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06 March 2009
Posted in
P-Stuff -
Blog
The silence becomes deafening as I make my way towards the bombsite and I feel my muscles tense as I prepare myself for the exchange of fire which is bound to occur in what could be milliseconds. The sweat runs from my brow and I turn the corner with my assault rifle in hand-ignorant as to what lies in wait.
Suddenly, "Crack!" and my vision becomes temporarily blurred-instinct dictates that I either fight or flee and with the hopes of my fellow freedom fighting brethren, the Urban Crew my decision was obvious. I squeeze the trigger of my AK-47 and fire a spray of bullets in the direction of my hidden assailant and use the diversion to make my way to some nearby crates and take cover whilst I determine my enemy's position.
I have 2 minutes to complete the objective or all is lost, so the time was now or never. I inhale and check to see if my rifle is reloaded and dive out from behind the box and make a mad dash towards the target whilst trying to pan my surroundings and snake the barrage of bullets aimed in my direction-AH!
I'm hit and critically injured-I muster up all the strength left in my legs and run harder, slamming the concrete with my feet as I feel my heart pumping faster and the blood coursing through my veins rushes to my appendages allowing me one last courageous effort. Suddenly I spot a flash in my peripheral vision across the plateau, hitting the deck and carefully taking aim I squeeze off a tactical burst-followed by a single shot at what appears to be the head of my ill-fated opponent.
A death rattle echoes across the battlefield letting me know that my aim was indeed true-bomb in hand with the body of my foe bleeding out behind yonder ridge. A victim of circumstance and the combined malicious intent of a tiny separatist faction we love to call the Urban Crew.
Elation and relief wash over me as the realisation of what I have accomplished sets in-before long the triumphant battle cries of my comrades are resonating throughout my body, as the reality dawns on me and we Relapse into hysterical laughter, intoxicated by our success.
Pure, primal and without remorse-this is the true nature of our war, albeit a farce.
A generation sans backbone or cause that yearns for something to unify our consciousness'-our call to arms could not be heard by the technologically impaired populous. Green neon lights guide the way towards a man with a toothy grin, neatly pressed attire and a nametag-clearly this was not your average third-world militant dealing arms from a stolen supply truck. All the appeal but none of the repercussions withbeing ur arsenal sold over the counter at Incredible Corruption as we prepare for another skirmish in this silent silicone slaughter where the only real casualties are the social lives and sexual encounters we could be having.
Born in the time we were it only makes sense that we would use this most grotesque of act of heresy as a means of entertaining our perforated brains. The monolith for the personal computer industry was only released some time into my short life-span, saving me from the fate that lies in store for the youth of today who are addicted to the instant gratification that comes from pulling the trigger and drooling whilst waiting to obtain the almighty frag!
This is however only a possible outcome for someone that is introverted and left to their own devices behind a P.C-the polar extreme being that you decide to take part in team sports and the laborious physical exercise it spawns as a result. Neigh for I and those special g33ks who once came close to being in the upper echelons of the gaming community the allure of refresh rates and bloody exit wounds was too great. We the keyboard assassins whose dexterity and reaction time with a mouse are unrivalled-coupled with the foresight of a master tactician make for a deadly adversary. We embrace the thrill of being at war as we empty a magazine into our foe, the clang of shells as the fly from the chamber littering the bloodstained ground underfoot does little to muffle the maniacal laughter of this frenzied fiend.
The realm of the nerd is sacred and rife with ritual just as that which would be found in any other organized religion. For instance, in war take no prisoners and leave nothing but a path of smouldering wreckage in your wake. In the aftermath all that remains are those who whipped out the mad props and owned the opposition. Mowing down the enemy like cattle riddling their bodies bullet holes-Pwnd! Natural selection has run its course and now it's time to rub salt in the open wound-the final blow to the defeated Counter-Strike player's moral is the trash talk that ensues the second the dust has settled and the smoke clears.
All it takes to ultimately decimate your opponent is something along the lines of; "I have played better games of C.S in my toilet." or a true classic, "Suck my cock ladies!" Righteous because it was earned so bare no grudges because when you hit the refresh button and join the server you buy the ticket so you better buckle up for the ride. All who try to defend their ability, their game, why their very masculinity as the victors hurl bizarre insults at them need only have the stats to validate their retaliation- Headshots, Kill Per Death Ratio and those ever illusive frags.
In this era no longer do youths congregate on street corners and smoke cigarettes with slick hair-no sir! This new breed of suburbanite anarchist is a far more dangerous-a true degenerate. Just as in days past tribes were formed-now these pasty-faced social outcasts have made an attempt at cohesion amongst their ranks by forming a clan. A brotherhood where chronic carpel-tunnel sufferers can find solace in knowing they are not alone.
Gaming is a world onto itself rife with jargon where profanity spews from the mouths of these Warriors as they strive for a purpose, the objective of these clans, these bands of brothers is merely to quench the insatiable thirst for gratuitous violence. Â
To witness the extent to which our generation has been desensitized by media and the super-information highway you need only stick your head into the dimly lit "Lan" and listen as one turns to the other after hours of carnage, only to utter the phrase; "GG boys, GG."
