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Pennsic War XXX (Cooper's Lake Campground, Slippery Rock PA) A scant week passed after the Murder Melee. A brutally ugly dose of Mundania threatened to kill Phase III in its embryonic stages. Phase III was not the only thing that nearly got killed. Embarrassing to admit....but yeah. This Celt got out-Ninja'ed. Monday, June 25th 2001 (4:15 am): While I slept, some sad-assed little sicko broke into my apartment through a living room window. This unwelcome guest attempted to do several things to my person that weren't just rude, they were downright illegal. Turns out he was a former coworker, with a few loose screws and a ridiculous personal grudge (a convoluted story, that does not bear repeating here.) He had apparently come to interrogate and/or choke some sort of weird confession out of me. Quite literally, in fact. At least, that was the first item on the agenda. Fortunately, any carnal or homicidal intentions (and believe me, he made no secret that that was where the evening was headed) got curtailed when I figured out who it was and challenged him by name. Eventually nervousness made him flee; I'm a classically trained singer with considerable lungpower, and had been demanding assistance from my neighbors in a pretty powerful scream. But not before he got in what damage he could: namely, strangling me repeatedly until my eyes actually began to hemorrhage. What I did to HIS eyes, I hope he remembers for a long fucking time. :/ Pathetic, dickless, spineless bugger, I wish I'd managed to tear them out altogether. Anyway, badly shaken mentally, bruised and bloodied physically, I barely escaped with life and virtue intact. As the police insistently hauled me off to safety, I was allowed time to pop off one email. In it, I cried out to my friends, family and house-brothers for support in a voice that circled the globe several times. (Looking back, that seems rather snivelly of me. But man, was I ever feeling alone at that moment.) Support mobilized FAST. As the voice of the [Mongol household which shall remain nameless] began howling for the miscreant's blood, they also extended great comfort to me. One of my brothers, in a gesture that touched me very deeply, saw fit to notify the Ealdormereans. My new friends in Canada were among the first who rushed in to offer condolences (and various places to hide a body, should the need arise. I got numerous discreet offers to make the guy disappear.) My brain cells were scattered for a good, long time; I barely had the wit to feed myself, let alone plan spectacular Pennsic mischief. Lest you think I'm that easily broken: for the record, at War I DID don the costume and buzzed the Rozakii encampment. Once. But a second time, Roak was totally oblivious. He had his back to me, making dinner; his only reaction was to holler at the Queen about the proper cooking time for pasta. I don't know how long I lurked behind that ger, before slinking away crestfallen. So if you haven't heard much from the Black-Ops Bard in subsequent years, that's why. Shame that such a jolly idea got cut down in its prime; but rest assured, those sneaking little tabi'd feet ARE still actively padding about. They're just very, very quiet. And their next destination may well be a Kingdom near you. |
