It’s Friday. The convention is over. The flatscreen televisions have all been packed up, the booth babes sent home with paychecks in their purses. The industry talent have all gone back to back to work on their games with renewed vigor and the opinionated mavens who track their every move are en route back to their home states, nursing hangovers. We all had fun at the 2009 Electronic Entertainment Exposition – except those of us denied entrance at the door, of course – but now it’s over. Time to get back to the real world.

Unless you’re the dreadlocked, half-cyborg that used to be Leigh Alexander.

The Gamasutra news director stands twelve-feet tall in the lobby of the Los Angeles Convention center, her brand new laser eyes glowing red with fury. Each step she makes shakes the ground and shatters glass. Behind her is the gaping crack in the wall she just tore open, and outside is a trail of destruction – overturned cars, fire hydrants spewing fountains of water, the charred corpses of innocent bystanders – between here and what once can only presume is the hotel she woke up in.

“WHERE IS IT?” Ms. Alexander screams, her voice a terrible mechanized croak. “WHERE IS ZOLTAR MACHINE?”

A team of weak-kneed security guards pull up in a golf cart and pile out, unsure how to approach the bile-spewing blogger. One of them fires at her with a net gun usually reserved for the capturing of safari animals. Ms. Alexander easily crushes him into soup with her pinky finger and then plows into the main exhibition hall, her greasy black dreadlocks whipping behind her in the wind.

“IT RIGHT HERE LAST NIGHT, ME THINK,” moans Ms. Alexander. “ME NEED TALK WITH SIMON. HE WITH ME LAST NIGHT.” She sits on the floor and tries for a couple minutes to snap open her purse with her giant, chrome plated fingers. It’s no use. She sighs. “JUST NEED BLACKBERRY.”

The sounds of sirens grow closer and a police helicopter hovers overhead. As Ms. Alexander wanders the convention center, destroying concrete walls as if they’re made of paper mache and incinerating convention center workers without hesitation, she recounts the events that led to her transformation from intelligent, sexy blogger to terrifying, twelve-foot tall monster.

“ME MAYBE TOO MANY DRINKS AND BORED AND PLAYING AROUND WITH FORTUNE TELLER MACHINE FROM “BIG.” MORNING ME WAKE UP IN HOTEL ROOM GIANT HALF-CYBORG KILLING MACHINE AND TO MAKE WORSE ME BLEW THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS ON IN-ROOM MOVIES. ME NO EVEN REMEMBER WATCHING “HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU.” UGH. ME NO ALWAYS GO LITTLE TOO CRAZY AT E3.”

Twenty minutes pass with nary a Zoltar Speaks machine in sight. It will be a long, arduous journey tracking it down and Ms. Alexander seems to know it. “ME NEED CIGARETTE,” she says to no one in particular.

The convention center eventually succumbs to the damage and collapses in a mountain of twisted metal and concrete. Ms. Alexander, the gaming journalist/homicidal beast, sits atop of rubble and playfully swats at police helicopters. She looks around and notices a clock atop the nearby Staples Center. She looks stricken. “ME LATE FOR PLANE AND STILL NEED TO WRITE THREE POSTS ABOUT NATAL AND TWO ABOUT MIYAMOTO AND THAT NOT EVEN INCLUDE PERSONAL BLOG. ME NO HAVE TIME FOR THIS!”

She picks up her purse and trudges down Figueroa street, her metallic feet crushing families still trapped in their cars. She stops to ask an EMT worker for directions towards LAX. Then she eats him.

“ME NO IDEA WHAT ME COULD WISHED FOR,” she says as she climbs onto the freeway. “WHY WOULD ME WISH TO BE GIANT ROBOT? THAT MAKE NO SENSE. OH WELL. MAYBE ZOLTAR MACHINE WILL BE AT BLIZZCON. WILL FIX THEN.”