Little Bubble of Madness

It appears as if Kyle didn't regale to anyone the events that went down yesterday, within the little bubble of madness I like to refer to as the J.E.C. He must be sleeping. That dirty, dirty spic.

He waltzes in like he owns the fucking place and touches Chunky Monkey in such a way that makes him emit a horrible, pained sound -- the likes of which I have never before heard and will probably never hear again. As Chunky Monkey is crumpled on the floor, recuperating, Kyle heads downstairs -- but only after he throws a few plates around and pisses in the cupboards above our fridge.

I'm scurrying behind him, pleading, like a tour guide insisting that this foreigner does not toy with this site of ancient burials. He snarls as he settles himself in front of my computer. He momentum causes the wheel-bearing chair to hit the wall to his right, leaving a series of black, hairline cracks.

Half-Life 2 has been paused since his arrival that was marked with fireworks and the shrill screams of women and children that I have never met. He starts where I had left the game to idle. He finds in his way out of a wet ditch and into a small dam complex. He shoots a few people, but insists on shooting each one once more, watching their corpses dance at his command. At this point, biting my lip to ease the burden of suspense, I thought he could push the boundaries of Asshole Physics no further. I was wrong, so very very wrong.

He finds a barrel, and motions, with one stroke of the ENTER key, to have his on-screen avatar pick it up. For the next forty-five minutes he used that barrel to torment the corpse, nay, the very fleeting sorrowful soul, of a Combine soldier. For forty-fifve minutes my mousepad was ablaze with a continuous up-down motion and the resulting thwacks, a masterful blend of the respective impacts of hollow metal and rubberized skull. He laughed maniacally, causing Chunky Monkey, who was watching from the stairs, to recoil in terror.

Soon after came his shining moment, a moment that allowed me to forgive the urine that was now permeating our glassware. He starts a new game, and finds himself in City 17, with only boxes and luggage as ammunition for his weapon that is his abuse of the physics engine. A few examples:

Kyle picks up an empty soda can and walks up to a distraught man sitting at a bench. "Pepsi -- for when you've just got to smack some fools." With a quick left-right-lieft motion of the mouse, he did just that. This alumnium beating was of course accompied by a series of satisfying thoomp sounds, which served as satisfying rewards, pushing Kyle to perform even more cruel and unsual acts using discarded tchotchkes.

Two men stands by a gate, watching two Combine soldiers guard an apartment complex. Kyle approaches them. They offer their thoughts on the whole ordeal, the depressing state of the world they live in that is governed by the machine-men with vague motives. They are soft spoken despite their deep voices. Kyle picks up a bucket. He breaks the somber mood by informing the men (i.e talking to the computer screen) that he has a bucket for them. A bucket for their tears. He speaks for them. We don't have any, they might have said, puzzled. They will, he insists, before literally bringing the fight to their doorstep with one smooth, calculated, albeit violent smacking motion. Three impacts. Two faces and the gate. Thoonk-thoonk-thoonk. Success!

I had to pull him away before he went looking for a barrel.

Kyle will no doubt tell the internet as a whole the remainder of this story, but I will still stick in here a few phrases to serve not only as reminders, but as tastes of what is to come.

-"Mister, you scare me so bad, I have baby!"

-Reading Rainbow

-"Where did Miles Davis learn music?"

-DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYUM!

-*locks go down* "You a doctor."