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It is three in the morning and I have hacked into the main site from my Blackberry. I am posting this article to expose the truth about the Writer’s Guild of MDV. In the few hours of slight freedom I have here in the predawn I must tell you: It is not a happy, shiny place, and I am in grave danger. As soon as the light peeks in through the window down the hall I will have to cease this transmission so as to avoid giving away my position. Please read this, and for the love of god: Call the police! If there is only one thing you learn about the Writer’s Guild of MDV, let it be this: The Guild is a myriad of closed doors. The building itself is pretty dank and the floor that houses the Guild is reminiscent of a basement in some bizarre frat house the morning after a huge bash. Another odd thing is the wallpaper. It’s hideous, truly hideous. I feel like I died and woke up in my grandmother’s flat in 1962 Brooklyn. Can you wake up after you die? Well, that’s not the point. The point is I’ve been here for the past month, yes, right here next to the water cooler in the hallway of the Guild for one whole month. Waiting and watching. I’m here when Mal arrives with his “gimp” in the wee hours of the morning, and here when Luther leaves with his briefcase handcuffed to his wrist late at night. I haven’t seen Amadeus, but there’s a door with his name on it a few feet away from where I’m standing right now. From what I’ve overheard here, he’s putting out articles, but whether its from some remote laptop or his office here I couldn’t really tell you. Every now and again, though, I see wisps of smoke billowing out from under the door, and just last week a guy went in delivering Chinese food at around 2 A.M. and has yet to reemerge. “So why are you standing next to the water cooler, Ham?” Good question. No, great question. The answer is two-fold. First (and foremost), I have simply no idea which door is the one to my office. They assigned me one on my first day, but only three writers actually have their doors labeled, and the rest are all a non-descript olive drab. I’ve been standing here in my corduroys, a brown tie, and the only nice dress shirt I own which happens to have a huge coffee stain down the front. It’s starting to get hot out and my nether regions have been sweating profusely for a week or so, and though my stench might give me away in the coming hot, summer weeks, for now I think I’ve been blending in with the odor of stale liquor and urine that seems to pervade the hall. The coffee stain is actually from Tynion tossing a scalding cup of coffee at me on my second day. I really didn’t expect it because he had been so helpful and mentor-like when I applied for Guild membership. I’m not sure if he was throwing it at me, or just in my general direction. I don’t even really know what happened, but I think it was because I knocked and entered when I should have knocked and waited. Like I said: the Guild is a myriad of closed doors. Tynion was in the middle of a rant directed at Ryu (who didn’t even appear to be listening) when I entered the room to find out my deadline for the next Delusions article. Tynion turned to face me and said something about “you mannerless fat bastard” and launched his entire cup, scalding hot contents included, towards my chest. Yes, it burned. I turned and ran screaming down the hall to what I thought was my office down the East wing, but I must have been confused because I barged right in on Mal and the “gimp.” As I began to stutter an apology, trying desperately to look away, Mal started reaching for a katana off the wall behind his desk. At this point I stumbled backward into the hallway and found myself heel to toe with what smelled like the smoking room down at the Horse Brass Pub. As Mal’s door slammed shut I turned and noticed I had just caused Luther to pour his coffee onto his cigar, at which point he dropped the cup and cigar to the ground and punched me in the gut. This was a complete shocker because Luther, who is surprisingly strong for his size, had been so friendly the night before when he had taken Dazboot and myself out for a few pints at said pub. Doubled over in the hallway, my second morning at the Guild would not have been complete without Death_By_Beebles walking by, briefly stopping to laugh at my predicament, pouring his beer on me, and then continuing down the hall towards the conference room. Yeah, I know!
What I noticed throughout the course of that first day was that the left side of the cooler had some sort of mystical veil. Everyone, and I mean everyone (except Amadeus) would stop by for a quick drink, and not one person looked in my direction. MZ even bounced his water cup off my leg and into the wastebasket without batting an eye. It was my Circle of Protection, and every day for the next month at 8:30 A.M. Dazboot would stop by the cooler, avoid all eye contact, place a Bavarian cream donut and a vitamin C tablet atop the water jug, and proceed to his office. He is the only reason I am still alive. Which brings me to the second part of my two-fold reason for not having moved from this spot in a month. I’m terrified. You would not believe the things you overhear at the water cooler in the Writer’s Guild. At first it wasn’t frightening at all. In fact, the first few hours of each day are some of the most fruitful times to bask in the genius that is the Writer’s Guild of MDV. Each day I am learning an immense amount about things like building decks on a budget, and how the tempo and mana base of a particular deck can impact the game. I’ve learned all about the cash value of a great number of cards and where to buy singles, as well as when I should buy booster packs instead. Everyone here is just chock full of useful chatter that first few hours after the morning conference. Recently I’ve even heard things like, “Yeah, that hamsandwich, he’s got some talent,” and “Man, where’s ham? It sure would be nice to get an article from him; the kid can write, I just wish he’d apply himself.” Unfortunately, the paranoid android living under my skin thinks these types of comments are mere ploys to draw me out of hiding. It’s what gets talked about nearer the end of the day which has me glued to this wall. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m eating my donut when they’re all in the conference room at 9 a.m., and at night I try a few yoga moves just to keep the blood flowing, but for the most part I am glued to this wall. I’m talking about the “Archives.” You know, the part of the website that houses older articles and whatnot.
Mal calls it the dungeon, and Streetz calls it simply “the cellar.” It’s where guys like Lionden_56 and omegaprime9774 are. Their meager rations are sent down a chute and I think they end up having to fight over whatever scraps the Guild decides to send down. Sometimes they’re only fed like once a week. There does seem to be a way out of the dungeon, but I get the impression it’s a pound for pound exchange. Something like, “Okay, how about you write us an article this week and we’ll get you 12 hours on the outside,” or “We need an extra First Impressions, stat. Who wants to use the cell phone for four minutes?” Yeah, it’s weird. I don’t think there are any windows. And it’s not underperformance that lands you in the dungeon. In fact, some of the best material the main site has ever seen was pumped out by the guys in the “cellar.” It’s lack of production that lands you in the hot seat with Tynion. “I want another article, TODAY!!” That’s why I’m scared. I mean, my wife had a baby for god’s sake, I need some time to adjust. Now I’m rambling, though. A week ago I really thought about just stepping out one day, finding Cashew, and asking where my office was and getting straight back to work. I even tried to whisper a few words about card selection to Daz as he was dropping off my donut, but he just laughed and walked away. Almost gave myself away, too, as both Luther and Ryu blew by us in the hall just then. I held my breath for the next seven hours, man. Believe me, if it wasn’t for Ryu’s security cameras I’d have been out of this mess a long time ago, but the minutes turned to hours, and the hours turned to days, and here I am a month later: my muscles turned to fat, text messaging my wife with all sorts of “business trip” excuses, and pressure ulcers starting to form on my heels. If you’re still reading this then there’s hope. Someone, anyone, I need a distraction. Maybe if someone could just bomb the building or something. Then I could crawl out of the rubble like I was in my office the whole time. Right? Please, someone, tell my story. I’ve gotta go, I think the birds are starting to sing…. ~hamsandwich~
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So
there I was, on the ground, shivering like a dog in a thunderstorm. That’s when
I felt Dazboot’s hand on my shoulder. As I looked up he said, “Look man, I know
its rough and I know you‘re scared, but you gotta hang in there. Go stand to the
left of the water cooler until you get your *&$# together. It’ll be alright.
Don’t ask questions, just do it.” And with that he shuffled away, briefly
juggling a very unorganized stack of papers. So I did it. I stood right where I
am now and began trying some breathing exercises.