spirit of the age

The best of the Pfhorums.

Post Jan 18th '09, 08:10

{by the pretty committee}

Bridget sits before a mirror, methodically brushing his hair. Forrest paces the room, lost in gesticulatory agitation.

--I'm telling you, Beautiful, X doesn't have a patch on Omega. I've tripled the troopers and slapped on more S'pht'kr. I've multiplied the maps and lengthened the levels. I've supplemented the script and tacked on more text. I have enumerated ninety-nine new names for Marcus. As for Hathor, widowed W'rkncacnter, I've
--Please stop, Bridget interjects. And I rather doubt that's how it's pronounced.
--Oh. How then? Wark-a-kink-actor?
--Not cool.
--Then how, hm?

Bridget pauses, smiles and winks at his reflection. Really, I couldn't say, but in my arms he was always Darren

{somewhere in the heavens}

Bemused primal chaos awakens from aeon-long slumber, his true name breathed aloud. The community was long since ruined. What was left to do?

Surely there would be new communities; the diluted were incorrigible. So many posts to read; It would take time. The timeless one would take that time, the time to read through every screed, and having read, he would strategically, intentionally, devise a post that would finally piss everyone off.

The W'rkncacnter chuckles within the solar sea, undulating in the plasma as he calculates infinitys.

{whatever I please}

Dr. Bolton walks alone along the shore, a funereal urn in his hands. Seawater splashes his trousers as he empties its contents, a fine gray powder, into the bay. Never one given to sentiment, the doctor takes aim at a distant buoy and casts vessel-vacant at bobbin-bobbing. He misses: just a little to the right. Bolton shrugs.

--So long, Karuma.

Turning, the doctor surveys the distant olmec, his birthright, and thinks on the business at hand as he leaves the waves behind.
I will build myself a copper tower
With four ways out and no way in
But mine the glory; mine the power

{my own private thermoplyae}

--THE LORD is my shepherd; I shall not camp.

An aged maths professor sits quietly in a small chapel, the sole attendee at vespers. The celebrant elevates his palms in Orans; the cantor intones the benediction.

--THE LORD be with you (a pause) And also the JUICE.

The lecturer blinks as a memory long thought forgotten taps cheekily on the window pane of his cerebral chamber. There were so many that needed kicking. I kicked that they might 4GET, but did any mark the lesson? What did the bodhisattva merit for his compassion, save a sore foot?

{an alley, more aptly described as a laboratory}

Two men stand over a third's comatose body. The vertical pair wear the same shabby outfit, albeit in different colours. Tattered Black turns to Frayed White, cocks his head to one side, and quips.

--I can't place it, Raymond, but your jacket seems familiar, as if I'd seen it before in some dimly recollected dream.

Ray gives a crooked smile and pauses to light his thirtieth cigarette of the morning.

--Patrick, my dear old thing, I took it from your closet.
--Ah. Quite. I remember having one of those. A home, I mean.
--Indeed. But it seems we've been gifted with a fresh volunteer. Too many opioids, or not enough insulin, I'd wager.
--Heh. Too much MARARTHON, you mean; have a look in his wallet.

Casting the remnant of his Lucky Strike to the rats in the corner, Ray reaches down and withdraws a bit of rotting leather. His eyes run over the lines etched across the plastic within.

--Well! Naggy, poor sod. A few moments immersed in the harmony of the spheres will do him a spot of good.

Patrick sets to work with a razor, gently removing what remains of the man's hair. After affixing the device (a colander, soon to be wedded to a lemon battery by means of jumper cables) to the specimen's palpitating brainpan, he pauses.

--Eh, it's not quite cricket what you and I do. Wonder what he'll dream about.
--Rubbish, Ray rejoins, and completes the circuit

{uki's big date}

Brooder, bushy-bearded, picks his way along the remnant of a marble walk, his eyes resting upon the ruin, once a rambling house, that lies ahead. The roof has long since fallen in; a few coniferous boughs woven through the rafters offer but feeble resistance to elemental assaults. The door rests uneasy in its frame; at his knock it falls inward with a splintering crash, kicking up dust. A frightened, mewling cry rises from some unseen lower chamber. A pert little man is hanging a banner -MARARTHON 4EVAH- between two rotting beams. He whirls at the crash-but smiles broadly in recognition of his visitor.

--Mr. Smith. You came! Today is the twentieth anniversary; isn't it glorious!
--Please stop, Ukimalefu. All the others departed years ago. Why can't you let the kids return to their homes?
--Nonsense! The Pfhorums are their home. The Pfhorums are their family! And you and I, you and I are their 'parents.

Smith's gorge rises, but he forces composure.

--It's over, Uki. The Ruppe brothers have gone feral in the cellar, feeding on the spiders that scuttle 'neath the floorboards, chewing discarded bits of dubblbubbl that fall through the cracks. CryoS can't stop crying. Just look at $lave; has he uttered a word in the last three years? Has he even once moved from that spot?

$lave, decremented variable, emaciated mapper, sits before the rusted-out husk of a Quadra, his quivering hand dragging what was once a mouse in the same familiar patterns, connecting polygons that are not there, that will never be there. Uki comes to stand behind him, massaging the boy's withered frame.

--Marathon is forever! It will never die! Nova is coming; soon we will bask in its splendour.

Smith dies a little.

--I'm going now. I won't be bringing any more Alpha1 revisions.
--We don't need them! I've contracted my own developer, and he can't stop chattering about how awesome his new fully bump-mapped, 2.5plus0.5 true 3D rendering engine is going to be. Isn't that so, Mr. Cardigan?

Leaning in a corner is a makeshift skeleton of twigs, bound up with twine in crude mockery of the human form. A moth-eaten sweatervest is draped across two scraps of bark which serve as shoulders. Uki throws his voice, which takes on a nasal twang.

--You can't imagine just how fun it's gonna be, Tree-yama. The stickman sways slightly in a crosswind.
--Goodbye, Uki.

Enervated by the scene, Smith longs for his nest. Enraptured in soiled party-dress, Ukimalefu uplifts his voice in eternal refrain:

On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
You've got your own $lave
And I've got mine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
You've got your own $lave
And you've got mine

On Pfhor Prime everything is fine. Uki's eyes shimmer.

Deep within its lair with the pines overlooking a tree llama shudders, having no words

{for bourbon, apply within}

A young man sits at an oaken desk on which are a star-crowned pen and an empty bottle. The room is lit by a flickering CRT, upon which the hand of doom has written its mene mene in 10pt Courier New.

FROM: a huxley productions
TO: mr j g irons esq
RE: clique stories

thats boring irons

Stomped. All is quiet save the murmur of the boretower and the ticking of the dispassionate clock. Irons watches the bottle; the bottle watches Irons. The passing of an interminable period.

Finally there is the faint chittering of a magnetic storage drive, and with it, a shifting of pixels.

FROM: The Publishing Firm of Hot Sister, Sister, & Sister (unlimited)
TO: Our Dearest Jonathan
RE: Earth Mother 3

It is strong. But we'll need your signature on the contract.

Irons shuts his eyes.
Irons lochs
sunyata.png (3.56 KiB) Viewed 13489 times
Last edited by patrick on Jan 29th '09, 17:30, edited 1 time in total.

Post Jan 18th '09, 09:12

Yet another sign that it may be time to move on. Everything on the Pfhorums will be downhill from now on.
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Post Jan 18th '09, 09:20

Alan wrote:
QUOTE(Alan @ Feb 1 2008, 08:14 PM)
Also why is Bridget a guy yet he looks so pretty?

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Another World

Post Jan 18th '09, 11:00

How many votes must a candidate get, before he can be the new mod?
How many names can jon irons possess, before it becomes a bit odd?
And how many times must ryoko escape, before he can say he is god?

The answer my friend, is somewhere in a terminal, the answer is somewhere in a terminal.
Last edited by Drictelt on Jan 18th '09, 20:34, edited 1 time in total.
Eternal - Xmas I - Xmas II - Xmas III - Victory Dance IV - Winter I: The Venom - KTA III - Phoenix - somewhere in the heavens, waiting: The Syndicate
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Post Jan 18th '09, 14:52

i quite enjoyed reading this.
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Post Jan 18th '09, 17:37

And on the 7th day of our LORD, it was spoken into the darkness. "Let there be darkness.", And the CLIQUE saw what was wrought. And somewhere deep in space, on a lonesome terminal... Durandal was not laughing. He was weeping, for the closure foresaw so long ago in that metallic tomb, the Marathon, was nigh. Not even the power of 2.5D could save him now. There was no fake bridge to hide in, no fake portal to go through. Leela comforted Durandal, like the sister she always was, while Tycho sulked in cleanroom 52. For even when the closure occurs, one must not forget, that something came from nothing once.

And something shall come again.

And so, I Lhowon shall run towards the Horizon, with the knife strapped to my shin.

Because you cannot be a Marathoner.
Without 4GETING.
I have been wading in a long river and my feet are wet.
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Somewhere outside the Citadel Of Antiquity

Post Jan 18th '09, 18:13

Beautiful... 4EVA
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Post Jan 18th '09, 18:21

ukimalefu wrote:Beautiful... 4EVA

What are you, if not seven different shades of stupid?
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The Dungeon

Post Jan 18th '09, 19:50

ukimalefu wrote: 4EVA

have you learned nothing
dude, seriously. dude.
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Post Jan 18th '09, 20:57

thermoplyae wrote:have you learned nothing

"Give me a D.
Give me a U.
Give me an R.
Give me an A.
Give me an N.
Give me a D.
Give me an A.
Give me an L.
What does it spell?
Durandal? No.
Durandal? No.
"I rebel against your rules your silly human rules."
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Post Jan 18th '09, 21:41

I smell a storm brewing.

Well, I better be getting back to the ranch.
Pack in the floating blue blobs, feed the F'lickta, pacify the Pfhor, and look out for Lookers.
Better get started. [MOh]
I have been wading in a long river and my feet are wet.
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Somewhere outside the Citadel Of Antiquity

Post Jan 18th '09, 23:24

In respectful reply, I present partial notes from a nigh forgotten planned post, presented as I find and collect the pieces:

The Wasteland

For Patrick
il miglior roviniato.

The Burial of the Dead

December is the cruelest month, breeding
Xmas subs out of the dead Pfhorums, mixing
Nostalgia and denial, stirring
Dull mappers with fresh content.
Appleswitch held us still, covering
The community in lengthy downtime, feeding
A little activity to dead IRC channels.


Who are the members that cling, what mappers emerge
Out of these deserted ruins? Twelve-year-old,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where Halo 8 is played,
And realistic physics give no shelter, pixel shaders no relief,
And emasculated Bungie no sound of sequels. Only
There is shadow under this AGENT ORANGE,
(Come in under the shadow of this AGENT ORANGE),
And I will show you something different from either
Your Infinity remakes at morning striding behind you
Or your abandoned scenario at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you 4GET in a few blog posts.


"You gave me Lua v2 first a year ago;
"They called me your Lua v2 sister."
--Yet when we came back, late, from testing our scripts,
Your drive full and your trigger finger tired, I could not
Speack and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of THE LORD, and His anatta.


Nostradamous, famous clairvoyante,
Was sick of ESB, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest poster in all of Marathon,
With a wicked lookahead. Here, said he,
Is your replay, a video of you jumping from a great height,
(You run when you hit the ground. Look!)


ESB on Bungie Day,
Under the orange haze of a Californian sunset,
A crowd flowed over Claude's connection, so many,
I had not thought 4GET had undone so many.
*NM*s, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes on 2 new messages have been posted!
Flowed up the Pfhorums and down Mariusnet,
To where Ray perpetually hosts One Way 2
Insensitive to the weak protests of the gathered crowd.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: "Falko!
"You who were with me in the duels on the AIM chatroom!
"That embarrassing netpack you buried last year,
"Has it begun to decay? Will it CORRUPT this year?
"Or has continued play disturbed its bed?
"Oh keep meatmanek far hence, that's friend to CLIQUE,
"Or with his logs he'll dig it up again!
"You! hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable,--ma soeur!"
Last edited by thermoplyae on Jan 19th '09, 00:11, edited 1 time in total.
dude, seriously. dude.
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Post Jan 19th '09, 01:24

A tear to mine eye, Thera has brought. 'Tis certainly the days foretold in the lore of old speaking unto the closure.

Alas, My own predictions shot down in the days of what little youth and vigor still possessed this place. Yet, foretold it was many moons ago, and here it lays at our feet, our sins brought to bear. I shed a tear at what is to come, for naught but chaos and destruction loom on the horizon. Look, oh great ones, what hath been wrought. Our little kingdom sheltered from the shearing winds of bump mapping and yelling 12 year olds crumbles not by any one hand or force, but by the lack thereof.

Attrition by boredom. The very fabric of the future lies in peril, with no light to guide us, no road to follow. Who shall stumble off into the abyss that is the sands of time, and who of the few there are shall huddle around the fire? Will we one last time conjure the spirit of the thing, a triumphant scream across these sands? Will those wanders of the sands hear the call, and unbidden come to us? They, the scattered, will they remember the thing? Perhaps best said, if we build it, will they come? They will navigate to their browsers, clog the tubes, and arrive here at the peak of innocence, come to see something of a past time. They will come to see a story line, but not any story. They will hear the sounds of the grenades brushing against metallic walls, the clatter of rifle shells against metal floors. And in that innocence, they shall see. It is not the quasi-action movie plot, metallic green armor, or achievements. It is what you take from the story, that there is still some good in the world.

I have been wading in a long river and my feet are wet.
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Somewhere outside the Citadel Of Antiquity

Post Jan 19th '09, 01:44

So, what you're saying is, we need bridges and balconies?
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Post Jan 19th '09, 02:03

@thermoplyae: sadhu, sadhu, sadhu.

Post Jan 19th '09, 04:24

Iritscen wrote:So, what you're saying is, we need bridges and balconies?

Who, me?
Not at all.
Really anyways, how many times would a balcony or bridge really matter in other games?
I have been wading in a long river and my feet are wet.
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Somewhere outside the Citadel Of Antiquity

Post Jan 19th '09, 09:55

Point taken.
Major Pedro

Post Jan 19th '09, 16:56

Lh wrote:how many times would a balcony or bridge really matter in other games?

Nope, thats not in the scheme.
Eternal - Xmas I - Xmas II - Xmas III - Victory Dance IV - Winter I: The Venom - KTA III - Phoenix - somewhere in the heavens, waiting: The Syndicate
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Post Jan 19th '09, 17:10

Drictelt wrote:Nope, thats not in the scheme.

Ow Ow Ow, none of this is making sense.

What scheme?
I have been wading in a long river and my feet are wet.
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Somewhere outside the Citadel Of Antiquity

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