What my SECRET SATAN sent me!

Bulwyf wrote:

My Secret Satan is a cheecky bastard. I got a copy of HellRail which my wife has played before and looks interested in. A cheesy Wolf motif t-shit. The kind you see the proffesional FLGS urchins wear. And a copy of Splashy the Whale. I wonder if you can put cheap Tequila in Splashy and turn it into a sordid drinking game. Thanks Secret Satan!


-Will

According to the rules of Secret Satan, articles of clothing require that pictures of receiver modeling the item be posted. Pictures of getting squirted with Tequila are optional, but appreciated.

My not-so-secret-Satan is truly evil. I always suspected that he was slightly twisted, but this package confirmed that he is beyond twisted. He is a very, very bad man.

First off, and this isn’t Satan’s doing, as I walked into my home, before I had even fully removed my coat, the Spawn ambushed me and excitedly announced that I had a package from Norcross. In my world, NORCROSS is the name of big honking mainframe computer. So, of course the most reasonable thought to immediately go through my mind is, “Why is a mainframe sending me packages?”

I hadn’t so much as moment to shake off the creepiness of this thought, before the Spawn shoved a box in my already full hands. I made my way down the dark, narrow hall, my coat half off, slipping down my shoulder, my purse slipping down the other, shopping bags swinging from my elbows, awkwardly holding the box, with the Spawn bouncing behind me yelling, “Can I open it? Mom, are you going to open it? Can I open it? When are we going to open it? Mom! Mom?”

When I finally reached the kitchen, and was able to put down my load, I examined the box more closely. I was initially relieved to see that it wasn’t sent from NORCROSS the mad mainframe. It was, instead, sent from a member of F:AT. This confused and worried me. Had I bought or traded games and forgotten about it?

The Man suddenly appeared behind me, and whispered in my ear as he finished removing my coat, “I think it’s from Satan.”

"It's supposed to be SECRET Satan. This has a return address on it," I pointed out, "Although, Satan could have put someone else's return address on it, so he wouldn't get blamed if it explodes and shoots pudding all over the walls."

“It’s not from Satan,” scoffed the Spawn, “Satan’s not real. And there aren’t even post offices in Hell.”

“Honey,” I told her, “the post office is Hell. Hell used to be the train station in East Berlin, but it relocated back before you were born."

"Pleeeeeeeeeease. Can we open it."

"Okay. You can open it, but if it's full of pudding, you're cleaning the mess."

The Spawn was suddenly less enthusiastic about opening the suspicious package, but her curiosity soon over came her desire to avoid the possibility of cleaning pudding off the walls. She cautiously approached the package with a large scissors and cut away the packing tape, while the Man and I stood at a safe distance.

The box flaps flipped open. On top was a manila envelope, with a carefully printed catalog label in the corner, removing all doubt as to the sender. This box was indeed from MooFrank.

The envelope did not contain pudding. It was Nightmare House by David Marshall, a small package of psychological torture. Nightmare House looks really cool, and sounds really cool, but in the words of Frank himself, contains "8 pages of the densest and nastiest rules I've ever faced. Interesting ideas but nearly unplayable in practice." The theme and concepts, however, are so enticing that of course I will waste hours trying to figure out these rules, muttering cursing and complaining, until I myself am convinced the game is unplayable. Those will be hours of my life that I will never get back. Curse you MooSatan!

Underneath this envelope was a box with a cool picture of a space ship. The man immediately grabbed it, opened it and declared that it was the coolest game he had ever seen. It was Solar Trader and had amazing little bits, plus spaceships, and fun artwork. Of course the Man learned the rules and made us all play the next day. Solar Trader is Candyland Merchant of Venus. Complete with spaces that make you roll again, go back three spaces, or lose TWO turns and come shooting out in some other far flung location. If I were 12 years old I probably would have adored this game. As an adult all I can say is that is three hours of my life I will never get back. The nightmare of it, is the Man wants to play again, because he is convinced he can tweak the rules a bit to make the game as cool as the bits. I say why don't we just play Merchant of Venus. He says Merchant of Venus has math and doesn't have a pack of cigarettes bit. *sigh* Curse you MooSatan!

The final box in the package is a horror beyond all description - Hedgehog's Revenge. The Spawn immediately claimed this ghastly abomination. She made us play it. It was a never ending nightmare of acrimonious rule arguments, off-key singing and feats of strength, plus no one could tell which pieces where theirs and which belonged to other players. And when I say never ending, I mean never ending. We packed it up after a could of hours. The Spawn claims it will be fun to play without boring grown-ups, so I gave her my permission and blessing to take it to school and told her that she could even store it in her locker. So there's another couple of hours of my life I will never get back. Curse you MooSatan!

Although, as I write this, the Spawn is setting up Mumbo Jumbo for us to play, a gift to her from a different F:AT friend. Solar Trader suddenly doesn't seem so bad.