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Back when I was a kid, I remember Adobe Flash being the epitome of online flash games. Y'know, the main reason my gaming childhood years were preserved because those are the only games I would usually play right before I started to shift to the real deal of online gaming. However, there was one game that I myself would say it was my worst experience yet. The events were stained inside my head but I couldn't remember the name of it. I think it was named "FreeRPG" or "Freedom", I just couldn't remember. Anyway, here's a recollection of events of what happened back then.
It was the year 2010. I was a child back then and had a hobby of playing online flash games. Usually kids my age would play Pokémon or The Legend of Zelda or Super Smash Bros. but not me. I was attuned to playing online games before. The usually famous flash games -- Stick War, Age of War, Crush the Castle, among others -- the gameplay wasn't too complicated and never needed anything other than a mouse and nothing else. It was fun and all, until there was something that caught my attention.
My cousin who also played flash games before told me that there is a flash game that is said to be different than the other flash games; that it's a RPG with 3D graphics. Not the really high-end 3D graphics but just right. He says that it was called Freedom or something, but that's what he said because he couldn't remember anything beyond that. Being a kid before, I was plain curious of all things gaming inside the internet and that's one thing that keeps us in common. However, he warned me that I shouldn't be playing the game with a cheat code. I mean, why would I play games with a cheat code? I dismissed what he says, too much annoyance.
When I completed Stick War on Easy difficulty (forgive me though, I was a total noob back then) I began to Google it and there lies the game in front of my eyes: Freedom. It was a downloadable flash game and since I must assume that it's safe with no viruses, I began to download and play it on the computer. Little did I know that the very innocuous game would become something that would stain my brain, and boy was I wrong about it.
The game starts with picking any of the five classes that the game offers. You can become a swordsman (melee), wizard (magic), hunter (ranged), pack master (summoner) and the fifth character class that can't seem to be picked, being grayed out and unable to be selected, leaving you with four playable classes. Of course, being a close combat enthusiast, I picked the melee class.
The premise of the game is somewhat straight-out great: a civil war broke out in a kingdom and the military force took place and ousted the king, eventually taking control of the entire kingdom, turning it into a war-torn civilization of people fighting each other for power. The player character, one of the five warriors who will fight against the tyrannical civilization, pits you against hordes of mooks, usually from cheap-ass expendable minions to the regular military composed of knights and cavalry to the elite guards of the castle under the control of the newly-proclaimed "tyrant king".
The first part of the game is easy and I find it fun, usually a combination of RPG and some hack-and-slash elements, mowing through mooks I find. Occasionally I find a rare sword from dead mooks or a better piece of armor.
As I approached the swampy moor, I noticed a shady NPC standing and staring at the mucky water that's surrounding the moor. It's a male character, wears a brown clothing with a hood of some sort covering his head and is usually heard muttering to himself. I tried talking to him, but the conversation seems to be off, with some letters missing. Here's an example of one of his conversations, which normally it was written like this:
"Hey, do you want some Fae juice? It's cheap, kid!"
When I came back to farm for experience, I spoke to him again. His speech is now different, it was written with a broken sentence and missing some letters:
"H y, o yo w t so e Fa j u ce ? I ' c ea p, k id "
I was thinking it was a glitch or not, or maybe his line is intentionally written in that way, but it really gives me the creeps. I was about to leave the swamp when the shady NPC disappeared. I dismissed it, thinking that he's just a random bystander.
The gameplay starts to become stale, the game sending me some useless and weak mooks for me to fight. I saved the game before my first ever boss. Surprisingly the boss isn't too much of a challenge.
I was on the town hall to stash my loot and when I was about to save my progress for the night, I notice the same shady NPC lurking outside the village perimeter. The NPC was looking at my character with evil intent, his eyes glowing red in the dark. I wonder he's a spy for the enemy faction?
I saved and closed the game out of fear. I slept early for tomorrow's gaming session, hoping that everything will be fine.
But it was not.
submitted by Y_U_NoHax to homeofscares

Welcome to Taos.

Welcome to Taos.
I never told this one before. I wanted to. Even had the chance. Several chances in fact, but I squandered every opportunity with tirades about Diet Dr. Pepper being the elixir of life and jokes about a second-floor studio apartment in that white washed adobe building across from the jail. The one that smelled like hot metal. It’s where the combination of dope sickness and depression and the absurd antics and voices of the Jersey Shore cast were burned forever into my mind and emotions, permanently etched into my consciousness in the dark winter mornings of late 2010. The damage is permanent.
It’s where I lived off of giant chocolate bars and toffee that I stole from Smiths and handfuls of non-pitted dates from Albertson’s. It’s where I used to see that red head who liked to smoke her dope and tell me she was on her way over to see me hours before she even got out of bed. It’s where I used to sleep in the sleeping bag my grandmother sent me before she died and I scribbled in that notebook with all the stupid titles for books.
I’m sure you remember the bag and the notebook, but now that I think about it, I don’t know if I ever told you that about the apartment or that it smelled like hot metal. Anyway, now you know. It smelled like hot metal, and it was miserable.
And it’s as good a place as any to start with the misfortunate series of events and people and places that led to a thing which has eaten at me for years—a burden I’ve borne and of which I must divest myself—the death of a woman we called Miss Ninny. It’s a good place to start, because the first time I knew about the apartment or realized it existed, was when my two friends, a couple named Wendy and Bo, were living there.
They were fat and approaching thirty and as shabby a pair of human beings as I’ve ever seen in my life. Also, they dealt for Diablo, perhaps the most feared name in all of Taos’s criminal kingdom. Mostly heroin is what they had. But sometimes this other guy named Brent would be over there, too, and he always had other stuff which he sold for Smokey and Destiny—Diablo’s rivals and competition.
So, one extremely cold and extremely desperate morning I made my way over to the apartment, there. Inside, Wendy and Bo lay on the bed. She read some super market paperback called Geisha or something. Maybe it was called Shogun. I don’t remember, but I do remember that Bo crossed his bare feet and interlocked his fingers over his stomach and tried to catch his nod on the mattress with his head on the pillow. Brent sat on the chair intently typing on a laptop he had between handling his tin foil leaf, and nobody there was doing any favors. It was cash or nothing, so I begged Brent.
“Yo, please, dude. Let me use your phone. I swear, I’ll get money if you let me call my dad. I swear.”
Brent was from somewhere in the southeastern United States. Had a shaved head and bug eyes. Was short and skinny, and unlike any of the rest of us, he was not actually an addict as far as I could tell. He got high, but his thing was making money. If partying would cut into his profits too much, then he wouldn’t smoke that night. Bo and Wendy or myself or pretty much anyone else I knew and hung out with could never pull that off. Brent had the stuff, so I was nice to him, subservient and all that. I thought I liked him, but looking back, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.
Anyway, I asked him for his phone, and he looked at me sideways and gave me way too hard of a time about using it. Once he relented, I sat on the cold metal stairs outside to call my dad and made up some story about how I was going to get killed if I didn’t pay my debt to one of the local dealers. At first, he sounded sympathetic, but as the conversation went on and I got more desperate, he changed his mind. Told me it was my fault. And I’d have to pay for it myself, somehow—however I could—and he didn’t care, anymore.
Now, Bo and Wendy were from Atlantic City. And she’d come out there about a year before he did, if I have my facts straight. She had this thing about her hair. She liked to grow it out. After a while, she’d dread it, then dye and decorate those dreads with tinsel and twine and anything else she could find like deflated balloons and cheap jewelry and even the bones of dead birds or squirrels. Things like that. Then, she’d cut them off. That wasn’t the end of it, though. She’d keep the mess of hair, like the murdered, matted pelt of some filthy animal and hang it on a wall or wherever.
Sometimes, she kept it in her purse. Or dangled it on strings from ceilings and took pictures of it. Eventually, she would work the old dead hair back into her own and wear that nasty thing. The oldest hair in the mess was years old, from way before we knew her. Maybe eight years old. Probably older. But I didn’t know. Whenever I looked at it, though, I thought that maybe she inadvertently kept all her bad luck in it like some foul and scraggly talisman she clung to and with which she maintained the curse upon her life.
But the girl, Wendy, was nice enough. One time—long before Brent ever came to town or they lived in that apartment or sold anything for anyone in Taos—she kicked heroin in the still hot days of early fall and had just cut her hair off and stood on the corner of Paseo and Quesnel there and asked me for a cigarette. We talked. She came to live with me. I was staying out in the sagebrush in an old office building out towards Arroyo Seco, then.
In my bedroom, she read me her poetry, and I read her mine. Wendy’s face winced at what I read. It was no good. Along with all of my ideas for books back then, I had dreams of being a poet. It took me years to realize that I hated poetry, but after all of that, she told me how she’d come out to New Mexico for the Rainbow gathering the summer before and got stuck. Made phone calls to her man back in New Jersey. And told me he was coming soon.
He did, too, with his Bullwinkle nose and greasy rings of hair on the back of his neck and that grimy hipster hat. I let them stay on the mattress in my living room. Bo and I got to know each other, then. He was a technician for Direct TV and installed the dishes at people’s houses before he came to Taos. The two of them had been together, on and off, for over ten years. I got a lot of information from him about how I could manipulate the situation with my landlord back to stay longer. I thanked him but wanted to avoid the drama. It was time for me to go. I knew that. I’d come to peace with it.
But he was super soft spoken and all that, and once I got kicked out of my place out by Seco, they got a few different spots. None of them worked out. One with Brent on Gusdorf. They got kicked out for being dope dealers and all the unsavory characters and traffic making a path through the sagebrush lot on the side of that place.
Then they moved into the white studio apartment, the one that smelled like hot metal, though when they were there, it smelled like sweaty socks, too. Wendy was always sitting up on their mattress on the floor in the corner and would religiously devour stolen books, and he’d ignore his phone or have panic attacks. People called him all day long for bags. The guy told me once,
“I took a ten-minute shower. I don’t know, maybe less than ten minutes. When I got out, there were, no lie, no exaggeration, 64 texts and over 20 missed phone calls.”
I had my first bout of cotton fever there. Didn’t know what it was, really, but miserable and sweaty and sleepless on a pile of their clothes on the floor. And soon, they got kicked out of there, too. For all the same reasons. Me and the rest of Taos’s junkies in and out all day. Filthy conditions inside. Obvious drug use. Etcetera. And they went to live with Miss Ninny and her daughter and her snake eyed, live in boyfriend named Harold on the south side of town.
It’s something I’ve thought about for years. So once Beth and I make it all the way through Utah and Colorado and down through northeastern New Mexico and Tres Piedras, we turn right at the light and move down past El Prado and the Pueblo and get to where the new Jail is, across from Super Save. I point to the apartment. It’s apparently unchanged, one of the physical artifacts from that time, from that life, that prove to me it wasn’t all just a dream.
I try to tell her about it. Explain to her what life was like living there. Who Bo was. How he was so nice and also how he is dead. And I talk about Wendy for a minute, before Beth yawns and asks me,
“Are we sleeping in the van tonight?”
“Nah.”
Now, it should be stated that she and I have some money. My father had inherited a lump sum of over 50,000 dollars from my grandmother and left me 47 grand when he passed. Much of it is gone, but there’s still plenty. Beth collects SSI for some supposed disability of which she never speaks. So, we head drive back up to the Kachina Lodge. Get a room for the night and ask her,
“I’m gonna go walk around. Maybe get something to eat. You want to come?”
“No. I think we’re going to stay here. Rest up and watch some TV or something.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I grab the notebook and a pen. And walk through the parking lot. See the Allsup’s there at the bend in the road. Pass Michael’s Kitchen and Kit Carson Park to my left. The cars pass. Tires kick gravel at me. Wind slings sand at my face like it used to.
While I was away, living in Olympia, it was like I thought if I was not here, then Taos didn’t exist or something. Through some previously unarticulated and self-important notion I deemed my own experience of the place, my own perception of it imperative to its existence, to its life, but upon my arrival, it is clear that it has gone on without me. Years have passed here without me. Some shops no longer exist. Many are the same, and the owner of a small jewelry store is sweeping the sidewalk outside of his place as I move closer to the plaza. We acknowledge one another with a nod. I walk on.
And soon I am sitting on one of the benches in the plaza there and smoke a cigarette, and I’m digging this brown piece of cardboard out of the trashcan next to me, so that I can begin to use this felt tipped pen to scrawl a few strange verses of a somewhat exaggerated and imagined desperation.
This is what I put down:
I’VE BEEN THINKING LATELY.
AND.
MY FATHER’S WIFE CHANGED THE FABRIC SOFTENER.
25 YEARS AGO, BACK WHEN SHE WAS STILL THE MAID.
AND.
IT’S AN OUTSIDE CHANCE.
BUT.
MAYBE MY CRIPPLING DEPRESSION.
AND DRUG ADDICTION HAS JUST BEEN AN ALLERGY.
TO SOME CHEMICAL IMPURITY IN THE FORMULA.
MAYBE IF I CHANGE BRANDS.
I DON’T HAVE TO DIE.
MAYBE.
BUT.
PROBABLY NOT.
My father never had another wife. We certainly never had a maid. It’s fictional nonsense, but the short poem seems sufficiently dark and cryptic and creepy. I like it. It could be better, but something about using all capital letters and the one-word lines and incomplete sentences with periods gratifies me in a way that is hard to explain. So, I won’t try. All you need to know is that I like it well enough. Originally, the thought was to make it a long letter with details about how the fabric softener was made in Mongolia and that kind of thing, but I decided the free verse poem was better.
Anyway, a few moments pass, and now I stare at the restaurant called The Gorge. It’s where Ogelvie’s used to be. I put the notebook in my lap and pen to paper. My thoughts are to write a story about something and for a moment, I drift away into my own mind, looking off into the haze behind the mountains as the days end draws near. I come up with this story about a young quiet couple living on a homestead in rural Montana, and they have their first kid, but he doesn’t develop right. So, the mother takes him into town to see the doctor, only to find out that the child is not a child at all, but a potato. Her heart is broken, and the plot is centered around her inner turmoil as she struggles with whether or not to tell her husband about what the doctor said or to let him live on in his miserable ignorance, but I don’t get any of it out onto the paper.
Instead, a small depression falls on me. My return to Taos is not what I thought it would be. It’s like an uncomfortable and unexpected encounter with a girl you used to like, who used to like you. One you used to know. She might look the same in ways, but still so much has changed. Her speech is different. The girl goes on and on about different things and people and music. Wears a different smile and new clothes. Smokes a different brand of cigarettes.
She doesn’t know you.
You don’t know her.
Not anymore.
And that’s how it is with Taos. Her beauty—I determine—isn’t much unless you know her, are grafted into her through the struggle that is living here. You can come in and visit from out of town or buy a belt made out of leather and silver and turquoise or a bolo tie. You can buy a kachina doll or pottery decorated with graven zia symbols. You can even buy a beautiful piece of property in Hondo or Seco bordered by a latilla fence and a mud house with a roof held up by giant vegas, but you can’t buy the experience of living in Taos like I have, to wake up in the bushes next to Autozone or sleep in the Killing Fields behind McDonald’s and have to steal your breakfast from Albertson’s, to be hated by the angry lesbians at the local coffee shops which ironically capitalize on postcards espousing sentiments of socialistic violence, to know the kid in the newspaper who just got a 12 year sentence for manslaughter after stabbing your other friend’s little brother at a party and killing him, to have been to jail there or to make money putting up metal lath on adobe or cleaning the acequias in spring for a guy whose last name is Archuleta. You can’t just show up and have it. It takes time. It takes suffering through a winter and borrowed rides or significant walking to truly understand Taos, and so I walk back to the hotel.
Beth is sleeping with the kid in one bed. I take my shirt off. Fall back onto the other bed. Slide onto the floor. Prostrate myself as if to invoke, somehow, the magic in the land. Inviting it in to my life, that I might know it once again. I breathe and wait for it in the dark.
submitted by ASavageLost to taos

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