GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #591: ELVIS

 Yesterday would have been Elvis's 88th birthday. Or actually was his birthday depending on what you believe. Personally I think an impersonator died on that Graceland toilet, and the real Elvis went down with JFK fighting a mummy at an old folks home in Texas. It costs me nothing to believe this, and it hurts no one, so there we go.

Anyway, let's put Elvis on hold for a moment. We'll get back to him.

Read this first. Then read the rest of this to the tune of this Megadeth song. (Not "Holy Wars . . . The Punishment Due," in case you're wondering before you click the link.)

That picture is from, I think, Halloween 1997. None of these people are CJ or Eric, but that's Rob with the innocent look of childlike wonder on his face, which was very uncharacteristic of him. Those are my hands on the right.

Yeah, our Call of Cthulhu games got pretty fucking wild. I remember the night of the mercy killings. I think the argument was actually over how bullets would impact a lesser Great Old One. 

On another night, during the dread campaign known as The Mask of Nyarlathotep, Rob got arrested. The cops were there because they thought there was a murder in progress. It was a hot summer night, and CJ didn't have air conditioning, so we took a break from the game and went up on the roof. Rob felt the need to tickle me so much that a struggle ensued (and yes, I'm very ticklish), and one of the neighbors thought two of us (Rob and CJ) were trying to throw the third (me) off the roof. She called the cops, and they sent out almost the entire force.

I remember us looking down at Fellow's Ct and seeing a shit-ton of cops, us wondering if they were there for us. We decided to go back down when we saw even more cops pulling up behind the building. They were definitely there for us. They followed us into the apartment, and they found CJ's booze collection on a window pane inside. CJ was 18 at the time, but they didn't arrest him because his dad's name was on the lease, so technically it was his dad's booze. Technically.

I remember we had Double Gulps from 7-Eleven, and one of the cops said, "What did you put in this?"

"Coke," CJ said.

"I'll bet."

"You wanna taste?" CJ asked.

The cop did not want a taste.

They let us go except for Rob because he had an outstanding warrant at the time. He might still have warrants in this state. It's hard to tell when it comes to him.

But my favorite night of gaming came when we were still in high school. Both of us. He left during his sophomore year, I think. I remember we were in his old room on the south of Elmhurst. I forget the specifics of the game, but I remembered it was a time travel campaign. He was playing a Southern character who wound up fighting some kind of monster at Graceland. His Southern character worshipped Elvis, and when he got to meet the King, he loved every minute.

Then Elvis said, "I'll be right back. Gotta take a dump."

And Rob, in his most earnest voice, screamed, "NO! ELVIS! DON'T!"

"Whatssa matter?" I said in my finest Elvis drawl. "It's jussa dump."

I cracked up just typing this.

Good God! Those were fun times. I have a stack of our dead investigators that is impressively thick. Many of them died when I ran The Mask of Nyarlathotep because I allowed the players as many investigators as they wanted. They chose an army. I knew the death count would be high, and it was. Very much so. The investigators won, but at what cost?

It's been a while since I gamed with anyone. Sadly I've fallen out of love with it, but maybe someday.

Maybe someday.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #92: BACK IN THE DAY

Remember when you were a teenager, and you had all sorts of inane conversations that you totally thought were meaningful, but looking back, you recognized them for what they really were? Have you ever had one of those conversations as an adult?


Tonight, I did. I got out of work and hung out with a friend at Taco Bell for a bit. Whenever I get a quesarito, I order it with extra cheese . . . both shredded and nacho. You have to be specific, or they'll think you just mean shredded. It takes about three or four bites until you hit that first cheese pocket, and when you do, it's absolute heaven. I made an offhand remark about suddenly believing in God because of the glorious taste of that cheese pocket, and we cracked up laughing. I then went on to curse those stupid assholes who found mere pictures of the Virgin Mary on grilled cheese sandwiches. They were all missing God in the cheese pocket of my quesarito.


And then, for some reason I started examining the burn marks on my quesarito, and I realized there were patterns to be seen. I found a zombie and half of Nosferatu's face. My friend discovered Jason Voorhees on his quesarito. The next thing you know, we're pointing and laughing at various shapes we've found in these patterns. It was like we were a couple of stoners. Or maybe more like kids, seeking out patterns in the clouds above.


No, we didn't think any of this was meaningful. We thought it was funny as all fuck. But still, this was the kind of thing I used to do when I was a teenager. I'm not ordinarily a nostalgic guy, but in that moment, I was transported back to a time when I bought cigarettes for all of my older but underage friends because I looked older than them, and when I used to walk miles to get to a theater for a late night show.


It was an odd moment, but I really enjoyed it. The next time you get a quesarito, you should stop and think about some of the burn patterns you see. You might just surprise yourself.












































PS: For some reason, this incident made me think of this Megadeth song, which inspired me to call this post by this particular title. If you like older metal, then you'll get a kick out of this.