A lone wanderer walks into a town

[Teenr0cker]

My good friend, you are fortunate to have journeyed here today. Why, you ask? Because I shall tell you the story of a wanderer, a crazy random person, and an average teenager, and how they were all one person in reality. Its story parallels with other dimensions including the Outtake and the Crestfallen dimensions in addition to our own. Gather by the fire, and relax, for you are about to read the tales of a lone wanderer, as seen in his eyes.

One Year Ago


It’s celebration time at the BoF II studio! With Thanksgiving around the corner and December is so close behind that not even “big Joe” and the poor fool who picked up the quarter super-glued to the floor of the shower room could be closer, which is most likely the reason I am typing this right now.

Rand: I’m so glad it’s November! It’s natural for a pacifist like me to simply love this season of love and togetherness! In fact, I’m having my mother here for the Thanksgiving dinner!
Sten: (stops reading Zoo Magazine, AKA: Monkey Porn) Eh? Dude, she’s dead, remember? During that smashie trap scene, we used a real trap and her for realism.
Rand: Noooo! I would’ve objected to this! Where was I?
Bleu teleports out of nowhere
Bleu: You were making that hardcore video with me. Leather whips, handcuffs, spandex, some masks, a banana…..
Rand: No!!!!! Oh god, why???
Bleu:…cattle prods, a parrot, a geode… Eh? What’s wrong? You were WONDERFUL and we made plenty of money!
Rand: Why did you have to use the leather though?
Bleu: You said it turned you on. Of course, you were stoned at the time.
Vash the Stampede suddenly pops out of a crate
Vash: What? How come he scored and I didn’t?
Teen: Go away Vash! Your appearance was years ago. Years!
Vash: But I-
Teen: No! Just go! We already have a new guest: Harry Potter!
Vash: Oh, I see…
Vash starts to leave
Teen: No! You don’t get it! Harry Potter!
Vash: Need me to shoot him then?
Teen: Would you?

Meanwhile, in our dimension

The real Teenr0cker sits at his crappy computer, which has a Game Boy Advance duct-taped to the casing in hopes that his dell would become SUPER AWESOME! …But it didn’t work. It is another boring night, lacking the good and wholesome games Teen hungered for. He had finished typing in his latest outtake and wanted to play a new game. The people over at Gamefaqs.com had advertising coming out of its ass, so clicking a link while checking out the forums would be very uncommon since they all seemed to be NFL games or something. Teen noticed that someone called Impossible, one of the sparks that kept the outtakes going, had listed his AIM address, so Teen decided to give him a chat. After a long night of discussions including Halo, the outtakes, and Astroturf, Teen asked why Impossible hadn’t been responding too often. Impossible explained that he was playing this RPG that he found online a while ago. Teen saved the link and went to sleep for the next 9 hours. When he woke up, he noticed that the linked site had a forum for the game. Teen didn’t seem to care for forums much, but he was willing to give it a try.

In another dimension, a lone figure came out of a forest to a clearing and scanned the stormy night horizon. A single pair of torches illuminated the gate to a walled-in town off in the distance. When that person felt the time was correct, they would soon journey to this establishment to discover what its purpose and intentions were. But that time wouldn’t come soon, so it’d be best to get out of the rain and set their tent up so that they could perform a long series of deep meditation for awhile.

December 2004

The real Teen sat in the confines of the evil, vile, corrupt, uncomfortable, and near-insanity-inducing hell known as flight DL716 from LAX to Salt Lake City. 716 was turning his vacation from bad to “so-bad-it’s-rating-has-completed-the-spectrum-of-good-to-bad-and-has-gone-back-to-bad” very quickly. Something was leaking hydraulic fluids, so they took a full hour to put everything on the plane, including the goddamn sodas and snacks. Teen sighed and wondered how Vash was doing with Potter. It was at that very instant that Vash and Potter locked on each other’s eyes. Actually, Potter was looking at Vash’s eyes, which were staring rudely at the disgusting scar on Potters forehead. “Have you gotten that looked at?” Vash asked, still staring at the pulsating scar. “I mean, it’s even bleeding!” “Wait a minute, I’m not bleed-“ *BLAM* Vash chuckled as he reloaded his pistol, but soon discovered that Potter was still not dead. “You shot me! I can’t believe that you shot me in a battle to the death!” the British annoyance continued to bitch. Vash knew that he had to completely destroy him with the super duper bigass gun. The scenery was so explosive that the best way to describe the imagery would be to insert a mushroom cloud. “Silence. Sweet, merciful, and wonderful silence!” Vash cried out. “Ouch! I seem to have lost everything but my precious mouth. Time to regrow!” the mouth on the floor declared. Vash, using a conveniently located direct-link radio to Teen, yelled into the receiver that he needed some backup right now!

September 2004

One bright and sunny day, the wanderer broke his train of thought and decided that it was a good time to learn more of the town ahead. He approached the main entrance and saw a sign-in sheet on a clipboard hanging on a post. The wanderer tried to pass, but the board continued to mirror his movements. Another traveler passed the wanderer and signed their name on the sheet. The wanderer had no idea what kind of identification alias he should use. He never quite recalled ever needing, let alone having, a name. With much apathy, the wanderer decided to call himself a Teenager. But since such a common word would be considered ignorant, the wanderer surveyed his surroundings and saw a duck, a toenail, and a rock. So he opted for “Teenrocker”. But since a bit more individuality is usually expected, he made it Teenr0cker. Teen entered past the several walls and gates and entered the town, expecting a grand building to appear before him. But instead of a marvelous structure, before Teen lay a dusty little area. Four main buildings were separated equidistant and in seemingly random locations were smaller buildings that seemed to be dwellings, each with a flagpole and mailbox out front. Each of the four large buildings had a sign hanging on the edge of the overhang.

Teen moved forward, squinting to see what the signs said. There was a soft “thunk” followed by a groan that men are unfortunate enough to say when two of his best friends are hit. He rolled on the floor in agony for a minute or so when one of the people that was venturing from one building to the next paused midway to laugh and point at Teen. Teen dusted himself off and got a good look at his mocker.

Even from his current distance of about one hundred feet, Teen could smell a strong mixture of gunpowder and alcohol. He stood about six feet tall and wore combat boots that were standard issue in an army. On his thighs were two desert eagle pistols and a couple of clips. He wore cameo pants and had a belt of grenades used as a real belt to hold said pants up. His lean torso was bare, save the two straps that formed an “X” on his chest, which held the holsters for his AK47 and his shotgun. Teen noticed an almost offensively large gap in his two front teeth while he was laughing, even from that distance. “Ahaha! Newb! You suck!” the man cried out. “Hey, did you get that message I forwarded you?” Teen inquired. “Uhhhhh, what?” was the response. “Rambo wants his friggin’ image back, fag,” Teen jeered. His pride bruised, the man retreated to a building with a shrug.

As Teen gathered himself, it occurred to him that he had no clue what he had hit. Teen looked down and saw the loin-damaging culprit was a sign that read “Welcome to the Crestfallen Studios.” Teen gathered his belongings with a sigh and went off to explore his new surroundings.

As Teen approached the closest building, he noticed more and more how this area of the town reminded him of a western town: dusty, wooden buildings, a spittoon and rocker on a porch, and even a saloon nearby. He examined the sign on a weathered old building and it read “The Scratch Wall”, which seemed odd since it was actually a building. Teen analyzed the other buildings and reviewed what he just learned quickly. The “scratch wall” would be described as random, the “Estrana” building was for some sort of cult or religion called “The Way”, one building seemed to be devoted to bugs (Teen decided not to venture there), and one shack-like building, called the Patch building, consisted of misshapen pieces of wood, cardboard, and metals, had a humongous series of padlocks, chains, and combination locks on the door and a scroll of parchment stating only someone named “Lun” could enter there. Teen stood out in front of this building, pondering the crestfallen studios’ curious nature. After Teen was done pondering and sticking gum in all the keyholes, he set out for the Estrana building.

As Teen entered the building, he was surprised to discover a cozy interior, which was even more surprising since the building looked like a shack on the outside. Teen had expected a dirt floor and smelly bums in a corner, drunk and passed out. Well, a smelly drunk man was indeed inside, but Teen didn’t care. The hardwood floor was finely polished and shined, and Teen swore he could detect a lemon scent. All the walls were lined with bookshelves. The shelves were brimming with, logically, books, which had white covers and their titles and authors in golden lettering on the spine. Near the back of the room the books were dusty; their pages yellowed from age and use. Towards the front, the books were less-tightly packed together and were in higher quality. There were an assortment of private desks, a large number of tables with sitting chairs, and several sitting couches. Hanging from the ceiling were oval, thumb-sized rocks that illuminated the room and gave off a barely audible low hum. Teen noticed that the hobo had obtained one of the many blank books and held the first page to his smelly, drunk face.

“HEY, DOES ANYONE KNOW ABOUT THE PHANTOM SLASHER?” the drunken hobo in the corner yelled. Teen was started at the almost random behavior of this person, but he quickly recognized him as the wanderer from before. Teen tried to be polite by not eavesdropping and went to a secluded section of this library that was far, far away. But after awhile, the entire room was filled with noises and the smell of cheap whiskey. Teen chuckled to himself as odd phrases such as “I’M ALL OUT OF FLOPPY DISCS, CAN I BORROW SOME OF THE ANIMALS FROM YOUR GLASS MENAGERIE?” or, and this one confused Teen, “BOY HOWDY, DO I WISH I HAD A SOLAR POWERED FLASHLIGHT RIGHT ABOUT NOW!” Such priceless gems of wisdom continued for another five or so minutes before the wanderer-hobo grew quiet. Teen approached him with extreme trepidation, approaching as if the hobo were a disgruntled tootsie roll. With what Teen surmised as a seemingly random spasm, the wanderer slammed the book shut, muttered something about Peter Pan, and tossed the book aside before completely passing out.

Out of pure instinct, Teen’s eyes followed the book as it sailed through the air. As it impacted the floor, Teen nearly believed that he saw a flash of light for a moment, a flash so quick, one may ponder as to whether or not one had truly seen it. Teen rubbed his eyes and glanced at the book’s landing zone on the floor, but it was no longer there. In a confused manner, Teen jerked his head around the room, as if hoping to find a logical explanation for the phenomena. There, on the bookshelf! A book with solid gold cover and silver letters on the side now occupied a previously empty space. Teen set the book on a table to examine its’ contents. Teen was surprised to find that not only was the same message as the one the drunk had yelled on the pages, it was extremely grubby looking and contained almost offensive spelling errors, such as “You all have no sence” for example. Curious to know the author of such a peculiar book, Teen looked on the books’ spine and found that someone named “War” had written this. Teen glanced up from the book towards the drunkard, who was sucking his thumb and releasing methane gases with a subconscious giggle. He approached the smelly man and saw a dog tag on a thin chain hanging around his thick, meaty neck. Teen pulled the tags to his face and read “War. Eight hundred posts” on one side and a black stone with purple swirls on the other. Teen wondered about many things, like why he chose to name himself War, or why he was drunk, or where that chocking noise was coming from. Teen saw that the necklace still had War attached to it and Teen had been cutting off valuable oxygen that needed to get to the illiterate brain. Teen dropped the tags and both the tags and Wars’ head went down with a dull “thunk”. After becoming extremely bored for no apparent reason, Teen decided to cause some mischief by burning some books. He picked up an old book and flicked his lighter on. But as soon as the flame got close to burning the book, the flame would extinguish. Disappointed, Teen saw an old looking book near the front shelves, which seemed very odd. He read through the entries of various authors and soon discovered it was about some sort of series of songs from their “The Way” Hymnbook, no doubt. Teen recognized a song in the listing and decided to write in his own comment on that particular songs’ writer and his opinion of it. At the end of his entry, he signed his name and wrote a coined aphorism he had once learned from a wise, old sage below his signature. Teen noticed the previous posters had also left an emblem by their name, yet Teen hadn’t left one yet. Not wanting to spark a conflict due to indifferences, Teen tried to think of a good emblem for himself. Teen noticed some had made their own emblems while others had chosen to use simple emblems. Hand-made or mimic, it mattered not, for each was individual and gave others a good view of who they were. So Teen thought carefully until he remembered an old legend, forgotten by many, savored by few, and sign of true nobility. Teen strained to complete the intricate design of his emblem until he found it most admirable and worthy to be a reference to a forgotten hero. To those learned in the ancient tongues, the symbol Teen had chosen meant “Cless”. For future use, Teen got a sheet of his very special parchment. It was a magical scroll that was able to copy anything it “saw” and be able to make as many reproductions as possible at Teens command. It took several years of work to perfect it and Teen treasured it greatly. He copied the symbol he painstakingly made and went on his way out of the building.


Thus ends the first part of this randomass story I'm telling. I do admit it has a "motley revenge" ring to it, but its not intentional. Plus, its about ppl I know, so its more enjoyable. I'll try to post some more later.

[Greatchickenman]

Holy Crap! That'll take me a year to read!


Ok, i'm starting now.

[Teenr0cker]

It took me 16 pages, written, to introduce a bunch of the ppls along with the plot. It gets better once you stop caring about war. he'll be forgotten like Jean in BoF2 once you finish his quest issue.

[Glenn47]

How could something on here take you years to complete? Neither one of us have been here that long. Not even one year.
Overall I thought it was good, just thought I'd be critical/literal at one point.

[Excell]

Jean is the most useless wannabe Frog in the history of games.

[Glenn47]

Did you actually draw that so-called "emblem?" Or was it just a pic you found.

[OverlordBill]

I've yet to decide whether I'll even acknowledge Motley Revenge anymore. Copy it all you like.

[AltoK]

At least, Jean can warp your party ; well, that's his main use, besides being killed all the time (and performing 1-2HP attacks).

[Teenr0cker]

How could something on here take you years to complete? Neither one of us have been here that long. Not even one year.
Overall I thought it was good, just thought I'd be critical/literal at one point.

No, I just wanted to make it so it seemed like the wanderer was waiting outside for a really long time. I started the outtake intro during Thanksgiving vacation and suddenly decided to do this. Plus, if you look for me in the old forums, I made one post and was never heard from again.

The Emblem is not really hand-drawn. I just wanted to be creative.

Lets see....(got that...that...oh yeah)...Its almost funny that Frenchie here sides with Jean. You obviously neglected to remember Nina. And not just for her massive sex appeal. She can warp...and so can Spar...

[AltoK]

I'm not on his side ; I pity him. There's a HUGE difference (the "Frenchie" compassionnate side, dare I say it ^^).
He stands no chance against Frog (Chrono Trigger). Don't you feel pity for him ?! Poor, poor Jean... Agh, you freak, you do not feel compassionnate for him- You'll see ! We'll--- Hey, Lay your hands off me !--- No, leave me alone ! Argh !!!---

<- Found in Arkham Asylum two days later.

[Teenr0cker]

Let me cue you in on a little secret. He sucks. And even if he didn't suck, I would still hate him. I'm a little more offended by his frenchness than you can imagine. I'll let you guess which language I'm taking in school.



But back on topic...I'm typing more still, but I tend to update in large chunks.

[Glenn47]

La espanol?

[AltoK]

Heh, c'est le genre de crapaud qui donne honte de parler français ^^

[Teenr0cker]

Totalement. Il donne le reste du français, que sont très viril, un vrai mauvais nom. Soutenir sur le sujet maintenant...

Dont bother translating that, everyone. Here's part two: "A familiar sport and Jera's entrance". Enjoi (i'm such a rebel spelling that in a wrong way)


Teen had intended to stay longer to meet other people, but a messenger came for him as he left the building. Some old comrades of his had heard he was in the area and wished to meet up again. Teen readily accepted the offer, knowing that their invitations had a more serious intention. Teen spent all of that day and most of the night hunting in an abandoned desert fort with his friends. Apparently there was a massive gang of thieves and Teens’ friends implored him for his aid. Having not hunted or had any kind of challenge for almost a year, Teen set out for the fort. The technology his friends possessed had always fascinated him. Their more efficient grenades, their pistols and clips, their machine guns: all of it far surpassed what Teen had ever seen in his travels, even those firearms that that War character had adorned upon him. It was a rare thing to see an actual gun of any sorts, so tonight would be extremely enjoyable.

After the hunt was over and the thieves were all slain, Teen asked himself the same question he asked every time he did this sort of thing: Why could he use a weapon so efficiently if he’d never seen or used it before? Deep thinking in such areas got him nowhere, so Teen decided to rest for tomorrow.

The next morning, Teen noticed that the town was much more active than when he was there yesterday. As he paused to observe a girl with golden shining hair that went down to her waist, having her back to Teen, who was tending to a cow, now tied to a post and drinking from a trough, a blast of horns came out of nowhere and, as he would himself describe it, scared the bejesus out of him. The main gate opened and a large red carpet rolled out towards the town center. All of the townspeople dropped whatever task they were doing, rushed to the carpet, and knelt. Well, all of them, but the very confused Teen.

A tall and proud-looking figure strolled down the carpet with a swagger that almost looked calculated in rhythm and size. He had a red velvet cape with those really nice white feathers as the frill with a few black feathers among the white. His hair held almost perfectly in place and he had a brilliant white smile only rivaled in shinyness by his simple, but very expensive-looking, golden crown. He glanced at Teen and paused for a minute, stroking his chin in the place where his beard would be if he had one. Whatever answer he was trying to find had been found, for he strode over to Teen, causing several people to dodge out of the way and into various hazards, such as a dumpster, an open manhole, an inconveniently placed crocodile, an outhouse hole, and a transdimensional vortex leading to a reality of seemingly limitless pain and suffering. “You are the one who calls himself Teen, correct?” the unquestionably important figure asked, idly cracking his knuckles one by one, joint by joint. “Uh, um, Y-ye-y-yes. That’s me,” Teen stammered, not really sure what was about to happen. “It’s a pleasure to make the acquaintance of one who can craft such a fine symbol of such intricate design so full of detail! My name is Emperor Jeramyu, but, please, call me Jeramyu or simply Jera.” “And it’s good to mee-,“ Teen began. “- But, and I swear to GOD, if you so much as think of calling me germs, I’ll know, and I’ll fucking kill you. And I can! I’m a moderator around here,” Jera cut in, a sickly and disturbing grin split across his face, changing his noble appearance to a ghastly and pants-soiling glance. And without another word, Jera departed into the town. Teen now realized why people had been eager to get closest to the edge of the carpet and the trumpeters as they grabbed every last scrap they could and ran off to the pawn shop to sell the fine cloths, shiny instruments, and newly enslaved trumpeters.

Teen entered the Estrana building once more that morning, hoping to indulge himself in reading the numerous tomes written about the religion of “the way” or whatever kind of religion was being run around here. Teen hoped it could at least explain why everyone he had met had been so… eccentric. Teen gathered several books and soon discovered very little fruitation to his searching. As he replaced the books in their original spots, he noticed a marble column, most likely a Doric column, with a stand atop it. A metal plaque read “Search All Sources” and a small scroll rested on the stand. Teen pondered this odd reference source, but decided to give it a try anyways. After specifying what he was looking for, a hobbit-sized Mexican, no doubt illegal, rushed up to receive the paper and dashed off with a speed only matched by “Speedy Gonzales”. Teen found a comfortable armchair and sat down, watching the little creature dash to and fro. After giving the child a shiny quarter for saying “Andeley! Andelay! Arriba! Arriba!”, Teen sent the little person on his way and began reading the books he had received.

About on hour before dawn, Teen sat at a desk, making last-minute notes and writing down names of the more useful books. He hadn’t learned exactly what “The way” was, or how it worked, but he did learn that it was certainly not a cult but a location. He made a mental note to look up more on a warrior called “Rhue”, a person of seemingly great talent. As Teen fastened his bag, stood up, and proceeded to the exit, a series of extremely unusual events set into motion. In the main section, where he now was, Teen witnessed a man enter the building.



Who is this man? Is it Bill? A Jehovas witness? Find out next time when I decide to continue.

[OverlordBill]

It's me. I know it. It's me.