The newspaper is missing from the doorsteps of homes and hotel lobbies. The stores are shuttered and the railway, stalled. Inside a store, a TV flickers the news, but not the local news – reporters never bothered to show up.

This is South Korea, less than 24-hours after Blizzard released the StarCraft 2 Beta on an unsuspecting public.

South Korea, known for an exceptionally high national APM rating (actions per minute), now stands like an ant hill, a barren exterior enclosing a population busying beneath with menial labor.  But while an ant colony’s actions provide for the greater good, these South Koreans engage in self-centered Player vs Player matches, unflappable in their pursuit of nothing more than a  commendable win/loss ratio.

“There is no time for productivity,” says a young man, his fingers clacking on a keyboard. “By day, we practice. By night, we humiliate Americans.”

Incumbent President Lee Myung-bak, the last man, twists open the folding shades to his penthouse loft and observes the streets below him, noticing the sudden  surplus of stray cats. It will be only hours, he suspects, before felines take the city — days before South Korea becomes a kitten nation.

Not every citizen received a beta key. As President Lee Myung-bak peddles his bicycle across the empty city, he hears screams followed by gunshots, then almost-silence of digits clicking at hot keys. The streets are quiet as personal wars rage in the homes. Brothers fighting brothers. Mothers slapping daughters.

The President’s bicycle rolls around the wooden barricades of Kunsan Air Base, the United States military installment. Myung-bak has had his share of problems with the installment: that it is run by a couple brats from Texas, a place he knows and cares little about. These “cowboys” are his only hope now. Them. Their fort. And their military-grade EMP.

Listen up, Dad.

I’m going to Afghanistan. In a video game. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Because my country needs me to play this game so I can fight in a real war one day when I’m angry or just really strapped for cash.

Do you hear me? I know you’re right outside my door.

I know what you think. That fighting in Afghanistan in a video game is a complex something and I don’t get it; that I’m not mature enough. But you’re wrong. Mature games are for people 17+ and I’m 18. Do you hear me? That’s mature enough by a whole year!

I know something about Afghanistan and warfare.

What are the rules of engagement? Um, like headshots are one hit kills. Same with melee attacks. Remember spawn points and camping is for pussies.

Afhganistan? It’s rocky. And the bad guys wear berets and checkered scarves  and menacing aviator shades. I’m not a noob to this stuff, Dad.

Now let me ask you question. 9/11. Ever heard of it? Because it happened. And all the people that planned 9/11, they lived in Afghanistan for awhile and then they moved to Iraq but now they’re back in Afghanistan. And if I do really well killing them in this video game just imagine what I could do in real life. I could single-handedly avenge every death on American soil. I mean, have you seen my kill/death ratio?

Hey, hey hey – don’t cry, Dad. I don’t want you upset. It’s just, I know you think I’m a screw up. And maybe you’re right. But you deserve to know it’s not your fault I struggle so much with school. Class is just…it’s just so boring. And long. And it’s like, what’s this ever going to do for me in the real world? Playing all these video games, they’re training me for something big. Something I understand sort of.

I know it’s possible that I’ll die in Afghanistan in a video game. And that my stats will get really low and that the real army won’t want to recruit me and that then I won’t have enough money to buy Lisa all the stuff she wants and that she’ll like probably leave me, but what else do I have?  Where else can a high school drop out go? Culinary school? Oh Dad, if only I’d played Cooking Mama.

7. “Mmmm, corka peta bep bep.”

“Mmm, this meal certainly reduces my hunger meter.”

6. “Barsh, purda tip peme pep, sorm zesh cartablash.”

“Miss, for an astronaut turned rock star, you make a delicious turkey.”

5. “Ahhh molombia flenny flenny.”

“Ahhh, who removed the doors from the dining room?!”

4. “Sodapat torb shesh bert tormashot greb porp.”

“I find your recycled jokes about the stressful holiday season very amusing.”

3. “Chopa grepper zet. Tep gorga seep borma.”

“Who invited that new guy? And why is he in my bedroom?”

2. “Sherm ses sklavoshi tarp, zib pertan bresh.”

“I did not mean to burn the turkey, but I could not exit the swimming pool.”

1. “Porsky slavot kevki mesh tav perskivat. Shosh tempa porpor goo resh bert farf.”

“I hear you are also having a Christmas dinner? My invitation must have been lost in the e-mail.”

It’s not hard to understand. All I’m saying is zombies are real, I need three men to help me survive them and I’m sorry, Tommy, but I don’t think you’re one of those men. You’re a great boyfriend, I just… I just don’t feel safe with you.

That doesn’t mean you won’t survive this. No, no, no, no, no. All it means is you won’t survive this with me. You could very well escape New Orleans in any number of ways. But one trip to a safe house together, me and you, would undoubtedly give power to a number of hot button issues I think we’ve done a commendable job inactivating. For example, how in this relationship I am more of a hunter and you are more of a gatherer.

Please, stop crying. Please. Huh? What’s that?

What do you mean no one will fight the zombie plague with you? What about Scott and Derrick? Or even Frank? You’re no Superman, sure, but Christ your friends make Woody Allen look like Allen Iverson.

What do you mean I shouldn’t pick on them? They deserve it!  OK, correction: I did not say it’s pathetic Frank moved back in with his mother after college. It’s pathetic she still cuts his food.  Whatever. I don’t want to talk about Frank. He’s fat and ugly and when I said my friends would love to date a nice guy like him I was lying.

Ok, calm down.

What’s this really about, Tommy? That I feel safer with your brother, Ellis? I said that was a joke. Kind of. I mean, would you blame me? Like, I was totally cynical when your mother got him that gym membership last Christmas. He was way heavier than you then. But he’s really stuck to it. And now his abs, it’s like a statue of David came to life with a natural ability to kick zombie ass and spot safe houses and protect me with his hunky arms…

Come. On. There’s nothing going on between me and him! I was joking. You know when you get paranoid like this it makes you so small. And you’re already like three inches shorter than me.

Tommy, I appreciate you. You do so much for me. You make an excellent vegetable chili. And that time I was on a trip for work and you caught that mouse all on your own, you were really brave.  On the flip side, Nick, Coach and your brother Ellis, they offer the security of a well-oiled killing machine. We cover eacher other. We share health packs. And we don’t cook vegetable chili.

Sometimes, Tommy, a girl’s got to go with her brains over her heart. Because when zombies are part of the equation, brains are what really matter.

Cole Robinson snorts a foot-long line of coke like it’s his job. He gasps and pounds his fists a few times on his mahogany desk and looks about to have a heart attack. He paces around the room a few times, his white robe trailing behind him. He stops at the wet bar he has set up beneath a signed Scarface print and makes himself a stiff drink. Just another Sunday afternoon here at Rockstar Games in New York City.

For those who don’t know, Mr. Robinson is the rock star at Rockstar. He’s their go-to PR man. The one who made the company their first million. And while he may be a small man – he can’t be an inch over five foot – he has some really big ideas.

“Kittens man, you fuck the fucking kittens,” he says after downing his old fashioned in one gulp. “They’re cute, right? And you fuck them. Non-consensual like. Kitten rape, is what I’m saying. Write that shit down. That’s an exclusive you got there. You fuck kittens. First game to do it. World first.”

He stares at wall, then at his hands. “Cocaine! Alright!”

The ‘kitten-fucking’ that Mr. Robinson refers to a new mini-game recently added to the company’s next installment of their flagship product: Grand Theft Auto: The Ballad of Gay Tony. Not much is known about it other than it involves having anal intercourse with adorable kittens.

Now Mr. Robinson screams into his Blackberry while sprawled out over three chairs in middle of the Rockstar Studios reception area. He’s dressed in the rumpled Armani suit he’s been wearing for the past four days. His hair is a wild mess.

“I like it fucked up!” he yells. “It makes people understand that I can fuck them up!” He tosses the phone over his shoulder. It cracks open into a dozen pieces on the tile floor. A beleaguered security guard collects the pieces. “That was EA. Remember when they tried to take over Take-Two a while back? Well, I still have the CEOs son somewhere in the Poconos. Boom, problem gone!”

Robinson is no stranger to controversy. Rockstar’s brand of gory, sex-filled violence-orgies have gotten the company in trouble before. All part of the territory, says Robinson, who in 2001 was plucked from his job as a bouncer to get as much exposure for the games as possible, by any means necessary.

“Remember Manhunt? Game about killing killers for snuff videos? Well, we actually made a series of snuff videos. It was wild man. Very cinema-verite. It was going to be, going to be like, viral marketing. ‘Cept nobody watches snuff films anymore! First big, fucking, failure.”

Mr. Robinson takes a deep drag out of his cigarette and sighs. “Fucking Youtube.”

The next morning, screenshots of the kitten rape mini-game surface for the first time. The scenes are extremely graphic, with a substantial amount of detail going into the facial expressions that a kitten makes when being sodomized by the player character. It appears that a button must be pressed in time with the rhythmic humping of Gay Tony’s buttocks. If done incorrectly, the digital kitten explodes in a mess of guts and semen.

Mr. Robinson seems to show no remorse for the way the new content is shaping up.

“Look, this business, this business of video gaming and shit, you’ve got to be there man,” Mr. Robinson says. “Fucking, like, flares coming out of your ass. I mean, we called the game “The Ballad of Gay Tony”. We expected to be pissing out multicolored glow-stick water by now, but no. No fucking CNN around-the-clock Gamestop coverage, no Fox News circle-jerk. If you ain’t got 1000 words in the Post about how you’re corrupting youth, you’ve lost the fucking war.”

Robinson expands on this point several hours later, while behind the wheel of his Porsche. He’s drunk, high, and going 120 mph in a school zone. A strange woman is going down on him.

“People don’t fucking understand, you know, what fucking, what fucking, you know, goes into this shit. You know how many bats we broke on hookers–” His phone rings. “I got to get this, champ!” He answers. “Y’ello…a-huh…yeah…well, yeah, just call it the ‘Matthew Shepard’ achievement and give them some fucking gold badge or some shit. You’re asking me to do your job now?”

Robinson jerks the wheel suddenly. The car spins and turns over on its side. It careens into a lightpost. There is a crunch of metal followed by the pillowy punch of an airbag.

Mr. Robinson awakes with a jagged piece of metal through his neck. He laughs, blood bubbling out of his mouth. The strange woman looks dead. Sirens wail in the distance. “I can’t…die…” he says. “I haven’t…fucking…made my opus…”

As the light fades from Mr. Robinson’s eyes, one can almost hear the cats laughing.

Reported by Hardcasual’s Canadian correspondent, Filipe Salgado.

Early this afternoon a batch of brand spanking new screenshots were posted on the Valve Left 4 Dead 2 blog. They showcase three new melee weapons (a decidedly Freeman-esque crowbar, a thorny tree branch, and a blood-spattered King James’s Bible), some slight changes in character outfits (Ellis now sports a shiny high school class ring), as well as a few minor changes to the levels we’ve seen at various trade shows.

Not all that exciting news. Or, it wouldn’t be, if they didn’t also reveal – for the first time – a brand new class of special infected: “The Greg”.

The Greg is a short, nebbish zombie with an inexpensive pair of wire-framed glasses adorning his grotesque, acne-scarred face. He loves to stand in doorways and gently touch survivors on the small of their backs as they pass by. He then tells them what a great job they’re doing.

It’s the most terrifying special infected Hardcasual has seen yet.

Valve is quick to point out in their blog that, “though the new special infected looks and acts an awful lot like Greg Tuplatski from Valve Human Resources, any similarities are entirely coincidental.”

So who is this Greg Tuplatski? And why does Valve seem so concerned about hurting his feelings?

Hardcasual was able to get a hold of the Greg Tuplatski in question for a brief phone interview, in which he stated – after repeated attempts to publicize his weekend LARP retreat in the woods outside Portland – that he was only made aware of the new character this morning. He doesn’t see the similarity.

“It looks nothing like me. We have the same glasses, I guess, but those aren’t anything special. A lot of people have these glasses,” Mr. Tuplatski noted. “It’s a little weird that we have the same tribal tattoo, though.”

Hardcasual acquired personal photographs of Mr, Tuplatski from his mother and sister. Both Mr. Tuplatski and “The Greg” have thin long faces, glassy eyes that stare right through you, and a fondness for light brown pleather jackets from Old Navy.

“We would never base a character on one of our employees without his knowledge,” says Gabe Newell, the managing director at Valve. “’The Greg’ is named such because he supports the Witch and the Tank in their efforts to kill the survivors, much like Greg Kinnear is best known for his supporting work as an actor.”

After a long pause, Newell pushed a button on his desktop phone and added loudly: “Coach is a huge fan of As Good As It Gets.”

One of Greg’s co-workers e-mailed Hardcasual when she discovered that we were writing an article about Mr. Tuplatski. She optioned to remain nameless. She had this to say about the seedy underbelly of Valve’s Human Resources Department:

“…from my experience (and I’ve worked here for six years) I can say without a doubt that the new special infected is based on Greg… the creatives have a habit of strolling down here when they’re running low on juice… they take out their notepads and jot down details about the seven of us… “

She sheds light on this detail much later: ”…one of our employees is grossly obese, another is a three pack-a-day cigarette fiend, another likes to lurk in the kitchenette and hop on top of people when they don’t wash their hands…”

She then goes on to describe in great detail a muscle-bound member of the staff who politely asked Gabe Newell to change the Tank model in the game. Newell declined and the man was fired. In distress, the man screamed angrily and flipped a few cars over in the parking lot.

Though this afternoon marks the debut of this new character, ‘The Greg’ appeared briefly in a shaky hand-held video posted to YouTube after a playable demo appeared at GamesCom last month. It went by too quickly for people to notice at the time. At the 3:14 mark one can clearly see ‘The Greg’ gently caress the small of Rochelle’s back as she passes through a doorway.

“Love the way you’re surviving,” he whispers.

Prolific film director Sam Raimi has over twenty-one projects in the pipeline, ranging from surefire hits like Spiderman 4 to more unique properties like Priest and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. The man is a relentless multi-tasker, able to juggle a ton of balls at once, but there’s one project that he won’t be going into production on until he’s done all the research required: Warcraft.

Mr. Raimi addressed an audience of fans and reporters at a press conference on the Warner Bros. lot yesterday morning. He appeared to be at least twenty pounds heavier than the last time we saw him, at the premiere for his last movie Drag Me to Hell – which opened mere months ago. In addition to his weight gain, Mr. Raimi was sporting a two-inch long beard that appeared to have been dunked in Arby’s special sauce.

“The writer, Chris Metzen, and I are doing a lot of raiding—I mean researching. We’re doing a lot of researching together,” Mr. Raimi told the audience. “We’ve been researching Naxxramas, Uldum, all those places. Sometimes more than twice a night. However many times it takes. We want to get this right.”

Chris Metzen, who is one of Blizzard’s head writers and Mr. Raimi’s go to source on the project for all things Warcraft, was unable to make it to the conference in time. The head of a popular Warcraft fan website asked if Metzen was unavailable because he is busy penning a draft.

Mr. Raimi paused, then answered a text on his iPhone. “Uh, yeah… hold on… They’ll just have to find another Priest… Shit, Heroic? Does anyone have their laptop here?”

All throughout his career, Sam Raimi has been known for his commitment to researching his projects. His first film, The Evil Dead, was shot over the length of a year with a few of his friends in a remote cabin in the woods. To prepare for the shoot, Mr. Raimi spent two weeks in the woods with his brother, chasing bewildered campers while high out of their minds on LSD.

To prepare for his western, The Quick and the Dead, Mr. Raimi spent two weeks in the desert with his brother, chasing bewildered Gila monsters around with a pair of antique pistols while high out of their minds on LSD.

And for Spiderman, the film that launched Mr. Raimi into the Hollywood stratosphere as an A-list director, Mr. Raimi and his brother spent two weeks in New York City, chasing bewildered hobos around town while high out of their minds on LSD.

Mr. Raimi spends a solid half hour of the press conference on a stranger’s laptop, waiting for “this patch to install, I mean… Final Draft to install”.

Hardcasual asked how far along he and Mr. Metzen are with the script.

“We haven’t really started writing the script yet, but we’re still set for a March 2010 loot date. Shoot date! I meant shoot date!” Mr. Raimi shouted. “I’m coming down! Where’s my brother? Where’s Teddy?”

When the morning was come, UPS Man did rap thrice on the door of Jesus de Rosa, delivering unto Him a copy of Sins of a Solar Empire.

Jesus saying, why hast thou burdened me with the all these sins? But UPS man was not moved by the quip as Bluetooth covered his ears and his loud girlfriend was on the line.

Then was fulfilled that which was prophesied by Chris the Freelance Editor, saying, And Jesus will ply his reviewer trade on a Role-Playing Strategy, whom they the hobbyists and they the scale modelists and they the students of History do value.

Jesus trusted in Chris to deliver him now from this cruel bondage: for He said, I am not paid enough for this.

But Chris did not listen. So unto himself Jesus took these Sins.

And then did Jesus explore the Empires’ many celestial objects and anomalies. And then too did Jesus explore the Empire’s Moby FAQ and Wikipedia page. And then again did Jesus copy the Wikipedia page and paste it and reword it and fashion it with much snark.

But Jesus’ word count had reached no more than 100, and so did He return to the Solar Empire, taking upon Himself once more its many Sins.

To cure His woes for the game, Jesus did consume Red Bull and Fritos, but they satisfied Him not, as He was large-wasted and required much drink and snack. The nourishment did however fill him with alacrity for the task of unlocking Empire’s many civil building units and that was good.

Then straightaway, at the fourth hour, the caffeine and salt did fail Him for he then needed sleep and drink, but he received them not. The Empire grew increasingly dark so Jesus did increase the monitor’s brightness.

Now from the sixth hour of Sins the darkness spread over all the computer lab unto the ninth hour. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me to 4X strategy games?

At the tenth hour, Jesus downloaded the Entrenchment expansion, inputting his product key to initiate installation, but the key was not recognized and so Jesus was denied. His mouth opened for a final yell and the ghost did leave Him.

Sit down, Joseph! Mary-Anne, you listen to your mother! And get your hands off that goddamned video machine, Walter! Grandpa wants to tell you grandkids a story. You like stories, don’t you? I promise you it’s a good one. The best one I know, in fact.

So plant your little butts down here at Grandpa Blazkowicz’s feet and let me tell you about the time that I ate thirty-two Psilocybin Mushrooms and Killed an Entire Castle Full of Wizard Alien Monster Nazis.

What’s psilocybin, you ask? Perhaps that’s a better question for your father, Joseph. Just know that – back in the day- the government used to give soldiers whatever it took to get the job done. Whatever it took to give the man the cajones to go lone wolf into enemy territory and pit himself against the most awful abominations mankind has ever witnessed…

…patchwork beasts who crawled on their hands, making the most awful noises… corpses that pulled themselves out of the ground and rattled their bones at you… undead Saxon warrior-princes…

What’s wrong, Mary-Anne? Why are you crying?

No, no. This has nothing to do with the time I smoked opium and killed Mecha-Hitler. I’m not allowed to tell that story anymore. Your mother’s rule, not mine. Besides, aren’t you proud that Grandpa Blazkowicz mowed down the most evil man of the twentieth-century with a rail gun?

No, no. This story has a happy ending, I promise you. I’m alive, aren’t I? Sure, there are bound to be some scary moments along the way, but that’s bound to happen when you’re locked inside a medieval castle with a couple Nazi wizards who are summoning demons from the fiery pits of hell to usher in National Occult Socialism.

Fine, Mary-Anne. Run off to your mother. Tell her that Grandpa Blazkowicz is talking crazy again.  I don’t care. You sound just like the goddamn military tribunal. I know I’m telling the truth! You believe me, don’t you Walter?

Of course you do. Have I shown you my old flamethrower? It’s somewhere in Grandpa’s closet. We can look for it after I’m finished with my story.

Where was I? Oh, right. So I’ve just swallowed thirty times the suggested dose of psilocybin mushrooms and been captured by an elite force of Himmler’s Ubersoldats. All I’ve got is my trusty blade and my wits. As these fifteen foot tall cyborg/monsters escort me into the castle dungeon, I see an army of Nazi’s on this side and an army of glowing blue skeletons on this side. And they’re all saluting the goddamn Nazi flag.

That’s when I threw up all over myself. Which probably saved my life.

Where are you going, Joseph? I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet! Grandpa Blazkowitz blows up an entire wing of the castle with a gun that shoots a small nuclear rocket!

What do you mean, you want to watch TV? What the hell is How I Met Your Mother?

I’ll tell you How I Met Your Grandmother! That’s a story! It was 1943… or 1944… and I was on given an experimental drug called LSD. The CIA had just discovered it and wanted to test it out on ol’ BJ Blaskowitz.

I was tasked with… what did they task me with? Right. Killing Deathshead. Or Wilhelm Strasse, if you’re taking notes. Now, the last time anyone had seen him was a few years previous… when he had taken off into space in a custom-build Nazi rocketship…
I’m not done, Joseph! You disrespectful little brat! Don’t walk away from me!

Is this the way you treat a war hero? Is this the way you treat a man who has killed more Nazi’s and Demons and Nazi-Demons and Space-Nazis and Demon-Space-Nazis than anyone who has ever lived, ever?

Hmm?!

Oh, now. Walter! Stop melting your face like that! It makes Grandpa Blazjowitz sad. Come on now, take my hand. We’ll go take a gander at the flame thrower. Maybe, if you’re a good little Loper, I’ll let you burn down Daddy’s garage with it.

“Mom’s under a lot of pressure right now to hit all the orange pegs, so I’d appreciate it if  we conducted the interview in the backyard where it’s quiet,” says Brandon Duncans, age 13.

This is my first time meeting the Duncans, a family not unlike most. Their house is a beige paneled ranch in the suburbs. Their dog is a Labrador adopted from the pound. And their mother is addicted to Peggle.

“You could say we’re the post-nuclear family,” quips Brandon over afternoon cocktails. The sun is hot, even under the back patio’s umbrella canopy, but the drink’s refreshing mix of ginger ale and grenadine provides temporary relief.

“Before I mix my elixirs, I give each cup a teaspoon of mashed maraschinos,” Brandon says. He’s a precocious stand-in for an absent parent.  “My mother taught me that trick. I do so miss her.”

The sugar high opens Brandon up to discussing the elephant in the computer room: a lonely woman taking on the existential quandaries of midlife along with 4 orange pegs and one final ball.

She’s been mostly at the computer for seven months. On those rare occasion she gets out – to use the restroom or visit her parents – she brings her iPhone with its one app, Peggle. Her index fingers – now little more than skin sheeted bones – tap and click at the glass, the noise interrupted every so often by a scratchy recording of “Ode to Joy,” the triumphant tune played each time a Peggle board’s completed.

But, to the Duncans, the victory song sounds like a melodic strain of defeat. Ode to Joy is embedded with painful memories: Mom missing Brandon’s junior high graduation, Mom missing Brandon’s confirmation, Brandon missing Mom.

“She’ll snap back to reality,” says Leonard Duncan, Brandon’s father. “She was just like this with Tetris in the late 90s. Wouldn’t go to work. Wouldn’t pay bills. Wouldn’t have sex. And all that did was make our marriage loveless. Then Brandon was born.”