In the early days of computing, before Graphical User Interfaces were commonplace, nerds still needed games to play on their primitive computers. Thus the text based interactive fiction game was born. While the Zork series wasn’t the very first instance of such a game, it was unquestionably the first success in interactive fiction, and phrases like “It is pitch black. You are likely to be eaten by a grue.” remain popular throughout the internet to this day. If you are curious, you can play the original game here:
PLAY ZORK I: The Great Underground Empire
Anyway, in the nostalgic spirit of such games, I now pit my friends, via G-chat, against an interactive fiction AI played by, none other than, myself. For our third installment, we have Brian trying his luck. Brian is a fellow metal head, a former member of my old band Vomit Infestation, an excellent guitar player, and a prolific poster of ice burns in the comment section of this blog. And, despite some pretty ferocious arguments on how lame the band Manowar actually is, he also happens to be the only person from my high school with whom I still maintain contact. How long will he survive before being devoured by a Grue? Read on to find out!
RE-ZORK VI: Brian VS The Manowarrior
Copyright (c) 1981 WiBiL, Inc. All rights reserved.
Re-Zork is a registered trademark of WiBiL, Inc.
Revision 886 / Serial number 840726
Hall of Metal
You stand in the middle of a great hall. The walls, floor, ceiling, and 90% of the spike-encrusted fixtures have been painted in various shades of black. All about you are the sounds of virile revelry and merriment as well-muscled and well-oiled men consume great quantities of meat and mead. Upon the west wall is an entire boys’ choir, singing of deeds great and bold. Along the east end of the hall is an impressive looking weight room though, aside from a few dumbbells for curls, it otherwise seems to consist entirely of bench press stations. At the front of the room, upon a great dais, sit four metal warriors, looking magnificent in their skimpy furs and exotic oils. Behind you is a door marked “EXIT: Wimps, Poseurs.” There do not appear to be any other ways to leave this hall.
There is an exit to the South.
It is definitely not bogus. Or, more accurately, it is not bogus depending on your comfort level with BO and homoerotic displays of homophobia.
You look down and see that you hold a mighty drinking horn in either hand. The men of this most metal of all places call this “double fisting.” You pound one down and then the other. Holy FUCK that is sweet! You think to yourself that if mead didn’t have such a manly reputation, it could pretty easily be considered a “girl drink.” Of course it is best to keep such thoughts to yourself in a place such as this.
You notice that your mead horns have both been magically filled to the top again! Truly, in this place, there is magic in the metal as well as magic in your mead horns.
>LOOK FOR EXCELLENT BABES
You look around the Metal Hall hoping to find some excellent babes among the sea of back hair and flatulence before you. However, aside from more than a few false positives from among your fellow mead quaffers, there seems to be nary a female in sight, babe or otherwise. This was NOT what you had been led to believe this place would be like, demographically speaking, based on the album covers in your music collection.
>FIND PLACE TO DOCK THESE RIDICULOUSLY INCONVENIENT DRINKING HORNS
You quickly realize that drinking horns, while badass, are not easily sat upon a table. You gingerly take a sip of the cloyingly sweet mead (which is instantly refilled) and play it cool while you try to figure out a way around this problem.
>GIVE DRINKING HORNS TO BOYS IN CHOIR
Are you sure? These kids look so young that they probably haven’t even learned the riddle of steel, let alone how to handle a MAN’s drinking horn.
>SMASH DRINKING HORNS AGAINST WALL IN FRUSTRATION
Without even checking to see if perhaps multiple children could have held each drinking horn, you give up and throw your magical drinking horns against the wall in a fit of hasty rage.
They bounce off unharmed. Though, in the process, you must have damaged their magical refill mechanism, because they quickly begin to spin and rocket all over the Hall of Metal frantically overcompensating for spillage. One of your horns narrowly misses the perfectly coiffed hair of one of the Metal Warriors at the head of the Hall as it buzzes past, spraying mead everywhere.
The men on the floor carefully set their mead horns into the mead horn holders next to their seats and then dive for cover at each flyover of your runaway mead horns. Meanwhile, the Metal Warriors have risen from their spiked thrones upon the dais and are attempting to locate the cause of this disturbance in their sacred Hall of Metal.
>START MOSH PIT
Apparently quite a few wimps and poseurs have infiltrated the Hall of Meta–as no self-respecting metalhead would pass up the chance to start a mosh pit during a mead shower! The boys’ choir slams into a totally sick breakdown as you charge into the center of the room, sending tables, metalheads, and mead horns flying. Now THIS is more like it!!
Unfortunately, while knocking men down is pretty awesome and all, your two mead horns are REALLY pumping out a lot of mead. You notice, with mild alarm, that a sticky mead slick now seems to cover most of the floor.
>STORM THE DAIS
Drowning in mead, while one of the more badass deaths possible, is not the way you are going out. Not today at least! You charge forward towards higher ground, sending mead-covered metalheads sprawling as you dodge your way past your two flying mead horns that are continuing to vomit forth unthinkable quantities of mead all around you like foot-long airsick hornets.
The Metal Warriors see you coming and converge at the center of the dais. There, they begin a complex ritual of grunting and arm grasping.
>THROW THE FUCKING HORNS
You jump upon the last upright table, mere feet from the dais, crouch down low and to the right, arm loaded, just like Dio taught you, and then with a mighty metal yell, you throw up the sign of the Devil right in the face of the Metal Warriors.
They seem too busy with their complex arm grasping ritual to notice. At this point they are in a tangled ball of arms, legs, loin cloths, drum sticks, guitars, and microphones, all writhing together on the dais. You stand transfixed, trying to figure out what they are doing, fucking horns still held proudly aloft in the air. Or, at least they were help proudly aloft in the air until one of your drinking horns, moving as fast as a laser bullet, speared the back of your hand point first, firmly embedding itself in your flesh and causing your arm to windmill about uncontrollably in front of a powerful stream of mead. That may leave a mark.
Behind you, over the cacophony of frightened wimps and poseurs, you hear the gurgles and chokes of the boys’ choir, screaming for help, as they flounder in the now neck deep mead. Apparently, (along with the previously established omissions of “the riddle of steel,” and “how to double fist”) “how to swim” was also not on the boys’ choir’s list of “things learned by this point in their lives.”
>GO ALL PETE TOWNSHEND WITH GUITAR
You snag a guitar from one of the wimps and/or poseurs that is swimming past your shins where you stand on your table, pushing the choked screams of the boys’ choir into that shameful dark place in the depths of your soul. Before you can fasten the neck strap (no easy feat with one hand impaled upon an out of control magical flying drinking horn), you hear from the dais in front of you: “Manowarrior Force Assemble!”
The mass of bodies slowly rises up. Now you can clearly see they have indeed formed the massive Manowarrior, a mythical beast made entirely from the band Manowar. It stands upon the swollen calves of drummer Scott Columbus. Its left hand wields a buzz saw constructed from the pure essence of sweet riffs supplied by a frantically strumming Ross the Boss, while its right hand holds Joey Demaio’s mighty Thunderpick aloft, ready to play the bass solo that will end the universe. And atop its mighty shoulders is the head of Eric Adams, a head that vibrates with all the potential aural energy of a soprano big bang. Truly this beast may take more than a perfectly executed windmill solo to defeat. Still, it’s a start, so you snap that guitar into place and start windmilling the shit out it.
>JAM TOTALLY METAL GUITAR HEADSTOCK INTO MANOWARRIOR’S SWOLE RIGHT CALF
This windmilling, while badass, will simply not be enough to stop the Manowarrior! Thus, you charge through the mead that is now flowing across the table, plant your combat boot into the middle of a pile of floating children’s corpses, and spring into the air, guitar held headstock first in front of you while your magical mead horn impaled hand (that is still throwing the horns) spins over your head like the most metal propeller of all time.
The guitar you snagged is a BC Rich “Beastmaster” prototype, and as such, its headstock probably has even more pointy protuberances than the Manowarrior’s disease ridden cock. It sinks into the Manowarrior’s leg up to the 69th fret, releasing a great gout of black blood and retarded sexuality in the process. The Manowarrior howls a high falsetto howl of rage and brings its buzz saw crashing down on your right arm, severing the limb from your body and causing the arm to fly away, still impaled upon the drinking horn.
Looking up through a cloud of pain and metal thrashing madness, you see that the Thunderpick has begun to crackle with black energy.
This is looking bad.
Your right arm, which, you quickly realize, also includes your fingers, is currently missing. Would you like to go stumpstyle instead?
>VIOLENTLY GRAB FUR CODPIECE
You are right, sweet guitar shredding will only get you so far, sometimes you just have grab a handful of cock and see what happens! The Manowarrior’s ample crotch towers 15 feet above your head, but you are able to clamber up a pile of boys’ choir corpses that have washed up onto the dais and, with a great leap, you sink your last remaining arm deep into the fragrant recesses of the Manowarrior’s befurred codpiece.
As you hit pay dirt, fingers digging through layers of crotch cheese, you realize that the Manowarrior is rock hard, his battle scarred cock throbbing in unison with the pulsing black energy surrounding the Thunderpick.
>GIVE THAT WARRIOR THE RELEASE HE DESERVES
This cock is far too big to finish off with two hands, let alone one, but by scissoring his balls with your thighs you are able to slide up and down the shaft in an improvised one-armed hug-stroke that should get the job done. To help speed the process up, you begin to chant an invocation of ejaculation you learned from an ancient monk during your studies of the forbidden metal arts in the Himalayas:
Deadly as the viper,
Peering from its coil,
The poison there is coming to the boil!
Ticking like a time bomb,
The fuse is running short,
On the verge of snapping if it’s caught…
This is powerful magic directed at a magically ensorcelled slab of Manowarrior man-meat…are you sure you want to “finish” this incantation? The Manowarrior does at least seem to be momentarily distracted as a low keening sound begins to build from the back of its throat.
>INVOKE THE JAWBREAKER!
This Manowarrior is going to take a lot more than a one handed rub and tug to vanquish; this situation calls for some outside help! You hold on tight to the shaft, shut your mind to the increasingly frenzied moaning coming from the Manowarrior, and finish your spell
And all the pressure that’s been building up,
For all the years it bore the load,
The cracks appear, the frame starts to distort,
Ready to explode…
As you hold the final falsetto word, a great black portal appears behind you. And from its midst, rising from darkness where Hell hath no mercy and the screams for vengeance echo on forever, is the Metallian, Master of all Metal!! Its tank treads shake the entire hall while its Gatling guns lay waste to both wimps and poseurs alike as it thunders towards the dais. With one swipe of its tiger claw, the Manowarrior’s cock is ripped from its body, severing the sacred bond between cock and Thunderpick, and causing the Manowarrior to collapse into a pile of cock-less Metal Warriors, beaten by a true Defender of the Faith. Ram horns crackling with electricity, the Metallian roars one last challenge through his chrome fangs to all those who fail to keep the faith and then disappears in a blinding thunderbolt that casts the hall into a silence punctuated only by the sound of falling mead and your ever present tinnitus.
You stand, soaked in mead, blood, crotch cheese, and the musk of victory. Unfortunately, even from your high ground position on the dais, the rapidly rising mead is now up to your neck. As they say, out of the Manowarrior’s crotch, and into the Mead Sea.
You begin to one arm paddle out into the Mead Sea to get the Thunderpick where it floats. At the end of the Hall you see the last surviving wimps and poseurs swimming for the only exit. At this point the mead is about 3 feet from the ceiling…
>SYNC THUNDERPICK TO COCK, EXPLODE THROUGH CEILING
You ignore the last remaining wimps and poseurs who are now diving for the door at the south end of the hall–that door is not for you!
Reaching out, you grab the Thunderpick from the mead, ceiling now inches above your head. Focusing intently, you manage a slight tingling sensation in your balls that makes the Thunderpick flicker with a faint aura of black energy. You shut your eyes and focus all your energy on your flaccid cock as the mead finally reaches the ceiling. Looking down through the cloudy mead you see you still barely even have half a chub…you are at 7:00, MAYBE 8:00 tops. It must have been all the excitement, because this has surely never happened to you before! Or maybe it is the fact that you just got your arm ripped off and are currently suffering from severe blood loss, either way–this cock syncing is going to take way too long! Frantically, you jam the Thunderpick halfway down your urethra, hoping to speed the process.
It seems to be working! The power of a million exploding bass solos fills your peehole to the brim as you strain to contain dark energy that was never meant to be held within a single cock. Your balls swell to the size of watermelons while black veins envelop your entire groin.
As you brace yourself, ready to explode through the ceiling, the first wimp and/or poseur opens the south door. Unfortunately for you, and your not quite complete cock-synching, the entire Mead Sea and everything in it, you included, is sucked out of the door in a giant whirlpool–straight into the mouth of a colossal Grue! Such is the fate of all those who leave the Hall.
****You have died.****
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