Gamer Hate

Belligerently lacking in remorse.

Monday, August 25, 2008


It’s funny the duplicity of man.
How we mirror our own internal structures in everything we do.
Our freeways built in lines like veins,
the populace, the blood of the city,
streaming down the roads,
every accident a stroke we must unblock,
the blood moves through to keep humanity alive,
by doing their individual tasks.
In corridors and hallways within the buildings,
we walk to our desks,
we type away at our computers,
firing like neurons to create ideas and keep the systems of our cities running smoothly.
We rush outside for brief moments of freedom,
replenishing our ability to think and breathe,
then return inside to keep the system running.
Our trash and sewer systems,
picking up our waste and depositing it far from where we sleep,
so that we are not tainted with its disease.
Man has created civilization in his own image.
Where else in humanity can we see this inadvertent vanity?

posted by CommanderHate at 9:44 am  

Saturday, May 24, 2008

The Narrow (Poetry)

Narrow is one who has sought no answers,
Narrow is the one who accepts the first thing handed over,
Deep and wide runs the river of questions,
While the narrow one can do naught but fetch from the bible like rover,
Without truly understanding their preaching the narrow dog finds they are in a chasm,
The sides too narrow to move forward or back,
But the river of questions will fill the chasm to the top,
Will rover stubbornly stay stuck at the bottom and drown,
Or swim to the top where those with open minds can see the world is round?

posted by CommanderHate at 2:20 am  

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Diablo III
Old Writings I Found

I discovered this ancient bit of writing on one of my flash drives. It was a proposal for the story line of Diablo III. To my knowledge they didn’t use anything from it and I wrote it in my spare time, so you can consider it fan fiction (as it likely would be if I were a fan of the Diablo series). This first bit is just a story arc, if anyone is interested I can show you the storypath/gameplay document that I wrote after I got some feedback on this. Who knows if any of this stuff remains in what they’re working on or if they’re still working on the franchise at all…

Diablo III Story Pass 1

The Order took hold quickly after Diablo had fallen and few could believe the wonders that were created in their name. They created vast cities from monster-infested wastelands and soon you could see massive white towers reaching towards the bright sun in every portion of the world. The Order grew deep roots within the communities of our people, and soon there was not a single facet of life that could not be traced back to their awe inspiring ability to bring peace, prosperity and swift justice.

It was this justice that first opened the door to Pandora’s box of secrets. Now that the world had lost its only villain, there was nothing left to stir the realm; no heroes to rise against a mighty foe, no monsters to slay. Only old abandoned tombs and dusty desolate plains remained that held any secrets, though even their secrets were revealed to the Order. The Order had declared all such secrets their own property; with knowledge comes power, and if power were to slip from the Order’s hands, only chaos could ensue. That would never be allowed to happen.

The Order consisted of heroes from the War of Chaos. Those who had slain Diablo and his brothers had come to rule over us all. At their lead was Thanistar the Paladin, the very personage of what was good in the world; he quickly became the leader of the four. Serena the Sorceress developed laws governing the use of magic, and quickly accumulated hordes of magical items, removing them from the hands of the people who had discovered them and were deemed untrustworthy. Krulgar the Callous meted out punishments on a daily basis, his barbarous tribal background gave him natural talent in this area. Azonia of the Amazons brought her vision of justice to the table, which Thanistar appreciated for its violence towards abusers of women, and Krulgar enjoyed for the harsh penalties it required.

There were other heroes who had helped in the slaying of the prime evils, but they had left soon after the deed was finished. Kiral the Necromancer and Dagroth the Druid disappeared the moment the task was done, one to the wilds of the forest, the other to his homeland where his craft would not be looked on with fear and hatred. Ilsana the Assassin disappeared quietly in the night when Thanistar was declared the leader of the Order.

City life was a daily torment of impending fear. Many laws were created everyday, and it was the duty of every citizen to read them on the walls of the great citadels before they did anything else each morning. The penalties were never posted, but the fear of death was felt in every law that passed. The Order hung over the cities as a thinly veiled threat; each citizen felt the clutch of their iron fists. However, it was all in the name of justice and good. Any who would rise against it must be evil, and those who are evil must be destroyed. What were the citizens of such a civilization to do?

The Archangels became a more common sight in the days before the fire ignited. There was much talk of an impending uprising. Something the Archangels seemed to fear more than anything else. The last days were the most fearsome. Tyrriel himself came down to slay lawbreakers and quell uprisings with his fiery blade. That was all that was left, for every murderer had been slain, thieves had no hands with which to steal, the greedy had been struck blind so they could covet no more. However, it was death that was dealt most commonly by the Order and their Archangels. They had no tolerance for the shortcomings of men, but quickly found that our tolerance for them had all but disappeared.

It took only one month for word to reach out to the rest of the world. The fire of freedom spreads quickly when all you know is tyranny. Men and women poured forth from the cities, leaving quickly and quietly to seek out new lives far from the white towers and citadels that marked every city of the Order. This angered the Order greatly, and was seen as a great threat to the law they had worked so hard to establish. An army was called to duty, the Order declared all who had left to be traitors to their cause and claimed that we were all followers of the destroyed demon, Diablo.

We fought like the warriors spoken of in legends for many moons. The war seemed grim, but we used the darkness to our advantage and fought when they least expected battles. Our militia grew smaller by the day, but still we fought on, hoping that they might give up and leave us to our ways. It was not to be.

Kiral the Necromancer joined us when we needed him most. Though must of us feared him, he was the most reasonable man we had spoken with in ages. He believed that the chaos caused by Diablo was a necessary evil. Without destruction or terror, the Order had turned upon its own peoples’ minor troubles. Without the Order to fight, Diablo and his minions would destroy the world. Kiral seemed to understand the larger picture. He told us that we would play a large part in things to come, and that in the end we would win our former lives back. However, before that could happen, we must join with forces we once believed to be unimaginably chaotic and evil. We were confused and afraid, but Kiral’s words rung true in our hearts and it left us much to think upon.

When the Archangels joined the fray, all hope seemed lost. Fire rained down on our camps, friends were turned to dust before our very eyes. It was clear that there was no way to victory on our own. When Diablo died, something had occurred that no one had expected: A crucial piece of the world had been lost, a balance had been destroyed. Though Kiral told us that Diablo yet lived on…

A desperate plan was formed and we set out to complete it immediately. We followed the path of the heroes that now tormented our days and dreams, and those that had left us to our fate. Through the depths of hell itself we descended, but there was little to fear now. The flames had died down in their mentor’s absence, but still they burned on. The demons and monsters had long been destroyed to the very last one. Only a few historians and archaeologists remained to decipher the runes of the past. They were easily brushed aside as we raced towards our goal, knowing full well that the armies of the Order were more desperate than ever to stop us. The Archangels had been right, but it was their tyranny that pushed us to this end.

The forge of Haephestus lay undisturbed from when Thanistar had destroyed the soulstone, the final link that Diablo still held in the world. That was what everyone believed, but Kiral seemed to understand something about the basic nature of the prime evils.

“They can never be destroyed, not by man, and not by any Angel. Only the creator of all this could do so, and it would never do that.”

Kiral began to gather the fragments of soul stone strewn about the floor of the forge. Each piece shimmered with its own sickening red light, and the hair began to rise on all our necks. Kiral’s words rung true as we felt the fear grasping our hearts at the sight of the gathered soul dust. From the shadows all around us we could see something stir, or attempt to stir, but there was nothing there. Kiral pushed the last bits of the soul stone into the pile.

“From what was crushed, arise anew! Without terror, the Angels turn upon each other for fear of boredom! Without destruction, justice slays its own and is unjust! Without chaos, law lights the way to genocide! Diablo! Cow the Order and show them how petty they have become! Hear our call, rise again to show the world what it is to fear!”

Green fire burst from the Necromancer’s hands and consumed the soul dust into ash. Shadows swirled around the room and furtively gathered around us, seeking a way towards the red fire that now rose into the air. All seemed dark as the shadows filled the area leaving us in complete darkness, but then, ever so slowly, the shadows receded to the center of the room and an eerie red light poured over us. Fear struck our hearts as Diablo stepped forth with an ear-shattering roar unlike any we had ever heard before. The Lord of Terror was reborn and with him, the hope of freedom.

posted by CommanderHate at 6:26 pm  

Thursday, February 21, 2008

The Fate of Dean Polreno

Dean awoke with a splitting headache. He was laying on his stomach flat on the floor.

“What the hell,” he said.

A string of drool stretched out as he slowly lifted himself to his knees. He couldn’t remember what had happened, how he had gotten there or why his head hurt. That’s when he noticed that he wasn’t alone.

All around him people were moving. Not just moving, but dancing and talking and having a good time. When was the last time Dean had been to a party? He couldn’t recall, but he knew it had been a very long time. A pang of self-consciousness struck him and he wiped at the drool. Then he noticed that he was dressed quite well.

A black suit, tailor fit judging by how smooth it felt when he stood up. A fancy red neck tie and polished Aldo shoes made him stare at himself in wonder. He could never have afforded these. At least, not under any normal circumstances. Yet he couldn’t remember why that was. Why couldn’t he afford these things? Why was this so out of the ordinary?

“How are you doing this fine evening, Mr.Polreno,” asked a well dressed gentleman carrying a tray of puff pastries.

“Would you care for an hors d’oeuvre?”

“No, no thank you. Where am I?”

“You sir, are at the finest party that ever was or will be. It’s only a few hours more so I suggest you enjoy it while you can. Everyone is on their best behavior,” said the waiter with a slight undertone of disdain.

Dean had always been good at picking up that sort of thing. When anyone would speak to him directly he could pick out anger, resentment or disdain in an instant. He could read emotions in people as though they were printed in bold red ink on their face.

“Yeah… Thanks… I’ll try to enjoy it,” said Dean. He felt resentment begin to build inside him. This had always been his problem before. He wasn’t sure before what, but he knew that he had issues with anger.

He tried to calm down, but the words of the waiter rang in his ears. Everyone else is on their “best behavior,” therefore, Dean was obviously misbehaving in some way. At least, that was the implication that Dean had picked up on. Dean walked over to the drinks table where some fanciful girls in dresses were standing around a punch bowl. Dean needed a drink.

“That’s why I don’t use Mexican cleaners anymore,” said one snobby girl in a black cocktail dress.

“Well I can’t disagree that they have a tendency to steal, but you could always just keep your valuables in the safe. I can’t find white people who clean as well as the Mexicans,” said another snobby girl in a white sequined number.

Dean felt his face flush with anger. He hated racists. It was almost as if they had sensed his Hispanic heritage and launched right into this conversation just to piss him off.

“Excuse me, I’d like to get a drink… If you don’t mind,” said Dean.

“Oh, well I suppose you have to keep hydrated on the job,” said the woman in the black cocktail dress with just a hint of sarcasm. She turned to her friend and gave a subtle wink which Dean caught out of the corner of his eye.

“When you’re done, could you pick up my fur from the coat room? I’m thinking of leaving the party soon,” said the girl in the white dress. Dean’s head began to throb at that one. He put down the glass he had been picking up and turned to her.

“I’m not your fucking coat fetcher.”

Dean turned away from the table and walked towards the open doors of the veranda. He needed to get some air and let the anger leak out of him. This was always a problem, he thought. He had worked hard to fix this. He just needed to let go and relax, but it was not to be.

On the marble veranda there were several gentlemen in tuxedos smoking cigars. Dean always hated cigars. He thought he remembered punching someone in the face for daring to light one up near him, but the memory slipped away so he wasn’t sure. These men inspired great hatred in Dean and he wasn’t even sure why. They all had distinguished features, very well groomed and manicured beards and mustaches on a few, eagle noses on two more, and of all the things in the world, one was wearing a monocle. A god damned monocle, thought Dean.

One of the men stopped Dean before he could get too far, causing him to inhale a great deal more cigar smoke than he would have liked.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could settle an argument for us.”

Dean was suspicious and didn’t like the tone with which the man had spoken, much less the fact that the man had placed two finger tips into Dean’s right shoulder in order to stop him from moving.

“What the hell do you want, man,” said Dean, his voice starting to seethe out anger as he spoke through clenched teeth.

“My friends and I were arguing about rap music. You see, we think that all people of Hispanic or African descent indulge in the fantasy of become a rap artist.”

“You have to got to be kidding me,” said Dean. The whole thing was ridiculous. Why was he even at this party? Nothing was making sense, and these… Fucking racists were just hounding the hell out of him.

“Well my friends and I were wondering if you could rap for us, you do know some rap songs, don’t you? Probably made a few of your own? Tried to be a rap artist, yes?”

Dean’s whole world went red. He had tried his hand at recording some rap songs once, but that was like an ancient dream. This was the proverbial straw. He lashed out with his fists and dropped the snooty man to the ground with a single punch. The monocle went spinning into the air and shattered on the floor. Suddenly, the lights went out and Dean lost consciousness.

Dean heard the voice speaking through him like it was traveling over an ocean wave. It wavered here and there even though he knew the source was solid. His head was swimming even though he knew he hadn’t been punched. Suddenly a rush of alertness hit Dean. His eyes snapped open and awareness came to him in tsunami like waves.

“It’s unfortunate, Dean Polreno. That you’ve failed this third test of mental stability. Your rage was off the charts yet again. Sadly, our policy at this time is to only attempt the test three times over the course of 10 years.”

10 years, Dean lamented. He had been in prison 10 years for aggravated assault. He had endured thousands upon thousands of hours of psychological retraining to work on his anger issues.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Polreno, that we have been unable to rehabilitate you. The penalty for three failures is death.”

Why couldn’t he be nice? Why did someone mocking his heritage piss him off so much? Why couldn’t he let it go?

“You know why, Mr.Polreno.”

They were in his head!

“A great man once said, your right to swing your fist ends at my nose. Words are just words Mr.Polreno. You of all people should know that since we’ve tried so hard to bring you back to proper society. Freedom of speech is the most sacred right in our world, and we cannot abide people being silenced. We must stop that at any cost. You understand this now, as that was the core of your training. Yet, you still couldn’t stop yourself from hurting that man just because of what he said.”

“But he touched me,” Dean cried out.

“He pushed me, with those two stupid stick fingers of his.”

Dean saw the Officer of Speech Freedom step into the light.

“Really now, Mr.Polreno. Have you learned nothing at all?”

The Officer sighed heavily.

“Goodbye, Dean Polreno. Your words and thoughts have been recorded for posterity in the records of Speech Freedom. People will study them long after you are gone. I hope that gives you some solace.”

The Officer of Speech Freedom pushed a small red button on Dean’s chair. A lethal liquid was introduced to his IV and Dean’s vision began to dim. His last thoughts were this.

“Fuck you.”

posted by CommanderHate at 8:31 pm  

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