Lifiee's Memlog

At the behest of Eris, my beloved, I have been charged with writing a memlog, memory articles if you will, about my adventures as of late.

 I will be writing these memlogs in "high English" my native tongue, which the local persons call "Britlish" or "Inglingo" depending on whether or not they speak "Newlish" (a derivative of old American) or more commonly "Newspaña", a bastardised, barbaric creole of Newlish, and Texospaña. (Now thankfully, and thoroughly dead. Gone the way of "Québécoghettolingois" after the bloody war between the tyrannocratic gang state, New York, and Texas. Which despite the nuclear fallout did not change much at all. A desert full of inbred mutants it was, and to this day remains.) All things said, at least Newlish is more aesthetically pleasing than Hipsterspeak, where culturally everyone seems to want to speak before you do. Damn pseudo-hobos.

 Newlish is spoken at times in this local hold, Beacon. Where my adventures have lead me. Enough that I can get by.  Newspaña is unfortunately the local vernacular, which I only have a broken grasp of, especially the number system. I have such difficulty differentiating between "decadigits" and "unidigits". I hate doing jobs where numbers are asked for, especially with the inordinate lack of dictionaries in this bloody hold. I get by easily enough with those who still speak Newlish. Or even the really old fellows who can remember how to speak old American. Ah, but I digress. I suppose this is why Eris charged me to write articles, though she is patient, and a divine; her sweet mind would prefer that I direct my thoughts towards more media than her most excellent listening abilities.

 I wandered, as if by destiny, into Beacon a vague set of years ago. (I lost count of them, and my ageless body, sustained by the arcane mysteries of the Maelstrom, via my growing union with Eris, has given me nothing by which I can measure age, or life's seasons in passing.) And so it was that I established a small oracle service, and an augering tower to the north of Beacon's outskirts on the old, wind worn ridges of the cliffs which formerly caressed the sea, now dried up, and replaced with a vast new ecosystem of flora, and fauna which the locals call "the infinite forest". Or else, it would have been, had I, and a nameless, macabre experiment (whom I affectionately call "Mumbles") not gone off on a camping holiday one auspicious evening. Sufficed to say there was an alleged marshmallow-based mishap, according to the locals, and I became Lifiee the Treeburner. Despite this I was necessary for oracle work (psychics not connected to a cult being rare here) and so I was left to my own devices far beyond the outskirts of the tarp-walled hold. But at least Mumbles was able to fulfill his dream of camping. It was glorious fun though.

 It was yet another vague set of years later that I was given barters by a northerly hold's hold-lord, and his ambiguous operator (who was far too fluent in Newspaña I might add) to take number of the enemy combatants in the rival hold. To this very day I hope I translated the number right. Five, Fifteen, or Fifty...Bloody hell. Oh well! Hopefully this will not incur the wrath of some rogue, vendetta minded follower of the old hold-lord. That would be an odd problem... Til next time though, Memlog! I seem to have a client. Hugs, and kisses!

 -Log I, I. Lifiee.

Parker's First Note to the MC

To the Skygod:

Here's the deal, you fucking psycho. You'd better remember this message, 'cause we both know I won't.

I'm Parker. I'd say it's nice to meet you, but I'll save the bullshitting for the actual story, what's say? How's about I tell you why I'm gonna kill that Hocus bitch?

----------------------------------------------------

Well, there I was, in Doc's medshack, breathing in (against tender ribs) the pleasure of coming to in a spittle bed, yet again. It smelled just like hope: a frenetic mix of confusion, relief, and the inevitablity of a healthy paycheck. It's always good to be alive when you wake up.

So, yeah. Doc. Good guy, maybe even great. Lent me many a towel in times of need. This time, it might have even saved my life. That's two I owe him, now.

Anyway, he finished up whatever Angel voodoo he was working. I told him all that really mattered about what happened. Whore castle, jackass, capture... wasn't much. That fella don't ask too many questions.

I value that in a body.


What's more, he's clever. Said he'd pretty much figured it was something like that. Turns out the jackass in question had already been by, cock all aswoll and dripping. (Doc rammed a hot coat hanger up it, then charged him for it. Always liked his style.) After all that, that mad fucker, Proust came along, half-dragging my useless ass. And here it had sat, since. (Why the hell did I think I could pull this one off alone?)

Well, anyway, I figure that was the best news I'd had all day. Wouldn't even have to hunt him down to demand the goods. Excellent. Doc sends him in, and, loanby hold, there's Marshall with him. I must have been in a pretty bad way, when they found me.

Proust and I settle out, then Marshall ambles over, and I tell you, I can see I'm not gonna like what he has to say. Starts out like it's another gig, you know? Another cult pressing in on Beacon... crazed leader, the need to infiltrate and destroy. Even had half a mind to pass it up, bein' on the mend as I was. I might be a sucker, but I'm hardly a fool. But then he came out with it.

They been killing folk.

Foster's gone.

It ain't so much of a choice, now, is it?

---------------------------------------------------------

I don't figure I coulda been very old when the hold fell. Old enough that any passing dickhead could have had his way without some vigilante beating the shit out of him, but young enough still that none of them ever did. Never found out who did it, who put an end to the hold called Gateway. But I could guess, even then.

Clearly, it was someone with a heady supply of guns and ambition.

I swore then that I'd never be found without either.

By whatever luck I managed to scrounge from the maelstrom or Inri or whoever, I escaped into the desert with what I was wearing. Even managed to lift a piece off someone less lucky, that is, less alive, on the way out. Not that I knew how to use it at all. If I had, I'd have realized immediately that it was as empty as the husk of a body what'd been packing it. But, then again, even an empty gun can intimidate nearby assholes.

Dunno how long I'd been out there when they found me. Long enough that I don't remember which of them it was that brought me in. Long enough that my tongue felt like a wad of gauze. Part of me hoped they were slavers. At least then they'd have a vested interest in keeping me alive.

As it turns out, they weren't slavers. Not in the traditional sense. But they kept me alive at their compound long enough for me to meet him. After allowing me water, and stuffing my mouth with some sort of warm oat-slurry, they hoisted me up by my arms and led me past heavy curtains into a dark, smoke-filled den. In the far corner, a slight, bearded man sat, nursing a pipe full of herbs surely worth more than I was.

“Have a seat, Parker. I just might be about to save your life.”

I didn't know who the hell Parker was, but you'd better believe I sat.

I came to suspect, in the years after, that Foster never really would have turned me away. Regardless, that conversation clinched it. I didn't tell him where I came from, or why I left. Only what I wanted, and how I planned to get it. He insisted on calling me Parker, and I never corrected him. I assume that I'm the only one alive who knows what I was called before. I mean to keep it that way.

At any rate, the following weeks proved to be the most interesting of my life to that point, and the least interesting of my life since. Foster kept a murderously tight ship. The others taught me how to use my gun (an art I, admittedly, never quite mastered), how to steal, how to fight. But it was Foster himself who taught me how to survive. How to connive and plan. How to fuck. How to kill.

And I came to respect him. He never fucked anyone who said no, and never killed anyone who didn't need killing. When arbiting disputes amongst us, he was impartial to a fault. Now, don't let me convince you he was soft. Mor'n once I saw him turn a kid away, leave them to die in the dust, when he knew they wouldn't make it. Or when it'd be a drag to feed them. He stuck his neck out on a regular basis, but never far enough that the rest of us were at risk along with him.

Every week or so, we'd go out on the gigs he'd set up for us. It was how we paid up. Rations for us to stay alive, training for us to learn. And learn, we did. When we got on enough to make it on our own, he's send us out to join crews, usually operated by folks he'd kept in years before. The crews paid tribute to him, yeah, but most made enough for a semi-comfortable living besides.

It was a couple years from the time I left to the time I saw him again. In that time, all my crew got dead but me and Steed. Lost our operator, our camp, and nearly our lives, so we went running back to Foster. He hooked us up with enough knack bars to last the month, a couple firearms, and a new crew member. And that was how I came to be in charge of Steed and that old jackass, Nero.

Now, lemme tell you a bit about ol' Nero. Smarmy little cunt, ne is. Came into the fold about a year before I left, and I'll admit I took a shine to ner. Clever, enterprising, and dumber than a box of hair. And ne didn't adjust very well to living at the compound, at first. I get the idea Foster would have let ner go, but he saw what I saw: Nero had potential to really be someone. Not an operator, maybe, but certainly an asset to one. And ne sure as hell became one to me, as time went on. When we met up with Ebbs and her little hideaway, it was Nero what figured we could dig a well. Ebbs built our solar oven, but Nero designed it.

Steed, on the other hand, ain't a fuck-up like Nero (as often as not) is. I'd call him Old Reliable, iffen it had fewer syllables. As it is, Steed works just fine. I know him, he knows me, and we don't care a whit what the other's up to, so long as it ain't getting dead. He knows when to help, and when to piss off. And I know he knows. Trust, some call it. I call it History.

Ebbs is our resident come-lately, not anyone of Foster's. She followed us. Wanted to join up with us, on account of we always stay fed. I told her to fuck off. She kept showing up. Over, and over, and over, always asking to join us. Got to the point I swore I'd shoot her if she ever came back around asking stupid questions again. Two days later, here she comes again, dragging some big lump of a thing across the desert. A stripped-out van frame, covered in sheet plactic. Don't know how she made it as far as she did. “How's about a trade: my van house for a livelihood?” As well you know, everyone needs a place to live, and we were hard up. So she got in on account of one non-stupid question. I'm rather glad I didn't have to shoot her. The vancamp became our home, and Ebbs became one of us.

And so it was until now. We never lived like kingly folk, but we made good. Gigs whenever we wanted. After all, who deosn't need a body offed, nowadays? Who doesn't need something stolen? Who doesn't need to get their rocks off? We were content, at least. Happy, even.

I swear, that cult leader's gonna find hell a relief, after I'm done with her.

-Parker

First Session

As an aside, the names of the characters are as follows:

Doc the Angel

Lifiee the Brainer

Parker the Operator

Intro:

Our first session was actually spread out over two weeks. After our Angel fell asleep we decided to pause and resume later. I'll go ahead and write it as one post though.

I tried to follow the rules as best I could. This was the first chance I actually got to play Apocalypse World. I had read the book through two times (Yea. It's that good) and had watched other people play, but had yet to play a game myself. I did manage the main rule of the first session though; I didn't prepare anything. I brought my book and some print outs. Read the two paragraphs from the first session chapter and let the players look through the playbooks.

Two of my players looked through the playbooks once and picked a playbook. One of them fell in love with The Brainer as soon as he saw it. The other grabbed The Angel and had it filled out before everyone else had finished reading the playbooks. The third player deliberated for a while as to which playbook she would choose; she liked none of them. Eventually she settled on The Operator. It still surprises me how well The Operator can drive the game forward. After all the players finished their individual character generation, we started work on Hx, the characters’ history with one another. This was detailed out better in later sessions, but I'm going to put the up-to-date info here.

Hx:

This guy named Foster runs a holding where he trains all sorts of people to exist in the world as it is now. How to lie, steal, murder and all sorts of other jobs that are rather common now the world has been splintered into what is essentially neotribalism. There was this one mission. Parker asked Foster to come along and help out. Had to attack a rival holding. Hired some sort of psychic, they have been around since whatever destroyed civilization so many years ago, to scope out the enemy force. Turns out this “Lifiee” fellow wasn't too reliable. Told her there was going to be way less than there was. So, there they stood. Parker and Foster vastly outnumbered. Foster got hit. Almost died. Luckily for him a travelling medic just so happened to be in the area. Managed to get himself in quite the predicament too. He saw Foster lying there. Bleeding out. He, thinking he may be able to score something he could barter off for some medstuffs, ran up to help the bleeding old man. Of course, running into the middle of a firefight is never a good idea. He was in luck though, Parker was nearby. Parker, and her motley gang, managed to pull them out of the corner that they had put themselves in, and saved Doc... who saved Foster. The lot of them escape with naught more than the skin on their backs. Lifiee, though, he took off as soon as he got his piece. Thus began the Parker v Lifiee feud. Since Doc had sparked a dialogue with Parker, and he had nowhere to call home, he followed them to set his medshack up there for now.

Play:

(As a warning, this first session was a bit absurd. I think it's a byproduct of improv. After we solidified the game some, it became less absurd. A least... a little less absurd.)

The session started with Parker working two of her gigs. There's this dude, Cest, who has moved in close to Beacon. He has a harem that he shares... for a fee. He also wants to cleanse Beacon of all of the sexual depravity via his "gaggle" of whorewives. This is currently disrupting the reputable man, who runs the local brothel's, business. Proust, said reputable man, hires Parker to go show him that the "sexual depravity" in Beacon ain't so bad. She goes to Cest's new home, a previously abandoned "castle," in order to pleasure him with her talents. This is where the we zoomed in the detail microscope, and started playing in time.

As Parker is pleasuring Cest, she slips a poison, later to be discovered as gonorrhea transport agent, into her mouth to deliver to Cest. Proust wanted him to see the error of his ways, but not without a little pain to go with it.

With Cest pleasured, Parker said her goodbyes, he told her he would think about what she had said. This is what began phase two of Proust's mission for Parker. Parker then used her infiltration training to find a book that had been stolen from Proust. The Neo-Kama Sutra, he called it. Something about magically creating ephemeral lovers. Nonetheless, Parker found the book and was almost home free. Up 'til one of Cest's wives noticed that Parker was leaving with one of their most prized possessions. "She's got the book!" the whore screamed. Parker got swarmed and knocked unconscious by an oversized sex toy.

After a day or two, Cest realized there was a problem that wasn't there before. He kills all his wives who lose their "cleanliness" where could this have came from? Must have been that Parker... thing. Oh well, he'd deal with her later. He heard about a doctor with a healing touch near Beacon, and decided to visit him to see if he could have it fixed. When he got there, he told Doc about his newfound problem and asked for a cure, he offered some narcs in exchange. Doc lies. Tells him he's fresh out of meds that would be of use, but he could use a red, hot coat hanger to help him now. Cest agrees, reluctantly, and lets Doc impale him on the coat hanger. The screams were heard far and wide.

Proust started to worry. Parker had been gone for a while. Cest may have found him out. He decided to pay a visit to the local oracle to see if he could tell him anything. Enter Lifiee. Proust asked if Lifiee could look into Parker's disappearance, offering a box full of sexual miscellany. See, Lifiee has a very special way of peering through the Psychic Maelstrom, a much less ephemeral aether that permeates all of this blighted land since whatever caused this global anarchy. There's this incarnation, of the Maelstrom, named Eris. She is Lifiee's lover, and the way through which he receives his oracular visions. But, to him, both are one and the same. It is through his lovemaking that he sees. After going behind some trees, and pleasuring his lover, he returns with his vision. She is in some sort of castle, surrounded by sexual paraphernalia. Proust gave a sigh. At least she isn't dead. He kicks the box Lifiee's way and turns to gather Marshall and his gang and storm the castle. Lifiee picks up the box to find some sex rope. He lights up and heads for the trees.

Parker came to some inordinate amount of time after being beaten unconscious. She had evidently been beaten a few times since then. Probably to keep her in her current state. Everything was dark. But, there was some very German women nearby, musing about the idiocy of Cest for not letting them kill Parker. Evidently he enjoyed what he got to do to them while she was unconscious. At least this put a smirk on Parker's face. There's a loud explosion, sending the whores scrambling. There's gunfire and more explosions. One of the whores, who was guarding Parker, decides to interrogate her. She drove the heel of her shoe into Parker's neck, causing the chair Parker was tied onto to hit the ground. She began to beat Parker with an oversized purple dildo. Parker knew it was purple by a special ability she had since birth, not a useful ability mind you; she could feel the color of objects that were touching her, and in this case she was being “touched” with something purple.

About this time, Eris finally reached her orgasm. But, there's a funny thing about her orgasms. The resonate throughout reality, causing rips and tears throughout.

Doc had been using the narcs he received from Cest. He was high as a kite and decided to try to feel around in the Psychic Maelstrom. Someone had shown him how before. He didn’t really care who at this point. The moment he opened his brain, the shock waves of pleasure emanating from Eris burned through his brain, causing hemorrhaging.

Parker was much more lucky with the side effects of the orgasming incarnation. Her ropes started to fray; enough to let her wiggle free. She resumed her fight with her whore captor. She tried to seduce her, only being slightly disgusted by the amount of hair this woman possessed. At first it seemed to be working, but then things went south... well, more south. Parker got beat down with the sexual weapon. As she hit the ground, she saw shadows moving down the hallway behind her. Maybe she would live through this after all.

After satisfying his lover, Lifiee was given a new vision. He saw a castle, a different one from last time, burning in the distance. Too elated by his recent love making, he dozed off to sleep in his lover’s arms.

She awoke a while later, on a bed in Doc's medshack. She breathed a sigh of relief. Doc looked in a bad way, but more importantly, Proust looked very distraught. There was some news he didn't want to share. He led Parker outside to talk to Marshall. "There's a new cult 'round town. They've been taking people. We heard from your old hold that they got Foster." Waves of shock and anger washed over Parker.

In the outskirts of Beacon

I made this blog to record our sessions of a game called Apocalypse World. Right now we are at our fifth session, so I have a bit of back work to do. After we get caught up, the players may post from their character's view points. I also plan on putting up a review of the Apocalypse World system eventually, talking about all the reasons why I love it so much. Well, at any rate, I hope you enjoy.