> Bell: Be the kid full of conspiracies.
The kid full of conspiracies is too busy furiously mashing his keyboard trying to coordinate all of his friends and simultaneously win a game of Touhou Unreal Mahjong.
Instead you get to be this guy. What is his name?
> NUTJOB MCSTUPIDHAIR X
Come on, who would believe that that’s an actual name?
> RYAN TARBOSAURUS
One stupid name is enough, thank you very much.
Oh wait, you’re serious.
> RYAN TARBOSAURUS O
This is Ryan Tarbosaurus, I guess.
> Wow, his hair just gets stupider the more I look at it.
That’s not a command, you asshat.
> Ryan: Examine room.
Ryan ignores the words of an actual living creature in favor of talking, out loud, to a stuffed animal. Stuffed animals make positively riveting conversational partners, and they’re bound to be less rude than SOME PEOPLE.
> Ryan: Stop being crazy and examine room!
Great, TD’s gone silent again. You return him to his lair (your closet) since he has the uncanny effect of making your guardian uncomfortable and ponder what to do next.
> Ryan: Examine room! ==>
Ah, that’s right. One of your friends is messaging you. You should answer them.
> Ryan: Examine room!!! ==>==>==>
You’re such a terrible liar, not that being good at lying is something to take pride in, you think. As you ponder the value of a skill used almost exclusively for treachery, the doorbell rings, bringing you out of your thoughts. Well, looks like your package really did arrive!
> aaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! ==>==>==>==>==>
Jesus fuck, fine! Your room is empty okay?
> ...
...Mostly empty.
Where did you leave off? Your name? Alright, your name is RYAN. Normally the things scattered about one’s room would indicate their INTERESTS, but you keep your room very clean. You don’t think yourself a neat freak, but the open space is invaluable for your proclivity for STRIFES. You might not carry out much actual strifing in your bedroom, but you pride yourself on your ACTIVE IMAGINATION, fueled in turn by your ACTIVE LIFESTYLE. Or, as active as you can make it when you’re not allowed to leave the house. Most of your things are stored in your closet, primarily a VAST COLLECTION OF OUTDATED VIDEO GAMES, which forms a throne upon which your best friend sits. You have quite a collection of video game consoles in there too, but every last one of them is INCREDIBLY ANCIENT. There’s also a pair of WOODEN TONFA, your ideal strife weapon.
> Ryan: Equip Tonfa.
Sure, why not. You put the wooden tonfa in the strife deck of your tonfakind specibus.
> Ryan: Examine bamboo.
What? oh, yeah.
You keep a stick of bamboo in your room for whenever you want to play around. You aren’t nearly as skilled with it as you are with Tonfa, since there’s never enough room to practice with it in your apartment, but it quite closely approximates an effective bō Staff
> Ryan: Equip Bamboo.
You can’t! You lost your staffkind specibus a while ago. Instead you captchalogue the BAMBOO STAFF, wherein your PokeModus assigns it three pokemon.
> Ryan: Continue examining room.
Do you have to? You have stuff to do you know.
> Ryan: Eeexxxaaammmiiinnneee!!!
Why do you even need to listen to these commands? They're probably not even real, even in your imagination.
> Ryan: Finish examining the room or I will become very upset.
...That’s a weird threat.
In your hands is a gameboy advanced which is usually loaded up with your copy of Pokemon FireRed. Oh, how you love Pokemon. If there was only one game you could play for the rest of your life, it would be Pokemon. While chatting with Tigers and friends alike, you’ve been slowly leveling up the last member of your party, since you don’t think you’ll have much time to do so once you start playing CT’s game. A little ping goes off to indicate that Nidoking hits level 99 and you’re reassured that you’ll be able to get it done with time to spare.
Your closet with sliding mirror doors makes up the west side of your room, with a TV unrepentantly standing in front of it, facing your bed. Said bed is on the south end of your room, right beneath your room’s only window and adorned in only the finest of abstract tiger patterns. The bed takes up the entire length of the wall that your dresser, on the south-east part of the room, doesn’t. It’s a pretty standard dresser, though atop it and on the shelf above it sits your martial arts trophies.
> Ryan: Examine trophies.
On a shelf over your dresser as well as on the dresser itself is a small collection of trophies from your various martial arts exploits. You're quite proud of them, every last one of them gold, but the tournaments were local, and for the young, so you doubt you are any sort of intermediary substance approaching "HOT SHIT" just yet.
In the middle of the north wall is a desk upon which one of your brother’s many laptops sits, this one being his absolute shittiest, incapable of doing much more than playing ancient video games and operating Pesterchum like it’s the only thing it was built for. Its complete and totallack of any web browser is baffling.
At the east end of the north wall, is the door out of your room.
> Ryan: Finally answer door.
You’re glad you agree on this, because you’re already at your apartment’s front door.
Evidently however, this door isn’t going to be opened by your hands. Your Dad keeps his impressive lock collection on the door at all times, both to keep intruders out and keep you in. Why, it’d be easier to break down the door than to try and get it open. Fortunately, you can just barely see a speck of something on your doorstep. Something… reddish...
> Ryan: Examine apartment.
No way, you’re through appeasing these ethereal commands, you are going to get down to business!
And by get down to business you mean return to your room and mope. It’ll probably be hours before your Bro is home, and you won’t be able to pick up the package waiting right outside your door until then.
> Ryan: Do something productive.
Absolutely!
If by productive you mean chat with one of your friends, ultimately accomplishing nothing. You go ahead and carry out this conversation before resolving yourself to jumping out of your window.
Which just so happens to be on the top floor of your apartment building.
What could go wrong?
> Ryan: Cease these self-destructive delusions of flight.
What are you going on about now?
You pocket your Gameboy, since you can’t exactly captchalogue it without triggering some sort of absurd metaphysical paradox and gather up some of the many dubious trinkets littering your apartment, doing your absolute best to put the nature of their intended use out of your mind as you fasten them together one by one.
> Ryan: Explain yourself.
Well aren’t you a bossy one. You’re making a rope to climb down of course! You give each knot and convoluted binding a tug to ensure that they don’t come undone at the worst possible time as you drag it around your apartment like you’re playing the world’s worst game of centipede.
> Ryan: Examine living room.
For the love of all that is holy, why would you feel the need to re-examine your own place of dwelling?
> Ryan: Examine living room, please.
You know what, you'll take what you can get.
The living room has all the makings of a functional and fashionable living space. It has a flat-screen TV on one end, a large and comfortable leather sofa at the other, and a glass coffee table in the center. The thing is, your Dad's "projects" litter the place. Everywhere. 90% of the time there’s not a single place on your carpeted floor that you could actually lay down on without touching the stuff, and frankly, you refuse to describe any of these objects other than that they are sexual in nature and you need them to make a rope. Hiding behind the sofa is a Papier-mâché Raptor. A Herrerasaurus, as your bro constantly reminds you. As if supposed to simulate an environment, there's even a couple of house plants on either side of it, both of which for some reason haven't died even though you are almost positive your Bro never waters them. You ignore the kitchen because you are not a god damn tour guide and begin the arduous task of picking up these items, finding solace in the fact that their presence in your apartment means they have never been in use.
God you hope they've never been used.
As you inadvertently clean up the place you notice something your Dad left sitting on the table...
...It's a book.
Okay, you know what, you think this rope is long enough. It’s about time you drag it back to your room.
> Don’t you need to captchalogue that?
You consider yourself an expert on sylladex management. Sylladex battles do not grant your pokemon exp, so you try to avoid them unless you’re really bored.
In other words, not now.
> Ryan: This still seems like a bad idea.
You’re sure it is! Still, you don’t have time to sit around waiting for your Bro to come home. Well, maybe you do, but you don’t want to okay? Besides, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve done this.
After tying it to your bed, you open your window and toss out the pile of makeshift rope. You smile to yourself in satisfaction that it reaches the ground without too much excess.
> Ryan: Break legs.
Fuck no.
You were really careful when you made this rope, and now you’re sure you’ll be fine climbing down its length. After an extra confirmatory tug, you gingerly step out onto the windowsill backwards and, rope in hand, step off of it.
It only now occurs to you that you really should have tied the other end around your waist. Oh well. You have ample upper-body strength for this anyway. Little by little you slide down the rope, your shoes making a scraping sort of sound against the building until the first window comes up where you rely solely on letting your hands slip to control your descent. Wow, you live really high up.
A ways down the side of the building, you look up to see what else but part of the rope ripping right through one of the “leather” straps. You should have known it was made out of some sort of shitty substitute, though you aren’t actually certain of leather’s tensile strength to begin with. You start to panic a little and speed up your descent, letting the rope slip through your hands as much as you can without losing control of your speed. The rip is too close to the window to attempt climbing back up. Not long after you begin to hurry however, the rope snaps and you experience complete and utter weightlessness.
> Ryan: Die horribly.
Don't be so melodramatic. That was leg-breaking height at best. Fortunately for you however, the pile of cloth, leather and metal chains that accumulated on the ground broke your fall. You think you might have a bruise or two, but otherwise you’re no worse for wear.
Looking back up towards the window, it seems that almost your entire rope has broken. While it’s nice that it’s not too conspicuous, you lament the fact that you're going to have to wait outside of the apartment for your Dad to come home to get back in the apartment. Fucking great, you’re back where you started. The circle of stupidity is complete. You are the idiot. It is you.
Nonetheless, you captchalogue the BDSM ROPE and head out of the alleyway you've fallen into. You turn the corner and enter the building's lobby, a vision of velvety red. You normally take the stairs because of how it gets you exercise in the one area you can't work on comfortably in your apartment, (cardio) but fuck that. You just want to sit down outside of your apartment for now and finish off your Nidoking. When the elevator dings for your floor and you step outside, you can’t help but stare in unbelieving horror at the empty space outside of your apartment door. You internally groan as your march your way to your apartment as you realize that this entire ordeal has been a fool’s errand all along. That is, until you notice that the door to your apartment has been left unlocked and slightly ajar.
Bro knows.
You enter the apartment slowly, more cautious than the most timid of Cats.
It's empty.
The remaining BDSM shit has been swept to the side and bro's book put away. A single scrap of paper adorns the coffee table.
The kid full of conspiracies is too busy furiously mashing his keyboard trying to coordinate all of his friends and simultaneously win a game of Touhou Unreal Mahjong.
Instead you get to be this guy. What is his name?
> NUTJOB MCSTUPIDHAIR X
Come on, who would believe that that’s an actual name?
> RYAN TARBOSAURUS
One stupid name is enough, thank you very much.
Oh wait, you’re serious.
> RYAN TARBOSAURUS O
This is Ryan Tarbosaurus, I guess.
> Wow, his hair just gets stupider the more I look at it.
That’s not a command, you asshat.
> Ryan: Examine room.
Ryan ignores the words of an actual living creature in favor of talking, out loud, to a stuffed animal. Stuffed animals make positively riveting conversational partners, and they’re bound to be less rude than SOME PEOPLE.
> Ryan: Stop being crazy and examine room!
Great, TD’s gone silent again. You return him to his lair (your closet) since he has the uncanny effect of making your guardian uncomfortable and ponder what to do next.
> Ryan: Examine room! ==>
Ah, that’s right. One of your friends is messaging you. You should answer them.
> Ryan: Examine room!!! ==>==>==>
You’re such a terrible liar, not that being good at lying is something to take pride in, you think. As you ponder the value of a skill used almost exclusively for treachery, the doorbell rings, bringing you out of your thoughts. Well, looks like your package really did arrive!
> aaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! ==>==>==>==>==>
Jesus fuck, fine! Your room is empty okay?
> ...
...Mostly empty.
Where did you leave off? Your name? Alright, your name is RYAN. Normally the things scattered about one’s room would indicate their INTERESTS, but you keep your room very clean. You don’t think yourself a neat freak, but the open space is invaluable for your proclivity for STRIFES. You might not carry out much actual strifing in your bedroom, but you pride yourself on your ACTIVE IMAGINATION, fueled in turn by your ACTIVE LIFESTYLE. Or, as active as you can make it when you’re not allowed to leave the house. Most of your things are stored in your closet, primarily a VAST COLLECTION OF OUTDATED VIDEO GAMES, which forms a throne upon which your best friend sits. You have quite a collection of video game consoles in there too, but every last one of them is INCREDIBLY ANCIENT. There’s also a pair of WOODEN TONFA, your ideal strife weapon.
> Ryan: Equip Tonfa.
Sure, why not. You put the wooden tonfa in the strife deck of your tonfakind specibus.
> Ryan: Examine bamboo.
What? oh, yeah.
You keep a stick of bamboo in your room for whenever you want to play around. You aren’t nearly as skilled with it as you are with Tonfa, since there’s never enough room to practice with it in your apartment, but it quite closely approximates an effective bō Staff
> Ryan: Equip Bamboo.
You can’t! You lost your staffkind specibus a while ago. Instead you captchalogue the BAMBOO STAFF, wherein your PokeModus assigns it three pokemon.
> Ryan: Continue examining room.
Do you have to? You have stuff to do you know.
> Ryan: Eeexxxaaammmiiinnneee!!!
Why do you even need to listen to these commands? They're probably not even real, even in your imagination.
> Ryan: Finish examining the room or I will become very upset.
...That’s a weird threat.
In your hands is a gameboy advanced which is usually loaded up with your copy of Pokemon FireRed. Oh, how you love Pokemon. If there was only one game you could play for the rest of your life, it would be Pokemon. While chatting with Tigers and friends alike, you’ve been slowly leveling up the last member of your party, since you don’t think you’ll have much time to do so once you start playing CT’s game. A little ping goes off to indicate that Nidoking hits level 99 and you’re reassured that you’ll be able to get it done with time to spare.
Your closet with sliding mirror doors makes up the west side of your room, with a TV unrepentantly standing in front of it, facing your bed. Said bed is on the south end of your room, right beneath your room’s only window and adorned in only the finest of abstract tiger patterns. The bed takes up the entire length of the wall that your dresser, on the south-east part of the room, doesn’t. It’s a pretty standard dresser, though atop it and on the shelf above it sits your martial arts trophies.
> Ryan: Examine trophies.
On a shelf over your dresser as well as on the dresser itself is a small collection of trophies from your various martial arts exploits. You're quite proud of them, every last one of them gold, but the tournaments were local, and for the young, so you doubt you are any sort of intermediary substance approaching "HOT SHIT" just yet.
In the middle of the north wall is a desk upon which one of your brother’s many laptops sits, this one being his absolute shittiest, incapable of doing much more than playing ancient video games and operating Pesterchum like it’s the only thing it was built for. Its complete and totallack of any web browser is baffling.
At the east end of the north wall, is the door out of your room.
> Ryan: Finally answer door.
You’re glad you agree on this, because you’re already at your apartment’s front door.
Evidently however, this door isn’t going to be opened by your hands. Your Dad keeps his impressive lock collection on the door at all times, both to keep intruders out and keep you in. Why, it’d be easier to break down the door than to try and get it open. Fortunately, you can just barely see a speck of something on your doorstep. Something… reddish...
> Ryan: Examine apartment.
No way, you’re through appeasing these ethereal commands, you are going to get down to business!
And by get down to business you mean return to your room and mope. It’ll probably be hours before your Bro is home, and you won’t be able to pick up the package waiting right outside your door until then.
> Ryan: Do something productive.
Absolutely!
If by productive you mean chat with one of your friends, ultimately accomplishing nothing. You go ahead and carry out this conversation before resolving yourself to jumping out of your window.
Which just so happens to be on the top floor of your apartment building.
What could go wrong?
> Ryan: Cease these self-destructive delusions of flight.
What are you going on about now?
You pocket your Gameboy, since you can’t exactly captchalogue it without triggering some sort of absurd metaphysical paradox and gather up some of the many dubious trinkets littering your apartment, doing your absolute best to put the nature of their intended use out of your mind as you fasten them together one by one.
> Ryan: Explain yourself.
Well aren’t you a bossy one. You’re making a rope to climb down of course! You give each knot and convoluted binding a tug to ensure that they don’t come undone at the worst possible time as you drag it around your apartment like you’re playing the world’s worst game of centipede.
> Ryan: Examine living room.
For the love of all that is holy, why would you feel the need to re-examine your own place of dwelling?
> Ryan: Examine living room, please.
You know what, you'll take what you can get.
The living room has all the makings of a functional and fashionable living space. It has a flat-screen TV on one end, a large and comfortable leather sofa at the other, and a glass coffee table in the center. The thing is, your Dad's "projects" litter the place. Everywhere. 90% of the time there’s not a single place on your carpeted floor that you could actually lay down on without touching the stuff, and frankly, you refuse to describe any of these objects other than that they are sexual in nature and you need them to make a rope. Hiding behind the sofa is a Papier-mâché Raptor. A Herrerasaurus, as your bro constantly reminds you. As if supposed to simulate an environment, there's even a couple of house plants on either side of it, both of which for some reason haven't died even though you are almost positive your Bro never waters them. You ignore the kitchen because you are not a god damn tour guide and begin the arduous task of picking up these items, finding solace in the fact that their presence in your apartment means they have never been in use.
God you hope they've never been used.
As you inadvertently clean up the place you notice something your Dad left sitting on the table...
...It's a book.
Okay, you know what, you think this rope is long enough. It’s about time you drag it back to your room.
> Don’t you need to captchalogue that?
You consider yourself an expert on sylladex management. Sylladex battles do not grant your pokemon exp, so you try to avoid them unless you’re really bored.
In other words, not now.
> Ryan: This still seems like a bad idea.
You’re sure it is! Still, you don’t have time to sit around waiting for your Bro to come home. Well, maybe you do, but you don’t want to okay? Besides, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve done this.
After tying it to your bed, you open your window and toss out the pile of makeshift rope. You smile to yourself in satisfaction that it reaches the ground without too much excess.
> Ryan: Break legs.
Fuck no.
You were really careful when you made this rope, and now you’re sure you’ll be fine climbing down its length. After an extra confirmatory tug, you gingerly step out onto the windowsill backwards and, rope in hand, step off of it.
It only now occurs to you that you really should have tied the other end around your waist. Oh well. You have ample upper-body strength for this anyway. Little by little you slide down the rope, your shoes making a scraping sort of sound against the building until the first window comes up where you rely solely on letting your hands slip to control your descent. Wow, you live really high up.
A ways down the side of the building, you look up to see what else but part of the rope ripping right through one of the “leather” straps. You should have known it was made out of some sort of shitty substitute, though you aren’t actually certain of leather’s tensile strength to begin with. You start to panic a little and speed up your descent, letting the rope slip through your hands as much as you can without losing control of your speed. The rip is too close to the window to attempt climbing back up. Not long after you begin to hurry however, the rope snaps and you experience complete and utter weightlessness.
> Ryan: Die horribly.
Don't be so melodramatic. That was leg-breaking height at best. Fortunately for you however, the pile of cloth, leather and metal chains that accumulated on the ground broke your fall. You think you might have a bruise or two, but otherwise you’re no worse for wear.
Looking back up towards the window, it seems that almost your entire rope has broken. While it’s nice that it’s not too conspicuous, you lament the fact that you're going to have to wait outside of the apartment for your Dad to come home to get back in the apartment. Fucking great, you’re back where you started. The circle of stupidity is complete. You are the idiot. It is you.
Nonetheless, you captchalogue the BDSM ROPE and head out of the alleyway you've fallen into. You turn the corner and enter the building's lobby, a vision of velvety red. You normally take the stairs because of how it gets you exercise in the one area you can't work on comfortably in your apartment, (cardio) but fuck that. You just want to sit down outside of your apartment for now and finish off your Nidoking. When the elevator dings for your floor and you step outside, you can’t help but stare in unbelieving horror at the empty space outside of your apartment door. You internally groan as your march your way to your apartment as you realize that this entire ordeal has been a fool’s errand all along. That is, until you notice that the door to your apartment has been left unlocked and slightly ajar.
Bro knows.
You enter the apartment slowly, more cautious than the most timid of Cats.
It's empty.
The remaining BDSM shit has been swept to the side and bro's book put away. A single scrap of paper adorns the coffee table.
Bro.
Roof. Now.
Roof. Now.