Well, see, it really sucks because what happens is, Philip Rosedale comes to their houses, right, and he's always packing heat and carrying a bigass backpack. Some days he'll go all out and it'll be a Kalashnikov. Other times he's phoning it in and only comes with a 9mm. In any case, what he does is, he comes to their houses and puts the barrel of his piece right up against their temple.
Really.
Like, right up on it. So they're sitting there in front of their computers and Philip, he says "Do you want to live today?"
And by this point these poor bastards are trembling uncontrollably because here's this guy with a flock of seagulls haircut showing up at their house wearing a rainbow codpiece and he's holding a gun to their face asking if they want to live and, implicitly, suggesting that there is a good chance they will not.
So of course, tears beginning to stream down their faces, these guys reply in the affirmative. Then Philip proceeds to grill them about their system configuration. When found lacking, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a video card, sometimes some RAM. At gun point, Philip instructs his victim to install the hardware. And this is pretty tough because, you know, gun pointed inches from their face, tears streaming out of their eyes, noses running, choking back the sobs of dire intimidation, they're pretty broken up as it is. Many of these people don't even have much technical expertise, so all of the above combined with the unaccustomed frustration of installing hardware in their PCs really throws them over the edge.
Philip knows how to play them, though, and he begins to tone down the toughguy bravado with a more wheedling, yet firm tack explaining that no, he really doesn't want to hurt anyone, but he will if he absolutely has to and that the sooner this hardware upgrade is completed, the sooner he can get what he wants and get the hell out of there.
Thus encouraged, the hardware upgrade proceeds and the PC is rebooted. All the while, the gun remains leveled at the face of the victim. Philip begins pacing at this point, muttering about the difficulty of building the metaverse and the challenges of making people understand. The victim just wants to live, so they don't say anything unless Philip makes it absolutely clear he expects a response.
Fresh drivers installed from a USB Flash drive Philip keeps on his keyring, he gets down to business.
"All right. You're going to install Second Life," he says to them, an absurd calm in his voice. He pauses for effect and straightens his gun barrel.
"S-ss-second wwhat?"
"Second Life! Pay attention to me," the executive begins as he guides his victim through the process of download and installation.
With the client installed and registration completed, Philip finally allows himself to relax and has a seat. He has yet again incremented the total resident counter and feels much more at ease. The gun remains leveled, just the same.
"What do I do now?" The victim looks, terrified and seeking, at Philip.
They always ask this, Philip thinks. Stupid, stupid question. As always, it throws him into a rage.
"What do you do in your first life? What does anyone do?! Do whatever you want!"
"I want... I want you to stop pointing that at me!"
"Then I guess you'd better get going, hadn't you?"
And then he stares grimly as the victim begins the run through orientation island. After another hour, the victim teleports out onto the grid. Beginning to relax, the victim is almost intrigued by the new experience. Almost, but not quite, as the survival instinct triggered by the gun is still providing quite a distraction. Invariably, the victim finds something cool to wear. But it costs money.
"How do I make money in this game," asks the victim, almost brightly, the tears and mucous now dried in a thin sheen down the face.
This, of course, is the wrong question, and Philip's eyes and nostrils flare. In a flash, he is up out of his seat, raising his weapon. The butt of his rifle or pistol slams brutally into the cheek of the victim and a bright, shining droplet of blood issues from the corner of the mouth.
"Call it a game again. I dare you," growls Rosedale, his teeth gritted in a primal fury that overpowers him almost every time.
"It-it's not a game?" The victim is choking back tears again, terrified and smarting from the blow.
"It's not a game." Rosedale agrees as he levels the barrel again but, seeing the time on his watch, he thinks better of it and withdraws the weapon, either holstering it or, in the case of the Kalashnikov, allowing it to dangle dramatically on its shoulder strap across his chest.
"I'll be back to check on you," he rasps through his teeth.
So, this right here is why people post this kind of stuff. You would do well to be sensitive to their harrowing experience. Come on now.
Really.
Like, right up on it. So they're sitting there in front of their computers and Philip, he says "Do you want to live today?"
And by this point these poor bastards are trembling uncontrollably because here's this guy with a flock of seagulls haircut showing up at their house wearing a rainbow codpiece and he's holding a gun to their face asking if they want to live and, implicitly, suggesting that there is a good chance they will not.
So of course, tears beginning to stream down their faces, these guys reply in the affirmative. Then Philip proceeds to grill them about their system configuration. When found lacking, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a video card, sometimes some RAM. At gun point, Philip instructs his victim to install the hardware. And this is pretty tough because, you know, gun pointed inches from their face, tears streaming out of their eyes, noses running, choking back the sobs of dire intimidation, they're pretty broken up as it is. Many of these people don't even have much technical expertise, so all of the above combined with the unaccustomed frustration of installing hardware in their PCs really throws them over the edge.
Philip knows how to play them, though, and he begins to tone down the toughguy bravado with a more wheedling, yet firm tack explaining that no, he really doesn't want to hurt anyone, but he will if he absolutely has to and that the sooner this hardware upgrade is completed, the sooner he can get what he wants and get the hell out of there.
Thus encouraged, the hardware upgrade proceeds and the PC is rebooted. All the while, the gun remains leveled at the face of the victim. Philip begins pacing at this point, muttering about the difficulty of building the metaverse and the challenges of making people understand. The victim just wants to live, so they don't say anything unless Philip makes it absolutely clear he expects a response.
Fresh drivers installed from a USB Flash drive Philip keeps on his keyring, he gets down to business.
"All right. You're going to install Second Life," he says to them, an absurd calm in his voice. He pauses for effect and straightens his gun barrel.
"S-ss-second wwhat?"
"Second Life! Pay attention to me," the executive begins as he guides his victim through the process of download and installation.
With the client installed and registration completed, Philip finally allows himself to relax and has a seat. He has yet again incremented the total resident counter and feels much more at ease. The gun remains leveled, just the same.
"What do I do now?" The victim looks, terrified and seeking, at Philip.
They always ask this, Philip thinks. Stupid, stupid question. As always, it throws him into a rage.
"What do you do in your first life? What does anyone do?! Do whatever you want!"
"I want... I want you to stop pointing that at me!"
"Then I guess you'd better get going, hadn't you?"
And then he stares grimly as the victim begins the run through orientation island. After another hour, the victim teleports out onto the grid. Beginning to relax, the victim is almost intrigued by the new experience. Almost, but not quite, as the survival instinct triggered by the gun is still providing quite a distraction. Invariably, the victim finds something cool to wear. But it costs money.
"How do I make money in this game," asks the victim, almost brightly, the tears and mucous now dried in a thin sheen down the face.
This, of course, is the wrong question, and Philip's eyes and nostrils flare. In a flash, he is up out of his seat, raising his weapon. The butt of his rifle or pistol slams brutally into the cheek of the victim and a bright, shining droplet of blood issues from the corner of the mouth.
"Call it a game again. I dare you," growls Rosedale, his teeth gritted in a primal fury that overpowers him almost every time.
"It-it's not a game?" The victim is choking back tears again, terrified and smarting from the blow.
"It's not a game." Rosedale agrees as he levels the barrel again but, seeing the time on his watch, he thinks better of it and withdraws the weapon, either holstering it or, in the case of the Kalashnikov, allowing it to dangle dramatically on its shoulder strap across his chest.
"I'll be back to check on you," he rasps through his teeth.
So, this right here is why people post this kind of stuff. You would do well to be sensitive to their harrowing experience. Come on now.
Can someone get me the Cliff Notes to this? Or at least send Philly over here to force me to read the whole thing.
