I found
myself skimming through Google Groups the other day and discovered that last
month marked an anniversary. A couple anniversaries, actually, as the month of
September 1998 is when I posted my first two fanfics to the alt.games.diablo
Usenet newsgroup. Social media—a term that had yet to be coined—was in some
ways very different from what we have today and, in others, very similar. For
one thing, Usenet newsgroups were generally text only. “Text only” meaning
“text only,” not “I’ll tweet this HD clip of a squirrel doing a cute thing.”
Because of the limits of technology at the time, i.e., dial-up modems that
could typically handle 28.8 kbps or less, downloading image or—heaven forbid—video
or audio files to a discussion group took a long time and was considered bad
netiquette. Some folks out there were paying for their connection time by the
minute. (If you wanted to share cat pictures or porn, there were dedicated
newsgroups for those things for those who had the patience and/or connection
speed.)
The way
in which it was like today was that it comprised communities of people from
around the world bantering, discussing, and joking about a common interest. In
this case, the common interest was Blizzard’s computer game Diablo and the community was
alt.games.diablo (or AGD to us regulars) whose colorful membership included a
woman who it turned out I went to high school with and a guy named Mickey who
ended up selling his URL to Disney for a pretty tidy sum (it was the very early
days of the Internet).
Anyway,
it was during a discussion about barbarian characters and whether or not they
should use magic that AGD regular Dalai Lama posted his short story,
“Belchard’s Philosophy.” I had two reactions to it. The first was “That was a
really great story!” The second was “Wait a second. We can write stories?”
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| Not this guy (at least, as far as I know) |
So, on September
2, 1998, I posted “Dumptruk Meets a Soul Burner” to AGD along with an apology
for the excessive file size of 12 KB (it was the very early days of the
Internet).
Here it
is, old enough to get its driver’s license and annotated for your reading
pleasure.
“Dumptruk
Meets a Soul Burner” [1]
The hot
air stank of scorched flesh and ash. It was, at the same time, unbreathably thin
and oppressively heavy. The ground crunched underfoot like millions of tiny
bones or insects, and was the color of an infected bruise. The walls seemed
carved from the bones of some great beast. Given all that, it hadn’t surprised
Dumptruk [2] in the least when, after describing the above to Caine [3], Caine
had explained that Dumptruk had crossed a dimensional barrier and literally
entered Hell.
And
then there were its denizens. Great sword-wielding serpents who reared-up as
tall as the ogres of his homeland. Vicious armored warriors who exploded in
black flames when slain. And then there were the succubi. At least, that’s what
Caine had called them. Dumptruk accepted the strange new word; he didn’t feel
comfortable referring to the evil creatures as “women” despite their obvious
female appearance. The kind-hearted Gillian and her ailing grandmother were
women. His mother, who had firmly and lovingly raised him and his fourteen
brothers, was a woman. Dumptruk would have killed any man who dared put his
mother in the same class as these creatures. Likewise, Dumptruk didn’t think it
fair to call them witches even though they cast spells. That strange ageless
woman across the river was a witch. Visiting her hut always made Dumptruk a
little edgy, but she always seemed glad to buy the books, scrolls and staves he
found. [4] He had to trust her to deal with him fairly since he had no idea
what kind of squiggles made one book or scroll more valuable than another. She
was also willing to buy those strange blue potions he sometimes found. [5] Dumptruk
had tried one once. It had made him feel itchy and restless as if there were something
inside him straining to get out. It also made him a little horny. Caine had
explained that many sorcerers literally lived on the blue potion. If true, it
only reaffirmed Dumptruk’s life-long philosophy: Never turn your back on a
sorcerer. In any event, Dumptruk never felt inclined to try one of those
potions again.
Dumptruk
was running as fast as he could in the choking air. Ahead of him was a
retreating succubus. [6] She and her sisters had ambushed him, blasting away
with bursts of red and golden energy. Although the lights were pretty, they
stung when they hit. Dumptruk was certain they would do a lot more than sting
if they ever caught him without the ridiculous armor he wore.
Despite
being full plate, the armor was virtually weightless. It was black-and-white,
just like a heifer. [7] It also had a giant metal udder that protruded from the
stomach and clanged whenever he walked. The man who had given Dumptruk the
armor had been dressed as a cow himself. He had given Dumptruk the Bovine Plate
in exchange for a moose suit Dumptruk had found. Dumptruk had met stranger
individuals on his travels, but not many.
Dumptruk
had taken the armor to Caine who told him that the Bovine Plate was forged from
pure mananite. After patiently explaining that mananite was a type of metal,
not a tribe of farmers who wore black and led simple lives according to their
religious beliefs, [8] Caine went on to say that the armor’s strength came from
absorbing magical energy—mana—from its surroundings. Over many years it had
absorbed enough mana to become indestructible and harder than the shell of an
ancient dragon turtle. It would even blunt the power of magical attacks aimed
at its wearer. Despite this, the armor had not been well-crafted. Its maker had
forgotten to enchant the armor not to absorb mana from the wearer. Caine had
gravely informed Dumptruk that he would be unable to cast spells in the armor. Dumptruk
had just shrugged.
(Actually,
Dumptruk did have a magic power. He had acquired it after investigating an
ornate shrine [9] in the dungeon. He found he could generate small balls of
lightning that would travel along the ground like glowing white drunken
spiders. He briefly entertained the idea of assuming a new identity as a
warrior-mage, but dropped the idea for two reasons: A) it wasn’t a very
effective spell; it was just adequate for cooking small animals for dinner. B)
Someone pointed out that the name “Lightning Balls” was unlikely to strike fear
into the hearts of his enemies. Dumptruk had finally given up the spell
altogether after he nearly set Pepin’s hut on fire trying to race two of the
charged bolts across the village square.)
After
Caine had finished describing the armor at great length, Dumptruk took it to
Griswold. The poor craftsmanship enraged the Master Blacksmith. In fact,
Dumptruk hadn’t seen Gris so angry since Wirt had concocted a scam wherein he
tried to convince the town that he was really Griswold’s illegitimate son. “Mad
Cow Armor!” Griswold had snorted. On general principle, he refused to offer
Dumptruk more than 100 gold pieces for the armor, so Dumptruk kept it. [10]
Dumptruk
was gaining on the succubus. She was the last one. In each corner of the
stygian chamber, one of her sisters lay dead. The demonesses were plenty brave
shooting at Dumptruk from a distance, but they had little appetite for
hand-to-hand combat. He had painstakingly chased each one into a corner and
brained her with Gnarled Root while her sisters enjoyed free shots at his back.
Even with the Bovine Plate (which, due to another design flaw, glowed like a
roaring campfire and made him an easy target), Dumptruk probably could not have
survived such a concentrated assault from the succubi if not for another
artifact he wore.
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| The Bovine Plate, Leoric's Crown, and Gnarled Root |
Dumptruk
was quite fond of Gillian. Not only did she faithfully store the extra
treasure, potions and magic items he found, but she was pretty, unconditionally
polite and charming to everyone she encountered; and would not have lasted
three seconds in a real fight. There was something about her that filled
Dumptruk with the need to protect her from stray dogs and strange men. So when
she told him about a grave matter in the old crypt, he promised to check it out
for her.
What he
had found instead was a huge chunk of glowing masonry. Remembering what Gillian
had said about leaving an offering, Dumptruk dropped a magic bow on the block. It
was, according to Caine, a very powerful weapon, but Dumptruk had never been
much of an archer. As soon as Dumptruk let go of the bow, a booming voice began
babbling about a year of golden light or some nonsense and nearly scared
Dumptruk out of his armor. [11]
When
Dumptruk returned, after the voice had finally shut up, the bow was gone, and,
in its place, was a battered crown forged from a heavy metal.
Caine
identified the crown as that of their tragically lost king, Leoric. A curse had
fallen upon the crown and, when Dumptruk wore it in battle, he wanted to kill
and kill until nothing was left standing. In other words, it wasn’t much
different than not wearing it. Interestingly, each time he landed a blow upon
an enemy, the crown would make him feel stronger. Dumptruk’s wounds would close
as if the crown was somehow causing the life force to drain from his enemies
into him. Actually, the bloodlust that the crown inspired in him concerned
Dumptruk. He was glad he worked alone, because he could easily imagine the
crown’s thirst for blood causing him to turn on an ally before he could stop
himself. Likewise, he also worried that it might lead him to charge into an
overwhelming situation and get killed. There was nothing to do about that,
other than to just try and be careful. The crown’s benefits still outweighed
its risks.
The
succubus had gotten far enough ahead of Dumptruk to stop and fire off a shot. A
sun-yellow burst exploded to Dumptruk’s right. Dumptruk knew it was his right
because that was the hand he used to wield his weapon. The spiked club hadn’t
looked promising at first when Dumptruk killed a giant acid-spitting spider for
it, but he quickly changed his mind after Caine had identified and analyzed it
for him. Caine had identified it as Gnarled Root and Dumptruk found he could
hit three times as hard with it as he could with any other weapon he found. That
was hard enough to kill any enemy with a single blow, assuming he got a good
hit. Why someone would want to drive a few nails through an old piece of a tree
stump and then dip the whole thing in an iron-mananite alloy was beyond
Dumptruk, but why argue with success? It probably made more sense than using up
a half-million gold pieces worth of mananite to forge a 100 gp suit of Mad Cow
Armor.
The
succubus—the yellow energy blast told Dumptruk that she was a Soul Burner—had
run into a corner. As Dumptruk raised Gnarled Root over his head to strike her
down, she turned to face him and Dumptruk hesitated. [12] She was beautiful. Her
night-black hair framed an unblemished heart-shaped face that was at once
girlish and womanly. Her expression showed both vulnerability and a promise of
everything that she was willing to share with him if he spared her. Dumptruk
spared a glance at her ample bare breasts. Whether she was out of breath from
the chase or whether her breathlessness was part of her offer, Dumptruk couldn’t
tell. In either case, it was almost enough to allow him to overlook the tiny
horns protruding from her forehead. To sample those charms, he might be able to
ignore the furiously beating little wings that grew from her shoulder blades.
(Dumptruk
often wondered about the wings. They were bat-like, but beat like a hummingbird’s.
They were far too small to carry the succubi in flight. Perhaps, he theorized,
they permitted the succubi to run across uneven ground in those high-heeled
boots they seemed to favor. Or maybe they acted as a counterbalance to their
prodigious chests. Or perhaps, in whatever strange and dark dimension the
succubi called home, they actually could fly.)
Dumptruk
didn’t like killing the succubi anyway. They were too pretty, too human-looking.
Not that Dumptruk had any problem killing any man or monster who came at him in
battle, but killing these scantily-clad opponents seemed somehow dishonorable. Even
knowing their true nature, it still felt like beating up on a bunch of girls. Dumptruk
had taken to loudly humming a drinking ditty he knew whenever he battled
succubi. The tune masked their screams and the sickening sounds of their skulls
caving in or rib cages shattering.
Dumptruk
started to lower Gnarled Root. Perhaps it would work: Her love for him would
ease his loneliness. His love for her would restore her humanity. Then he
stopped.
It wasn’t
that he noticed the yellow-white energy arcing between her slender fingertips
as she charged-up to blast him at point-blank range that stopped him. No,
Dumptruk had gotten a good look into her eyes. No lights were on, and no one
was home.
There
was nothing remotely human in those eyes. If there ever had been, it had died
cold and alone a long, long time ago. A drunken tryst with an ugly stranger in
a filthy alley would be more desirable than coupling with this creature. Even
joining with one of the cows in the field would have returned Dumptruk more
love and meaning.
Dumptruk
raised Gnarled Root again. This time, he didn’t have to hum.
[1] I later retitled it “Dumptruk’s Temptation” because I thought
it would be nice for the piece to have a title that didn’t stink.
[2] Dumptruk was named for a non-player character in a college
Dungeons & Dragons campaign who was a hill giant under the thrall of a
weretiger/sorceress.
[3] I misspelled this character’s name. There’s no “e” on the
end. Anyway, in the game, Cain was the Exposition Guy and he was voiced by an
actor who seemed to be doing a not-terrible impression of Sean Connery.
[4] Gillian and Adria were two more town NPCs in Diablo. Adria, the witch, bought and
sold magic staves, potions, and books and also sent you on a side quest.
Gillian, the barmaid, didn’t do much of anything. I used to store my excess
inventory near her cottage.
[5] Mana potions, for restoring one’s magic powers. Assuming you
had magic powers to restore. The Barbarian character class, developed but not
fully implemented in Sierra’s official expansion to Diablo, Hellfire, had a
base magic ability of zero, so mana potions and spell books were not much use
to him. (You could activate the Barbarian test character by writing and adding
a short text file to the game’s directory.)
[6] Succubi were monsters encountered in the final third of Diablo. They were scantily clad babes
with horns and little bat wings who hunted in packs and fought as snipers,
shooting bolts of magic energy. If your character was a hand-to-hand combatant
like Dumptruk, it was pretty much like bringing a sword to a gunfight.
[7] Well, actually, a Holstein. The Bovine Plate and the NPC who
provided it figured heavily in a lot of my other Diablo fanfics.
[8] Boom. Pun.
[9] It was a thing in Diablo,
literally called an “Ornate Shrine.” If you touched it, it granted you the
ability to cast a Charged Bolt spell, but it was a weak level-one spell.
[10] Griswold bought, repaired, and sold weapons and armor. He had a
Scottish accent that somebody obviously had fun doing. Wirt was a shady
character who would sell you random magic items of dubious quality, but it cost
50 gold pieces to even see his inventory. He was the NPC everyone loved to
hate.
[11] This was a tool for swapping items between characters in the Hellfire add-on. That way, if you were
playing as a Sorcerer and you found a really cool sword or something, you could
drop it off at the “Cornerstone of the World” where it would be available for
your Warrior to pick up next time you played as that character.
[12] This was the in-game genesis of this story. I was playing, much
as described in the story, when my Barbarian came face-to-face with a Soul Burner.
They stood there like that for a moment and I wondered what passed between
them.
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| "So... Come here often?" |
