Fernando was mighty tired
after he wrested the equivalent of victory from the grubby hands of a
peevish superhero. He retreated to the bedchamber, where Alfonso and
Ronaldo already slept. Sunday was the day on which they must return
to their homeland and they must be moved out of their room by 11 AM
or Fernando would incur an additional day's charge, something which
he hoped to avoid if at all possible.
Fernando set his alarm
for 8:30 again and Sunday morning passed much as had Saturday
morning. There was one remaining panel Fernando wished to attend, a
“wish-list” discussion of the things which people would like to
see in 5th Edition Dungeons and Dragons. Monte Cook was,
at the time, still a lead designer on the project and some of the
panelists had an in with the man, so there was reasonable assurance
that their words would be heard. It began at 10, which left plenty of
time for breakfast.
It was less good this
time around. The delectable American fries had been replaced by
waffles and the disgusting foreskin sausages reappeared in their
serving bin. Everyone loaded up on eggs and waffles and coffee, but
since Alfonso and Ronaldo had not finished their morning rituals
until nearly quarter to 10, Fernando had to depart so as to be on
time for his panel. Not that it ended up mattering because it started
late. Andrés made an appearance as well, for the fellow DM had a
vested interest in the future of the world's most popular tabletop
role playing game.
Like most of the other
panels he'd attended, this one was rife with disappointment. Rather
than discuss the potential merits of 5E, most of the panelists
masturbated furiously over Fourth Edition. The audience, not so much.
Fernando sits firmly in the 2E camp, Andrés favored 3E. An older man
in his late 50s or early 60s came out as a 1E adherent. Most of the
rest of the attendees, which numbered about twelve, threw in their
lot with Third Edition. So when, for example, the 1E grognard
mentioned that he and his group looked poorly upon the class
homogenization that took place come 4E, the concerns were brushed
under the rug. “After all,” to paraphrase the most verbal shill,
“Why would anybody want to play the stereotypical magic-user and be
utterly useless from levels one to three?”
“Why deny people that
option?” countered 1E Man. “If 5E does not give me what I want,
well, then I won't play 5E.” Wise words from a wise man.
Fernando made his voice
heard as well in this discussion. “I'm not so much concerned as to
which edition it's closest to as to how exactly combat will be
structured.”
“I don't know what you
mean,” said Shill.
“My group plays a
mutated hybrid that lifts rules from basically everything: First,
Second, Third, BECMI, whatever. The thing with 4E and to a lesser
extent with 3E is that it basically requires you to have a battle map
set up. We tried that, it ended up not working for us, so we use a
free-form and abstract style of dealing with combat encounters. It
makes it so that, for instance, the party wizard can't exactly gauge
where to precisely drop his Fireball as to incinerate the bad guy
there but leave his comrade who is meleeing that bad guy completely
unscathed. I think that 5E should allow for abstract combat like
that.”
“Well, you realize that
it's been that way since First Edition,” retorted Shill. “D&D
has been tactical its entire history. You probably know it comes from
wargaming roots.”
“Strategic, sure, but
not necessarily tactical. 1E doesn't require minis. 2E
doesn't. BECMI certainly does not. I understand Wizards wants to make
money off minis and pregenerated battle maps and encounters and
that's why things are the way they are. But like the guy before me
said, if 5E doesn't make it so that my group can play the game in the
way that we have always played the game, we'll just stick with what
we're doing now.”
“If abstract combat is
what you're looking for, maybe you would be better off doing that.”
Okay. Andrés and
Fernando took their leave of the panel at this point, since it was
now blatant that this was not intended to be a discussion so much as
a power trip. But, hey, it let Fernando help with the packing and to
proceed with check-out.
The four wayward souls
reunited in the parking lot to share a final smoke break and to
exchange contact information and good-byes in front of Andrés' car.
Andrés' hand was shaken, he was wished well, and he vanished from
this saga. Perhaps he will resurface down the road. Fernando would be
okay with that.
However, there was now
the matter of the gift certificate exchange to deal with. Sir
Dicks-A-Lot had resumed his Chess Guy persona, for the time being,
and he waited near the games room for the rendezvous. They would head
out to Misty Mountain Games in separate vehicles (the man had offered
to ferry Fernando there and back, but Fernando declined. He liked
being alive,) and meet up in the parking lot to split the winnings at
the store. Finding it would be easy, even though Fernando and Ronaldo
were out-of-towners! After all, Ronaldo had retained the services of
Gertrude Pauline Samson, and she could serve as spiritual guide on
this journey! Chess Guy insisted on giving Ronaldo his telephone
number, though, perhaps because he had entered into a vile contract
with GPS and knew what was coming. Alfonso would be sticking around
the convention for a short while longer. He wished to browse the
dealers' room one last time in case a surprise bargain might rear its
head.
The address was entered
and they were off, navigating the twisting mess of off-ramps and
overpasses! GPS guided them with confidence out an exit, and she told
them to take a left up ahead into a strip-mall. Location dead ahead,
she intoned!
Except not. In petty
revenge for being slighted in favor of Google for the journey down
here, she had led them to a place that was not the place which they
sought. Fernando cross-checked the address on the gift card with the
information he had entered. They were the same. Oh, that bodiless
woman's spite!
Ronaldo looked at
Fernando with apprehension. “I don't want to have to do this.” He
retrieved his phone. His face was pale.
Fernando extended his
hand. “I'll do it. Wish me luck.”
-Ring ring ring-
-Ring ring-
“Hello.”
“Yeah, this is
Fernando. The GPS got us lost.”
“Lost? What do you mean
lost?” Chess Guy was gone, and Sir Dicks-A-Lot had taken the field.
His tone was not one of amusement.
“We're at where the GPS
told us the address on the gift card is, but it's not that address.”
“Look around. Do you
see the bank?”
Fernando looked around.
He saw a bank. “Yeah.”
“What about the Culvers
across the street?”
Fernando turned his head.
There it was. “Yeah.”
“Did you drive around
the mall?”
“We circled it twice.”
“What street are you
on?”
“Fennel.”
“Fennel? Fennel?
Did you go under the overpass?”
“Yes.”
“Is there another
overpass ahead?”
The fuck kind of question
is that in fucking Madison, Wisconsin. There's always a fucking
overpass in sight. “Yes.”
“What exit is it?”
“I can't see from
here.”
“Well, get there and
then call me back.”
“I mean, it's right
there. We just have to take a l--”
-Click-
Fernando took a deep
breath through his nose. “If we didn't have thirty-five dollars in
shit coming to us that we otherwise wouldn't be able to spend, I'd
just say fuck it and go home.”
Ronaldo turned on his
blinker. “I know what you mean.” He took a left out onto the
street and a couple of miles ahead there was an exit.
Fernando redails the
number. -Ring ring ring ring ring-
While this happening,
thanks to how traffic does what traffic does, Ronaldo has been moving
in a forward direction. “So are we supposed to take this exit or
what?”
“That's what I'm trying
to fig—”
“Hello?”
“Yeah, Fernando again.
We're coming up on the exit.”
“What number is it?”
“404.”
“Take it.”
Fernando repeats the
instructions to Ronaldo, who must now move over one lane through
noonday traffic over the next half of a mile. Somehow he manages
this, and Sir Dicks-A-Lot is not given more ammunition for his crabby
arsenal.
“Now what?”
“Take a left. Go
through two lights. The next intersection will have a bank and a
Culvers. Take the left there.” Then he hangs up.
“God damn it so much,”
said Fernando. He relays this information and Ronaldo does as he is
bade. There is, in fact, a bank and a Culvers at the intersection in
question. Two restaurants of the same chain that is not a McDonald's
or a Burger King or whatever within five miles of each other? What
are the odds!
Ronaldo wended around the
strip mall and there stood Sir Dicks-A-Lot in the parking lot. “It's
about time,” he said. “Well, come one. I don't have all day.”
They entered the Misty
Mountain and it was glorious. The gaming store in Fernando's area had
closed up...Christ, has it been five years already? Regardless,
Fernando does not have a readily accessible place to get his nerd on
and so this place was a breath of fresh air. Well, recycled
ventilated air. A large number of people sat at large tables in the
rear area playing a wide variety of tabletop games, and it seemed as
though a Magic tournament was going on.
“Let's make this
quick,” said Ronaldo. “I don't want to deal with that guy any
longer than I have to.” Fernando concurred wholehearted with that
sentiment. They browsed for about five minutes before they found what
they sought: the Game of Thrones tabletop board game. Valued at
$59.99, it would set them back a paltry $26 in real money today. It
was purchased and the pair exchanged requisite farewell courtesies
with Sir Dicks-A-Lot, who chewed on his glasses' earpiece and read
the back of the box of a Munchkin expansion and gave them only
cursory attention. Societies niceties given appropriate deference,
Ronaldo and Fernando left Sir Dicks-A-Lot to his angry self.
On the road again!
Fernando and Ronaldo navigated the twisted skein of roadways until
they found themselves on a highway heading east, retracing their
steps. The drive was uneventful and passed by quickly, for much
discussion was had on the horrid D&D panel Fernando had attended
and some new house rules that might be put into action based on the
meaningful interactions and discussions they had over the weekend.
They avoided the war-torn areas of Muskrat Blessing and returned to
the land where Perkins reigned supreme. Fuck the Culvers and their
being-on-every-streetcorner-ness.
The only remaining bit of
interest on the journey was when Fernando and Ronaldo stopped for
food in Verdant Cove, swinging by the mall and its food court and its
delicious toasted sammich restaurant that was there. Fernando had the
spicy chicken teriyaki melt and, though it shames him to admit this,
he suffered from hot-mouth. It was not an up-front murder like
Dave's, but instead an insidious aggregation of capsaicin oils that
slowly gained in fervor until it overwhelmed Fernando's senses.
It was delicious.
In the end Ronaldo guided
the car back through Zail-Kanzin and further on into Saladolsa, where
the Dominion stands. Fernando disembarked and thanked Ronaldo for his
company and for making the weekend overall a success, for it was a
success despite the individually horrible bits. Fernando met new
people, and bought nice things, and came out a winner for once.
Monday followed Sunday,
as it usually does. Fernando unlocks the front door, sorts through
the returns, and catches up on the things which he needed to have
done over the weekend.
The phone rings.
“Hello, Dominion of
Movies.”
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