The old text-fillers from june 2010 can be found in their entirety here:
http://skyen.deviantart.com/#/d2tk3jzThe first part is posted here as a sort of teaser.
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A Brief Digression, part 1:
"Oh shit oh shit oh SHIT!"
"Left! Left left left LEF-- ARGH GOD *bleep* SNIPERS!"
Myke wrenched the controller around as if it was going to do any good. He respawned ten seconds later.
"I will KILL that camper!"
"Tower to the left, there's a path 'round back," said Mitch. Myke eyed him.
"How many times have you PLAYED this level?"
"Enough - No, go through the shop, there's a door and some cover."
Six perfect headshots on his character later, Myke handed the controller over to his spiky-haired companion - provided you redefine "hand over" to mean "throw at the floor and someone else catches it."
Twelve minutes later, six people had quit the match, whining about "hacking bullshit".
"... you REALLY need to get a life, mate."
"Don't need one, I have your giant flatscreen and a PS3."
The screen promptly went black.
"Yeah, it's broken now," said Myke, unsubtly hiding the remote behind his back.
"Myyyke..." said Mitch, threateningly.
"I guess something got fucked up with it. Technology, man, whaddaya gonna do."
"Myyyyyke...""I guess we'll have to play Scrabble or something, I think I have a..."
Myke didn't finish the sentence, as he was busy being tackled by six feet of lanky Mitchell.
Twisting and wiggling, Myke managed to relieve the remote of its batteries. A lunge from Mitch sent the batteries scattering every which way.
"Oh come on!" whined Mitch, but his grin betrayed his amusement.
Myke laughed, supporting himself on his elbows and panting. Mitch wasn't buff, but damn if that made him any weaker.
"So! Scrabble!" teased Myke, getting up, "I know I saw it around somewhere..."
He found it atop a shelf, out of his reach. He jumped experimentally to see if he could coax the box down - no luck. Mitch was smirking on the couch.
"Yeah yeah, laugh it up, scarecrow. You'll be dead of a heart-attack by age 30."
Myke looked around for a chair or something to stand on. But, sudden and silent, Mitch was there, leaning in over him and grabbing the box down from the shelf.
His deodorant was quite pleasant, actual-- Myke slapped himself mentally. He had to do that more and more often - it was all the faggy business that was getting to him, probably.
"Alright, bitch, let's play," said Mitch, setting the game down on the hardwood floor, "I'll kick your ass."
"Oh, this from Mr. D- in English Literature?"
(to be continued)
