The bottom of the barrel. The cesspool. The dumps. The pit. The Brad Pitt. (Oh, OK, well, maybe not that bad, but still a sucky place to be.)
My name is Revenant, and this is my turf: the Human Occupied Landfill.
This is a savage place, where men are real men, and women are... well, there are no women on HOL. Oh yeah... except for Granny Nemesis. Maybe she's a woman - I never had the guts to ask. But that's a story for another day. This story is about a band of reprobates, degenerates of the lowest order, and all-around bastards, about to discover that life on HoL is like NOT like a box of chocolates. More like a box of wästems, really: the one you reach for is always sure to be a wästit, and it's gunning for your eyes.
I knew these scumbags from way back: always showing up when there's trouble or mind-numbing stupidity brewing.
Led Pighp. Mphmmum. Captain Wacky. The King. Brother Aristotle Studbasket.
I could only wonder when the other freaks would
show up. Where were Eugene Spinkler, The Man With No Näm,
Rorrin Nad, and Frank the Were-Guy? Where were Pope Man and Altar
Boy, Tool and his Tool Bots, The Spud and Tater Tott?
...You might want to read the Claimer from HoL, and a few additional words of caution. Just so you don't get all jumping up and down and frothing over your keyboard. Yecch.
OK, OK, OK! I'll make it simple for you.
HOL! The Human Occupied Landfill.
If you have no idea what I am talking about, just skip the rest and go back to reading about Star Truck and Cattletech and Bar Wars and all those other worthless games.
If you DO know what I am talking about, prove it by sending in your request for one of the characters from HoL or Buttery Wholesomeness. The following restrictions apply -
Correct answers may win you a place in the game. Incorrect answers will introduce you to the joys of a Pagan-Buster parfait.
The game will last as long as it's funny.
No bells. No whistles.
Just...
...a...
...BIG...
Sign up now and you could win a free character!
Yes, other poor schmucks have dedicated their hard-earned Web space to the dumping grounds of the C.O.W. See for yourself:
Plus a bunch of little piles of garbage that don't have enough meat scraps in 'em to make a meal with, even for a wästit. Maybe when they've festered a bit and grown some fur like the stuff in the back of your fridge...
Actually, we lied: it's cash only, and in advance. But if you MUST
know, HoL is the brain-fart child of Todd Shaughnessy,
Daniel Thron and Chris Elliott, the Dirt Merchants themselves (1994).
Great product, which was later picked up by White Wolf in its guise of
Black Dog Game Factory; Black Dog then published the fearsome trio's repeat
offense, "Buttery Wholesomeness" (1995). Get your own damn
copy -- or die in ignorance. (Yeah, I admit it: I lifted this one
from ST:TNG.)
The Holmeister for this PBeM is Gumby. What, you thought you'd get his full name, home phone number and credit card info, maybe? You wanna get in touch with the HM, you write to him. Then, MAYBE, if you are found worthy, he'll get in touch with you. Or maybe he'll just feel lonely because he didn't get any good e-mails tonight and write to you anyway.
This Web shrine is designed and maintained by the HM's lovely wife, player and companion, known as Anemone. No, you can't have any info on her. She doesn't want more gaming freaks in her life, particularly not the kind that breathes heavy and yells "WOMAN! WOMAAAANNNNN!!!" at the drop of a chainmail bikini. Unless you're good-looking, in which case you can send your pictures to... HAHAHAHAHA! You fell for it, didn't you! Now get lost, gaming freak!
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