Genre Systemic: Preface

Preface



They’d been meeting like this since for four solid years; most of them were still in high school when a common denominator—gaming—had brought them together. The scenery changed quite often for the group, though the participants rarely did…



         It was only two weeks ago…



         Under the glow of an overhead exposed light bulb and the multi-colored glow of Christmas lights, we squinted to read our character sheets. Gathered around the table in Quincy’s ‘basement’—New Orleans doesn’t really have basements—were the usual suspects, our little group of eight.

What started the argument? I couldn’t really say. It’s safe to assume it was a rules-lawyering issue; Ricky wanted to do something the books just didn’t really explain or call for.

         “You’re not listening!” Ricky said in his usual nasal whine. “If I connect my two somatic components and rub the two materials together, they should cast in tandem!”

         Everyone else groaned, me especially. Not because of what he said, no, but because the yammering bullshit wasn’t over with by now. I had been zoning out for a good twenty minutes, counting the mashed corpses of spiders pasted to the concrete wall by their own dried gut-goo.

         “Who cares?” Leslie yelled, throwing her hands and assorted sheets of paper and mechanical pencils in the air.

         It was getting rough in here, not common for this group. Sure, we had scuffles, most of which involved Ricky in one way or another. But this was just getting way too heated. The only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Dave, who had this face-splitting smirk on his face. Between us was Tabby, so I leaned across the table. “What’s so funny?”

         “This is like an episode of Jerry Springer, but with dorks!” Dave exclaimed, giving me a big goofy smile.

         Tabby waved a hand at me to move back, “I can’t see!”

         Poor Quincy, he had his elbows on the table, his face in his hands, rubbing over and over. “No, no, no. It doesn’t work like that!” he tried, but half-assedly. He just grunted every word through his clasped hands.

         “Well it should!” Ricky damn near shrieked, slapping his hand on the table. “And you are the G.M.; you’re the guy we’re all looking to to make the hard calls, Quincy. I need you to see reason!”

         God, he was so self-assured. I felt another groan coming up, but swallowed it down.

         Quincy, our poor storyteller shook his head over and over, like trying to clear a possession or avoid some terrible reality. “Please, whatever unholy forces are listening… send me a ball gag.”

         Ever ready for just such an occasion, Jeremy, our resident pervert, leaned down and began ruffling through his backpack, “One sec, buddy.” A pause, “You want candy-apple red, princess pink or traditional black leather?”

         “Dave, you’ve done some weird shit!” Ricky squealed accusatorially at me. “I don’t get why any of you aren’t backing me up on this!” Seeing that he was on his own when I didn’t reply beyond spreading my hands wide in an apologetic gesture, he picked up one of the large books containing the rules. As if for illustration, he thumbed through it but barely saw the pages since his pleading gaze having moved from the coffee-stained book in his hands to Quincy’s unforgiving face, “Somewhere in the systems chapter, it clearly states that there is a contingency for multiple act-“

         At that point Quincy dropped his hands, eyes roving toward the ceiling, exasperated. “For the love of… Will someone please hit him?”

         *Smack* it was that fast, like a snap of fingers. Brady leaned over and cheap-shotted Ricky right in the jaw, the scrawny member of our group toppling to the floor with a cry.

         “Shit Brady, I wasn’t serious!” Quincy howled.

         “I think I have mango-orange too.” Called the hunched-over Jeremy.

         “That is so going to bruise…” commented Melissa.

         “Nice shot.” Murmured the ever-observant Les.

         “Jerry! Jerry!” I chanted, unable to help myself at this point.

         Brady just shrugged and looked with impassive eyes to Ricky, who was picking himself up off the floor.

         “You’ll all pay!” Ricky muttered, quietly at first and then repeating as a yell as he righted himself, his face already puffing up in a dark bruise, “YOU’LL ALL PAY!”

         Then he burst into tears and ran out.

         “Great, now who gets to play cannon-fodder?” I asked with a frown.