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The Big N I am a man for hire. Not a hitman, I wish it were that simple. That's not to say I haven't cracked a few skulls and shot my share of men in the back, but it's not my primary job description. I walk into impossibly dangerous situations for a rotating cast of wealthy individuals who wish to keep their own hands clean and their heads attached. If all hell breaks loose - and it usually does - I walk out unscathed. I do not say this to brag, but because it is the one thing I am good at and what I'm paid for. I am a survivor. If you don't believe me, I'll show you the shirt I bought at Disney World that reads "I Survived Space Mountain". I wear it as a badge of honor. The steel track my fake spaceship rides upon was laid down by the hand of Mickey himself, and I will outlive you and everyone you love. I can stick my hands and head outside this vehicle at all times, and will still be riding long after you've turned to bitter dust. I am on an undisclosed floor in Nintendo's headquarters in Japan. Their recently released video game console, the Nintendo Entertainment System, has swept the globe and turned them into a power player overnight. A company that makes children's games doesn't seem likely to hire a man such as myself, but they have paid me handsomely so I ask no questions. The room I sit in is minimalism personified. Bare soundproof walls, ceiling, and a tile floor with a drain in the center of the room identical to those found in locker room showers. One door. One table. Two chairs. Everything white as fuck and spotless, a germophobic klansman's wet dream. The man sitting across from me wordlessly slams a stainless steel briefcase on the desk, unlocks the latches, and slides it toward me as though he's going for the briefcase sliding world record. My instincts are sharp and I easily catch it before it rams into my ribcage. Great. Asshole's testing me. "Open it." he says bluntly, and I am alarmed to see that he has gotten out of his chair without catching my attention and is now lazily slouched into a far corner of the room. No one should be able to duck under my radar so easily, especially when they're sitting three feet away from me in an empty room. As if reading my thoughts, he cocks his head and smiles. There is something very wrong about this man. He is so elusive that he blurs into and out of my vision even as I stare directly at him. An assassin. He has to be. It's not abnormal for my clients to deal with me through a proxy of hired muscle, but this is different. This guy's not your average goon, he's big time. Things are not adding up. "Open it." he says once more, his monotone voice simultaneously coming from all directions and none in particular. If he wanted me dead he would have made his move by now, so I abandon the exhausting task of keeping track of the unnamed man and flip open the briefcase. Its inside is lined with the standard black padding found in most gun cases, but resting in the precision-cut cavity is a grey and black glove with a panel of buttons attached to the top. The thing looks like something Darth Vader would wear if he decided to take up skateboarding. "What the hell is this?" I ask, and am only marginally surprised to find my creepy friend is now behind me, looking over my shoulder. "This, Mr. Bannon, is the Power Glove. The prototype of a device of considerable, well, power. No one has fully tested its capabilities yet, and that's why you are here. You will be the first to wield it." He does not attempt to conceal the jealousy in his voice. "Go on, put it on." I do as he asks, half expecting the thing to shock me or tighten around my arm in a death grip. "What do you think, Mr. Bannon?" "It's so... bad." It doesn't carry the heft that I'm accustomed to from traditional weapons, and the open fingers complete the sensation of wearing a futuristic hobo's garment. The man bristles at my casual insult of the item he covets, then produces a clunky tripod with goggles attached to the top which he sets on the table in front of me. "Go on, have a look." I press my face against the goofy device and am met with a nightmarish red world populated by robot pugilists and plumbers playing tennis. "Why is everything so annoying and red?" I ask, so appalled that I dare not look away. "You will get used to it, that's the testing area." I feel the lightest of touches, and realize he has pressed some of the Power Glove's buttons while I was preoccupied. I whirl around angrily, but of course he is no longer next to me. "I have activated a countdown in the Power Glove which will teleport you to the N-Zone in twenty seconds. There you will survive as only you can, with the aid of the glove. Learn all you can and report back with your findings." "Teleport. Are you serious? How will I return?" "The code I entered will take you on a round trip, it will automatically bring you back. The funny thing about the N-Zone, Mr. Bannon, is that for every minute which passes on Earth ten years pass there. I am perfectly comfortable with waiting one minute for extensive test results." My eyes widen and I make a frantic move to take the glove off, but the twenty seconds are up and I find myself dropping through reality into an infinite sea of red. ______ I pop back into the room and blink uncontrollably, a red afterimage burning angrily over the first real colors I have seen in ten years. The nameless man is waiting with a clipboard in hand and a smile on his face, ready to ask how things went. The bastard won't live to hear how I used the Power Glove to fight off seventy robot boxers at once and turned their remains into a suit of armor by simply willing it to happen, or how I came upon Koopa's lair and smote him by pretending to crush his head with my fingers from afar then took Princess Toadstool and lived in sin with her for seven years before realizing the glove could please me more than any woman. Ten years of my life in a digital hell. His death alone cannot compensate for that, but it will be a great beginning. I raise the Power Glove toward him and touch my middle and ring finger against my palm, unleashing a plasma blast which was simply another shade of red in the N-Zone but is a brilliant flash of blue here. He dodges entirely too easily, and slips out of sight instantly. I am about to die at his hands unless I act quickly. I have absolutely no idea where he is, but I close my eyes and think of the enigmatic man as I swing my fist wildly, and the Power Glove's aim is true. There is a satisfying moment of impact as the upper left side of his head bursts, but instead of the wet and squishy sound I expect there is a hollow chok! akin to a rice cake being snapped in two. I open my eyes in time to watch the man hit the ground, and cannot comprehend what I see. The inside of his gaping wound is not a leaking mess of grey matter and bone fragments. It is a padding the color of cardboard and the consistency of styrofoam. The trails left by my knuckles are perfectly preserved in its grainy surface. "What are you?" With a great amount of effort the man struggles to lift his head and trains his remaining eye on me. "I am error." he says matter-of-factly, and he crumbles into thin air. The room's door swings open and in walks a laughing Shigeru Miyamoto, the creative mastermind of the company. Not thinking of anything but escape, I use the glove to levitate the sole table in the room and fling it toward his head at lightning speed. With a wave of his hand the table meets some sort of invisible barrier and ricochets past me. He laughs once more at this. "Mr. Bannon, meet Megaton." He displays his hands palms-up, revealing a series of rings on his fingers which are attached to glowing gyroscopes. He is grinning happily, and it's surprisingly hard to resist returning a smile of my own. He loves this stuff. "This is something we hope to use as a controller for a future console. Who knows. For now I suppose it serves the purpose of stopping airborne tables quite well." "Yeah well, let's just say you guys owe me quite a bit of overtime pay." "Oh, undoubtedly. My assistant was overzealous. The trial was only supposed to last a few hours for you and mere milliseconds for us. You will be compensated to the point that you will never need to work again. In the meantime, what of that glove? What can it do aside from what I have seen firsthand?" I tell him of the lasers, the plasma beam, the mind control, the reflex booster, and the AM/FM tuner. "That won't do at all," he says sadly. "Goodness, no." "That's not enough?" I ask, amazed. "It's entirely too much. We were hoping it would, you know, move game characters in four directions, have A+B button functionality and maybe turbo mode." Awful Link of the Day Vanguard News Network Cartoon Page (thanks me) - Welcome to a benign and wholly unoffensive collection of comics that will warm your heart and make light of everyday situations. And that's one of the most coherent strips I could find. Half the comics don't appear to be working at all (which we should be thankful for) and what is there appears to be split up between Cartoons and Promos, two sections which appear to be neck and neck in the "written by a racist dipshit who only sees minorities when he leaves his trailer once a week to stock up on Hamm's beer and vienna sausage" race. The very notion that right now an inbred behemoth is spending six hours slumped in front of a tobacco-stained IBM from 1990 to make a strip like this in MS Paint pretty much makes me want to kill myself by falling face-first on the world's tiniest needle several thousand times. Post a comment in the forums Email Corin Tuckers Stalker Submit an Awful Link of the Day Friday, June 24 Update by: Zack "Geist Editor" Parsons The Book of Horizons Salutations! I'm glad you could join me today. I am in the middle of things so please bear with me. I'm working on a butt-rock power ballad written for the Theremin. If you move your hand up and then sort of wiggle it around it will make this awesome oooeeeooeee ooeeeeeeee ooooo sound and that's where the chorus breaks in "cuckoo, angel baby, I'm in love, with Crown Gravy" PYRO! BANG! BANG! Light up the night. There are people who work on oil platforms and pretty much their only job is to dive down to these incredibly dangerous depths and scrape barnacles off of the support pylons for the oil platform. 24 hours in a decompression chamber, potential nitrogen narcosis, burst organs and they are underwater moss removers. But during the off time they live like kings. You can build up a lot of savings out on an oil rig. Amazon doesn't deliver to them. Yet. Somewhere out there is an oil rig diver who comes back from a tour of deep diving and barnacle scraping and he buys every back issue of Spiderman he can find and explores the soda aisle at the grocery store to see what toxic sludge has been combined with Mountain Dew while he was gone. It's Mountain Dew Riptide, packed full of delicious Seaborgium. Atomic Number 106, a gas at room temperature, well-suited for infusing a coconut-flavored hyper-caffeinated soft drink. It's the perfect pick-me-up for the barnacle diver who just wants to feel energized for a long night of reading Spiderman comics and macroing his Dark Age of Camelot character. Seaborgium is so rare and precious that even Microsoft Word's comprehensive dictionary doesn't recognize Seaborgium. Like the Nintendo Gamecube or the Sony Playstation. If Sony made a word processor's spellchecker would they include the Xbox? Would it know what Seaborgium was? Could it really learn to love? Thanks to the Internet I've seen a video of a woman shooting live eels out of her vagina, a Russian guy having his throat cut and a kid lighting himself on fire after filling a watermelon with gasoline. I've seen lots of terrible and amazing things, but I've never seen a video available for download that was just a happy birthday party. Are happy birthday parties just that hard to come by? Is it so wrong for me to want to just download one and laugh with the opposite of schadenfreude? Hey, look at their good fortune! Haha, that guy sure is happy about that great gift he got! Nope, guess it's back to the Japanese woman shitting an egg enema into a pan and then eating the poop egg omelet. I think Rich "Lowtax" Canuckles wanted me to write about politics today, which is pretty much a complete reversal because usually he yells at me and breaks out the pimp hand when I start ranting about how much I hate Tom DeLay. A girl can't help it. I really hate Tom DeLay. But today's political stories include such winners as "Ban on Flag Burning Passes House" and obviously that particular house is full of pussies who cry in their sad cups whenever a piece of cloth gets burned. No one is going to disagree except for faggots, and I don't mean the gay kind of faggot, I mean the kind who pronounces "Osama" like someone saying "asthma" in "Lord of the Flies." Also topping the headlines today is the fact that the US government hates porn. I may have to take down all of the porn images in the Horrors of Porn reviews because we don't have some ridiculous amount of actress age records on file with our fictional attorney. Great job US Government, you win again, you're on the path to success. At least I didn't have to hear shadow conservative Hillary Clinton break out the drama over video games in the past 24 hours. Oh laws no Miss Scarlet! This games ah gunna give me the vapors with all these shootins and beatens and what have you. It's baby time for babies and we need someone to protect our kids from the deadly terror of Kirby's Cloudland Happytime Cake Adventure. Why did iD have to go and release Doom 3 so that their outrageously obsolete Doom references suddenly became vaguely relevant again? I blame the liberal media and Jewish banking. Fourthly, did you know that eminent domain includes seizing your entire home and business to build a government-run office complex? I hope they rent out the bottom floor to Starbucks so that I can sip a double milk grande latte while I remember growing up in this house. Oh, I remember the stories ma used to read to me after tucking me into my bed in the center of County Comptroller Wayne Duncan's office. Even better, maybe they'll just seize my family business and let Wal-Mart open up a mega center there. You know, the kind where you can buy a pie, tires, a cat, and family pictures all in one trip. I wonder if Chet in the photolab can adequately capture the gravitas of my sorrow over the loss of 120 years of family tradition using only a stock 35mm camera and the "Arizona Sunset" backdrop? That bubble of spittle in the corner of his mouth tells me he graduated high school photography with at least a C, so I'm guessing "yes." Oh wow, I never knew dusk in Arizona looked like a bunch of vague dark red clouds. You're a miracle worker Chet. I think in this third one here you can actually see my spirit unfurl like a burned flag. No, no Chet, I mean that figuratively. Of course, what kind of maniac would dare touch fire to God's Flag? Can I get that one in an 8 ½ by 11? Three for a dollar, you say? Well hell, just set the envelope on top of the pie. My favorite book of the Bible is Deuteronomy. That thing is a way more violent version of "Birth of a Nation." Half of Chapter 2 is about how subhuman slaves need to respect their masters, which is awesome since whole books of the Bible are about how slaves have to murder their Egyptian masters. Throughout the other half of Chapter 2 and most of Chapter 3 of Deuteronomy God sends the Israelites out and they go from town to town killing every man, woman, and child. That's a seriously hard ass religion of peace. If you read some of the other stuff it's crazy too. The Bible is just madcap. I absolutely love the part where the angels come down to Lot and the crazed homosexuals start banging on the door because they want to have sex with the angels. But Lot loves God so he is like "here rape my daughters instead." Way to go dad. How can people take this shit seriously? Maybe I'm being too hard on them. It's a big book and it is a staggering work of bad writing and sloppy narrative. It's like if you took all of Steven King's books and jammed them into one mega volume and then scrambled up the sentence structures. Then you'd also have to add a bunch of anachronistic language and phrasing to give you mad street cred for when you are about to shoot a criminal and you want to say something dramatic and awesome like "woe betide he who maketh me mad for I am vengeance" or something like that. Yeah man, that Randal Flagg guy was in all of his books all along and he planned it from the start. He fights Jesus and then some dragons come down and a virus kills everybody and don't forget if you marry a girl and she's not a virgin you get to have your car eat her. Then 144,000 chosen faithful can fly alien lawnmowers to heaven while Satan and his Langoliers destroy divergent time. Good job for living Donnie Darko. Fucking garbage. I'm sorry, I can't take Darwin seriously anymore either, but I blame that one on "SeaQuest DSV." Roy Scheider could kill Jaws like five times but he couldn't come up with a computer that didn't make his dolphin sound like a muppet? If I were a dolphin I would be pissed. I would swim as fast as possible and ram my nose into some six pack rings or tuna nets just to prove a point. Enjoy your not-dolphin-safe tuna, Blue Thunder. Great news for those of you who are reading this who also happen to be soullessly evil: De Beers has opened its first retail outlet in the United States. In case you aren't up to speed on who De Beers is, they are a diamond cartel that has a virtual monopoly on the natural diamond market, controls diamond prices, and uses slave labor and deals with regional warlords to extract diamonds from Africa. They make Halliburton or Enron look like Hug Time at the Cupcake Parade. Dim bulb luminary Lindsay Lohan was in attendance for the New York store's grand opening to show off how she ruined her scrumptious figure by becoming a titless stick girl composed of sinew and gristle. She probably got a free tennis bracelet that still had part of a 9-year-old African boy's foot attached to it. When asked what she thought of the protestors Lohan's neck-cords strained at their emaciated moorings and she rasped out ""I don't get involved in any drama." Oh really, Lindsay Lohan? Is that why you're practically attached at the syphilitic uterus to Paris Hilton? She's a real safe harbor in the uncertain seas of drama. Teri Hatcher was there too. I remember having a huge dork boner for her back when she was on that Superman show with "Dragon Fighter's" Dean Cain. Then I saw "Heaven's Prisoners" where she steps out onto a New Orleans balcony topless and her breasts looked like ziplocks full of custard stapled to a sawhorse. Call me shallow, but I haven't been tempted to jack off to a Radio Shack commercial ever since. Her banter with "Firestorm's" Howie Long in those commercials had me reaching for the nearest receptacle capable of holding half of a regurgitated pizza. A little tip for the wise if you're ever in a similar situation: it's pretty much impossible to projectile vomit into a 20 ounce soda bottle cleanly. Maybe some sort of vomit specialist could pull it off, but I skipped that class at the Al Qaeda training camp. Battlefield 2 is an enormous improvement over Battlefield: 1942. By removing three digits from the title they have streamlined gameplay, added a strategic element, and incorporated some intense new improvements like the ability to drive a tank out into the ocean and shoot at rubber rafts. The best part about Battlefield 2 is sometimes when you jump out of a buggy or a rubber raft it will be going like half a mile an hour still and right as you jump out it will lightly touch you and you'll scream and fall over dead. It could be lazy programming or maybe, just maybe, they have finally incorporated all of the demands for poison covered vehicles from people on their forums. In Battlefield 2 all of America's potential Middle Eastern enemies have been transformed into the Middle Eastern Coalition or MEC. As was the case in the terrible game Act of War, the idea of asymmetrical warfare just isn't fun so bad guys have to be reorganized into a complimentary and fairly balanced force so that we can fight them. But hey, I'm sure all of the insurgents in Iraq have parachutes in case they need to jump off of a building to race to their SU-34 attack jet. When is Donald Rumsfeld going to provide the armor needed to protect our military's Hummers from wire-guided Ataka anti-tank missiles launched from hovering Mi-28 Havok attack helicopters? Never! Fucking Halliburton! By the way, did I mention that I hate Tom Fucking DeLay? He's a pretty giant cunt. I went to the Ohio Caverns as a kid and that's the kind of cunt Tom DeLay is. The kind of cunt full of stalactites and geodes that get folksy nicknames from the tour guide like "Old Man's Moonshine" and "The Cat's Eye." 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