Describe ChrisTakemura here.
Fine. Describe something else, then. Possibly in an IF sort of way.
You see here a desk. It is strewn with papers in varying stages of illegibility. Some of them are autographed by personalities whose names you would probably recognize if you could be arsed. Most of them are not. The sound of several fans comes from the underpopulated EIA rack to your right.
There is a ruler here.
There is a cup of coke (half-full).
There is a magic 8-ball here.
Use magic 8-ball
(Picking up the 8-ball.)
You shake the 8-ball vigorously, muttering your question in its general direction. Turning it over, you read the words "ACT NOW."
(Your score just went up 5 points.)
Bad move. That stuff's been there for at least two weeks.
The room swirls around you. You feel woozy. You sit down.
You'll have to get up first.
Difficult, but you manage it. Eight turns in, and you still haven't got out of the opening room. Good work, Action Jackson.
You notice exits to the east and north.
You bump straight into ChrisTakemura, a man so consumed by the past that he still calls Kemper Hall EU II. What sauce!
Look at Chris
Waitaminute. . . You're trying to trick me into describing him, aren't you? It won't work. (Footnote 1)
Read Footnote 1
Chris is here solely to block the door. Pay no attention. Move along, move along.
IrenePark, describe ChrisTakemura.
Curses! Foiled again. All right, here. . .
Willing guinea pig for untested recipes. Devourer of Coca-Cola like no other. Handy compact-size for leaving in small walk-in closets and for scurrying into large convention centers. Hair should be more spikey.
You emerge into what was, at some point, a sunlit garden. Unfortunately the Visigoths have taken over, and unleashed their trademark brand of fire and mayhem. One day it may again be fit for description. Not today.
The area is strewn with (thankfully sealed) bags of rabbit dung, imported from the Napa Valley for god-only-knows what purpose. Probably has something to do with fertilizer. Or explosives.
There is an axe here.
You don't want to get anywhere near that stuff.
It's rusty and dull. Also, bright red. Makes a good bludgeon.
As you pronounce the magic word, you find yourself back in ChrisTakemura's room. One step forward, two steps back, eh?
There is a ruler here. ChrisTakemura is here, looking irritated.
A magic 8-ball (0:5)
kill chris with axe
I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't let you do that.
East. South. West
Front of House
The midafternoon sun hurts your eyes. You go back inside with a spring in your step.
The entryway is, predictably enough, strewn with trash. To the left and right are piles of garbage. Oddly enough, all the garbage in this area looks recyclable, implying that some madman deliberately piled it here. You shudder.
There is some junk mail here.
Eat junk mail.
You pick up a letter, tear it into bite-sized pieces, and devour them contemptuously. They are neither tasty nor nutritious.
The pile of junk mail appears undiminished.
Read junk mail.
Nosy, nosy. That's not very nice.
Time passes. . .
Several hours later, you come to realize that there is more garbage in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy. You despair. On the plus side, you have found a screwdriver and put it in your pocket.
(Your score just went up 1 point.)
The screwdriver tears a hole in your pocket and falls out.
Take junk mail
You scoop up a sheaf.
Wad junk mail
Stick wad on end of screwdriver
(Your score just went up 4 points.)
You hear the voice of StevenDaubert outside. It sounds like he's chiding ChrisTakemura about something.
Front of House
(Didn't you learn your lesson about the horrible burning sun last time you tried this? Obviously not.)
Shading your eyes, you cautiously emerge from the house. After a moment, you decide that the outside world, despite being made entirely of dirt, is a welcome improvement over the cave from which you've just escaped. You let out a breath you hadn't even realized you were holding.
(Your score just went up 10 points. Persistence pays off.)
StevenDaubert is here. He stands with his arms crossed and gives you a significant look.
"Tell Chris to update his wiki page," he says.
tell StevenDaubert that that sounds like a good idea
StevenDaubert appears unmollified.
East. North. West
ChrisTakemura is sitting at his computer, browsing LiveJournal. As you enter, he turns in his chair and looks vaguely sheepish.
"I only read it for the articles," he says.
tell Chris to update his wiki page
Chris chuckles at the suggestion.
tell Chris to updated the MU page about PIU"
/me informs Chris that, because of years of MUDing, CAL-maining, and MMOLRPGing, he now has chronic repetitive strain injury and has to type using voice recognition software." —ZN