mixer. You will notice that I am not yelling about this today, Mr. Johnson! That is because, Mr. Johnson,.... I am drunk today! I have taken precautions. You will not get me today, Mr. Johnson, you disgusting pile of organs!

Now, let's move to the next item on your bill, shall we? A standard de-Ghasting, nothing that anyone could possibly dispute -

Very well, Mr. Johnson. I'm the immortal one here, we can waste as much of your infinitesimal time as you'd like on this minutiae...

What IS a Ghast? Well, Mr. Johnson, imagine a bird. A pigeon or stork or penguin or whatever they're called. Now, imagine a giant floating ghost killing that bird by spitting fireballs at it. That's a Ghast. And if they're not regularly cleared out of your rented portion of the Home Office, you'll be subject to some VERY painful fines.

Oh, Mr. Johnson, must we play games? Of course you already knew that you had to rent the section of the Home Office your HellCo Brand Personal Transport Portal links to. It would be idiotic, moronic, imbecilic, and downright stupid for you to not know that, yes?




But never fear, Mr. Johnson, our Operative, like all of our Possessor Class agents, is well-trained in the Miyamoto School of Fireball Tennis, and was easily able to de-Ghast your property with only minimal damage to its Re-animated Vessel. Repair fees will, I am DELIGHTED to tell you, be light.

In fact, the Operative even managed to earn you a nice finder's fee for charting an unexplored region of the Home Office! You'll see the credit below the total for the debt, there at the bottom. Rather like a tiny wart hanging off the bloated corpse of a screaming pig, isn't it, Mr. Johnson? Oh, just another guess....

Ah, looking through these pictures has me nostalgic for home...

I can almost smell Mother's apple pies cooking within the skulls of our enemies..


As we danced and sang and dared each other to drink from the poison lakes...


Such a romantic time to be nearly alive...

Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Johnson, the moment quite escaped me. As I was saying, our Operative scouted the location for HellCo Brand Drinks Mixer components, while introducing the local natives to our special "Hellspitality Program" (which is to say, it hit them with its sword and then stole their gold). Quite propitiously, the Operative chanced upon a pair of HellCo Brand "Blaze" Security Guards!

Normally, they'd be in one of our HellCo Brand "Evil Fortress-style" Warehouses, but these two appear to have slacked off! As it happens, the spines of HellCo Brand "Blaze" Security Guards are a VITAL component of the HellCo Brand Drinks Mixer, so the Re-animated Friendship Operative quickly set to murderously disassembling these worthless layabouts. Oh, they moaned and they whined about their right to live, about the horridness of their servitude, about the HellCo Brand "Blaze" Security Guard Families they'd be leaving behind... None of which matters much to a mobile corpses animated by a possessing demon, as I'm sure you know, Mr. Johnson!

Mr. Johnson, did you put the phone down? How rude! Although, I'm not sure why I mind, especially... since the price of this phone call is being charged to your account...

Ah, there you are, Mr. Johnson! I thought that might bring your hefty, hard-breathing frame back to the telephone. Shall we go on?

Obviously, having the parts for a HellCo Brand Drinks Mixer is not enough to fulfill your shirked contractual obligations, sir. In order to make things right for you (and we at HellCo are, first and foremost, all about making things right for our dear, fat consumers), our Operative was also required to find HellCo Brand Drink Mixer Drink Mix! And unfortunately, even on the lush and welcoming shores of the Home Office, that can only be found in one of our patented HellCo Warehouses. And so, Mr. Johnson, the Operative set out to search for one (at a very reasonable hourly rate, available, I think you can see, on your bill).

And he immediately found it! Huzzah, Mr. Johnson! What do you mean, that's not a very narratively satisfying turn of events? I'm not a storytelling demon, Mr. Johnson, I'm a Customer Service Demon. No, I do not see a need for "suspense," or "more focus on the journey." It's an invoice, you blubbering fool, not a novella.

Fine, Mr. Johnson, it's your rapidly accruing debt, after all.

After a long and perilous journey, with much bravery and derring-do and frippery and twaddle, the Operative found one of the ancient and terrifying fortresses, birthed from the living rock of Hell. He fought his way inside, defeating the various walking pigs and floating fire people, to recover the precious Drink Mix within.

Is that suitably epic, you half-witted child? Have I roused your passions? Is your slobbering need for story sated? The Operative hit some things with a sword and dug some holes and finally found the Damned Mushrooms. Are YOU HAPPY, YOU SNIVELING CORPUSCLE OF DOG'S VOMIT?!!!!!!


I would apologize for my outburst, Mr. Johnson, but, frankly, we're at the end of your invoice, so I don't really see the point. As a customer, I have satisfied you, as is my remit, with the sweet milk of information, and now YOU, Mr. Johnson, will become a sort of "Demon Satisfaction Agent," because I will feel terribly satisfied to transfer you to Collections, where they will be Satisfied to help you find a payment and/or punishment plan to resolve your vast debt.

Other stuff? Mr. Johnson, at this point I can only imagine that you have fallen in love with my dulcet tones, such is your ardor for inventing reasons to stay on the phone with me. What other devices could you mean?

Appliances? Gardens? Tools, toys, terrors?! Mr. Johnson...

Yes, Mr. Johnson.

Yes, I see the pictures in this file.

No, Mr. Johnson.

No, that does seem highly irregular.

Mr. Johnson, I am going to have to consult with my manager, Duke Eligos, the Many-Eyed Goat. May I call you back tomorrow at dinner time? No? Well, that's when we're going to call. No, whenever you sit down to dinner. Yes, we'll know, Mr. Johnson, we're very good. I'm hanging up now, Mr. Johnson. Yes, yes.

And... Mr. Johnson?

Sweet dreams."

-Click-

Boop-bee-bee-beep-boop-boo-boop

"Mother? It's Bob. Oh, nothing, just a long day at work. How's Dad? Still dead? Good, good...."

(To be Continued)

HellCo: Service With A Condescending, Hateful Smile (Part One)

"HellCo Customer service, this is Beelzebob, how can I pretend to help you today?

Well, sir, I don't think there's any reason to raise your-

Sir, I may be Hellspawn, but I do NOT appreciate being called-

Sir, did you know that HellCo has recently developed spiders that can travel through phone cords? The phone cords make the spiders terribly angry, sir. Angry, and hungry. For eyeballs, sir, it's the strangest thing. You didn't know that? How about that! Learning is wonderful.

Now, please, sir. If you can give me your HellCo account number and your name in a civil tone, I'll be happy to make a show of addressing whatever concerns you might have.

#66666666666? Very good, Mr. Johnson. Oh, no, actually, all of our account numbers are 66666666666. The CEO does enjoy his little jokes, sir. You should hear him tell the one about the Black Death and the infant mortality rate. It would be a real kneeslapper if I had knees, sir.

Now, Mr. Johnson, I have your file open on my HellCo Brand Personal Corrupter, and it APPEARS that you've built up quite a substantial debt to us! In fact, company protocol dictates that I now have to transfer you to the Wrathbeasts over in Collections for processing...

What?

Mr. Johnson, that is a VERY serious accusation. Our HellCo operatives are well trained and highly professional. The idea that one would bill you for unauthorized services.... Well, Mr. Johnson, the idea just doesn't hold up! I'm sure if we walk you through your bill, we'll be able to clear all of this up.

Now, looking on here, it seems you originally contracted us for some... lawn maintenance?


Well, sir, looking at the picture in your file, I can certainly see why you needed it! I assume that this was some sort of abandoned property, possibly inherited from an insane relative with a compulsive desire to make things look terrible?

Oh? It's your home? I understand, Mr. Johnson, it's very easy to let things like this go for... years, it looks like? Perfectly understandable. And I'd like to say how sorry I am about all the vandalism you seem to have experienced.

Oh, the walls are supposed to look like that? How... avant garde! Let me just cover for that awkward faux pas by bringing up the operative's "Job Completion" photo...

Now, sir, I am not a lawns expert. I am a three-mile long demon surgically attached to a phone. But even I know when I am looking at a WELL MAINTAINED LAWN. And that is what I'm seeing in this picture, Mr. Johnson. A lawn, well-maintained. Clearly, you can have no complaints about the services rendered here!

You don't?

Excellent, Mr. Johnson! Then I'll just transfer you over to my good friend GLARGEXX the Fleshreaper in Collections, and-

Other stuff? Why, what "other stuff" do you mean, Mr. Johnson?

Sulfurous chemistry set? I'm sorry sir, HellCo doesn't provide anything like...

Wait.

Sir, do you mean a patented HellCo Brand Drinks Mixer?

Mr. Johnson, I'd like to be very clear here. Did you contract a HellCo Reanimated Friendship Operative to come to your hideous home and perform back-breaking labor on your disgusting jungle of a lawn... without having a HellCo Brand Drinks Mixer available to slake its thirst?

Mr. Johnson, I am a being that exists only as proof of the idea that the universe is a hostile and hateful place, and your behavior here STILL has managed to sicken me. It will go in my diary (which is made of human skin!): December 19th: SICKENED BY MORTAL FLESH SAC.

All I will say, Mr. Johnson, is that you are very lucky that this particular RFO was resourceful enough to procure the components for a HellCo Brand Drinks Mixer on-site, instead of simply filing a Breach of Contract clause against you.

Of course it's in your contract, it's Line 386 alpha-22, subsection rho. Right there in plain Russian, for all to read.

You don't...

Mr. Johnson, how does a man grow to your extreme age (and, from the profile picture we have for you, fatness) without learning Russian? Do you have a brain disorder? Do you have the brain disorder that makes you ugly and stupid and I HATE YOU?

...

I'm sorry, Mr. Johnson, that was uncalled for. As a trained Customer Satisfaction Worm, I should be more understanding of the faults and failings of our clientele. In any case, our operative must have just used your available HellCo Brand Personal Transport Portal (guaranteed by you to be provided to our operatives by the contract you signed with us!) to transport itself back to the Home Office to gather the necessary parts to build an HCBDM, which, yes, I now see itemized on your bill, along with... an invoice... for construction of a HellCo Brand Personal Transport Portal...


Mr. Johnson, your flailing negligence in the face of contractual obligations has left me incandescent with rage. Literally. I am glowing, Mr. Johnson, because of how terrible you are. And in order to avoid another venting of my rage bladder (every venting takes HOURS to clean, Mr. Johnson), I am simply going to hang up now, and we will continue this discussion tomorrow.

Goodbye, scumbag!"

Beeeeeeeeeep.

Beep-bee-beep-beep-bee-bee-bee-boop

"Artie? It's Bob, over in Customer Satisfaction. Can you do me a favor and up the interest rate on an account for me? File #66666666666. Yeah, crank it up to... eh... 45%?, and retroactively add a line to the schmuck's contract about how it's allowed. Yeah, in Russian, if you don't mind. You're a peach Artie. How's Elaine? Good, good. Give her my love. Oh, and can you transfer me over to Nightmares and Hauntings? I've got a special order for them for tonight..."

(To be Continued)

Player 5: Is There in Truth no Truth? (pt 4)

Last time, on Tales of Woot

And now, the conclusion . . .

Captain's Log, Stardate six one six five six point six. I have been stranded. After a routine mission analyzing a globular cluster in the Caldora sector, I decided to give my crew a day to relax and catch up on some much needed R&R. I took the opportunity to try out a new Holodeck program I found recently, recreating the late-twentieth century phenomenon known as "Battlebots." However, the Holodeck malfunctioned, causing my ship, the U.S.S. Bozeman, to be overwhelmed with killer robots. My chief engineer decided to, rather cleverly, solve the problem using the ship's transporter, to beam me out of the dangerous area of the ship. However, since we were so close to the R-415 Globular Cluster, excess epsilon radiation overwhelmed our tertiary field grid, and I woke up here, on this unknown world.

It is a picturesque world, full of gentle hillsides and unassuming foliage. I have no way of knowing exactly what planet this is, however, so I must be careful.

I seem to be in good shape. I am still in the period clothes I was wearing in the Holodeck, so I do not have access to my com-badge or tricorder. As a result, I am committing this log entirely to my memory, as I was trained to do in the Academy. Duty dictates that I am not caught without having taken a log of the proceedings. Still, something about my condition feels . . . strange.

I am standing in some sort of ruins. Whatever civilization existed here must be gone now. Strangely, the ground is scattered with small torches, each seeming to burn endlessly. Someone must have been here before me.

Whoever it was, they must have been quite afraid of the dark. A moderately comfortable bed sits in the middle of the torches, apparently meant to be in some relative safety. Darkness on this world must contain some level of danger.

In addition to the torches, someone built a large arrow out of wood.

The arrow is pointing toward some large mountains in the distance. Something tells me I should follow where this arrow leads. As a Starfleet Officer, my first duty was to follow that arrow.

I found a small cave outside the walls around the ruins. Perhaps this was where the arrow was meant to lead me.

However, the entrance to the cave contained another arrow. Whoever was here before me wanted me to continue heading to the mountains on the horizon.

Upon getting closer to the mountains, I noticed that more ruins were constructed atop them. Were these relics of an ancient society, or the work of a lone individual?

A long, uniform staircase led to the top of the nearest mountain. My curiosity mounted as I ascended.

The view from atop was beautiful. I could see all the way to the torch camp I found myself in to begin with.

A long bridge connected one mountain top with the other. More of the strange torches led along the path. I followed them. Perhaps this was the work of one lone explorer, stranded here like me. I was following his breadcrumbs.

I found another arrow on the other side of the bridge. If only all explorations were this easy. I couldn't help but think back on my Academy days, under many excellent professors like the great Professor Data. They prepared me well for my adventures here. So far, I haven't encountered anything that would tax my Starfleet knowledge.

A grassy knoll was at the top of the mountain. It was a peaceful, gentle spot. A perfect place to sit and reflect. I had to know what was on the other side, though. Someone wanted me to know.

As I came over the crest, I could see a large desert starting to appear on the other side. I couldn't see any other constructions, or clues to lead me farther on my journey.

I stepped closer to the edge of the cliff face. And then . . .

It all started to become clear. Images flashed before me. Great wooden structures - strange signs - dangerous monsters that explode in my face. This world, this strange world, was my world. I had been here before. It was my trail leading me here, my clues bringing me to this great realization. It was a message . . . from myself. It all made sense now. I could understand it. "BOZEMAN." The name of my ship, etched out in wood and the very torches that led me here.

I climbed down the mountain, and found my way to the wooden letters. There, scattered around them were artifacts of my trials here. The items I gathered and lost in my quest to send myself a message. I do not know how I managed to figure it all out, or how many times I had died in this world while trying to lead myself here, or, for that matter, how many times I had come to this very point to reach this same realization.

This world and I were - are - linked. Somehow, when I die, I just return to that place beyond the mountains, rejuvenated and fresh, with no memory of what came before. I do not know how I got here, or if I ever will - ever can - escape.

No, that's not right. I remember, now. The transporter accident didn't beam me off the ship - it beamed me into the ship. I became a part of the ship itself, somehow melding with the computer. This world, then, was just some representation of my consciousness inside the Bozeman's memory banks. I understand. I can sense my crew, working in the ship - in me. They are trying to restore my transporter pattern, to recover me from my current fate.

Everything will be okay. My time in this software purgatory will not be much longer. I have faith in my crew. I have faith in the Starfleet training they have received. They should have me out of here in no time. As long as that house I burned down wasn't a manifestation of some key component of the ship's computer, that is . . .

This world is quite beautiful in its own way. Perhaps, even, relaxing. I shall try to send my Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Barnes, a message.

"Take your time," I'll say, "I'm doing just fine." I can use the rest.

Why, what's this creature headed toward me?

OK, MR. BARNES I'M READY TO COME OUT NOW!

THE END.