The day leading up to MetaCon was not dissimilar to my normal days. Drink, play videogames, get told my princess was in another castle, you know how it goes. But unlike so many other normal days, this day I had a purpose beyond mere plunging. I had a convention to go to, that all who hear my words might listen and be nourished!
I finished up my daily tasks, and got into my private shuttle with a quick command to my chauffeur to take me to the Doubletree in Bloomington, Minnesota. Like a good man, he drove me there promptly, giving me just enough time to suck down some apple pie-flavored liquor shots. Thanks to said shots, I walked into that hotel feeling like America.
Good thing, too, because Japan is what greeted me. Not just any Japan, but the Weeaboo section. I was okay with that, however, because most of them were just old enough to be lusted after. I may be a creepy old man, but at least I’m honest about it.
My love of chubby women and effeminate men in geeky outfits aside, however, it was a veritable sea of bright colors and bizarre hair. The boffers had set up an area to hit each other with mock-weapons made of foam, and they clearly intended to go at it day and night and night and day. The constant thwack noises filled the air, and gave an interesting soundtrack to the convention. I watched a moment, but since it was less Amtgard and more ‘crazed swinging of foam sticks’, I moved on.
I could smell the faint scent of pocky and alcohol waft past, and at least three people gave me a hug for merely existing before I found out how to get my press badge.
My first target was the dealer’s room, which I headed to as soon as I had a badge. The merchants jumped at me like hungry snakes, their jaws dripping with their various poisons. Some had the potent nostalgia poison, which weakens man by making him think his childhood shit still has some value. Others had the poison of desperation, which could cloud the mind into thinking one needed things they’d never even heard of. Body pillows with anime characters? Yes, I had never felt enough like a creepy old man, thus wrapping myself crotch-first around a picture of Rei Ayaname was clearly the answer! Why not yet another energy drink, only this time named after something geeky? Yes, please, for the twenty different energy drinks available to me from the gas station across the street are not enough.
I escaped, my wallet gratefully intact as I fled from the incessant, hypnotizing hisses of the merchants. I paid no heed where my feet took me, until I realized I was amidst the constant thwacking sounds from the boffers. There were cheers from both sides as they decided Luigi must be there to join them. I didn’t know what was happening, I knew only that someone of unknown origin shoved a foam staff into my hand. I grasped it as a drowning man grasps a thrown rope, and began to spin and twirl my way to salvation. Before long, the bodies of the slain lay around me, and I managed to hack my way to safety.
Safety, in this case, being a relative term. I stumbled into a darkened room with long rows of chairs set up in front of a large stage. The stage was the obvious point of interest, at least that’s the understanding I took from the bright lights pointing down to it. Upon the stage stood a man and a woman in elegant finery, marking them not only as high-class geeks but part of the elite group of con staff. Lined up along the back of the stage was a row of people, some in plain clothes, and some in the tattered finery of fallen nobility.
It was a slave auction. I had stumbled into a place where geeks sold other geeks to each other. The women up on stage made offers, offering to kiss or rub on each other’s bodies if bidding rose to a certain amount. My heart went out to them, but I couldn’t save them all.
I turned to leave, when they brought up a pink-haired woman. The slaver showcased her potential, showing how her cleavage was perfect for motorboating. My heart exploded with rage. No breasts so wonderous should be used for such a crass purpose, I thought! I raised a hand, belted out a price, and stared down the crowd around me. I was Alcoholic Luigi, my stern eye warned them. I had drunk the drink of the Gods of Old, stared into the gaze of the most powerful turtle sorcerer in any world; I would not be denied my prize.
Indeed, I was not denied. I took my slave from the room, and spoke to her of what she had been told. The slavers had insisted she spend a certain amount of time with her new master in the rave, but I freed her from that obligation. My desire to listen to pounding dance music was nil, and aside from that, I can’t dance. In her gratitude, she gave me a small bag of pills, pills she’d planned to take to dull the pain of being an owned person. I took them with a nod of thanks and sent her on her way.
I went on my own way, and soon ran into GeekParty’s own Josh Wirtanen. The night from that point on is something of a drunken blur. I recall a party that didn’t exist, where I drank a mixed drink named after me. I recall performing in front of an audience, falling to my knees as I performed the power-slide (the most powerful move in rock today). I recall falling asleep in the arms of my princess. I had drunk more than was ever appropriate, slain an army, purchased another human being and received drugs for my troubles, and it was only the first night.
It didn’t prepare me for all I would experience the next day.