Outraged citizens in the Town of Monteriggioni took to the streets today as Ezio Auditore, the town’s “secret” oligarch and infamous assassin, announced a plan to remodel the town’s fountain for a third time using funds from an undisclosed source. Many protestors claim these funds came from their own pockets, and state Ezio stole the florins himself, and didn’t have the decency to run away but instead merely walked at a fast pace hoping no one would notice.

One citizen shared this grievance: “We’re only asking for a little transparency here. I’m willing to pay a property tax- heck, I’d even throw money at him for the ‘don’t stab me in the back’ tax- but I’d at least like to know beforehand where the money is going. I mean, I can see why we need a well for fresh water, and I understand why a brothel might attract more tourism, but a Thieves’ Guild? Really? How does that help the wealth of a city? A safe zone to train more thieves to rob people? Where does the money go then? Back into the hands of Ezio’s Architect, who then remodels the Thieves’ Guild?

“I also heard that he spends a lot of ‘public funds’ on paintings for his house. I get it: it’s the Renaissance. But give me a fucking break! I don’t care if they those paintings reveal more secrets about the effects of time travel! The Future is a long time from now, and I’m stuck here in 1478 with no money to buy the niceties Renaissance Italians enjoy, like a new set of rags or a mask for Carnival”

Other citizens were a bit angrier: “It was kind of cute when there were only six people living in this town, and Ezio thought dressing like a knight would help him keep a low profile. Then we would let him steal a little money from our pockets, until it became obvious he thought we didn’t notice! He kept tearing down wanted posters with pictures of him, as if we’d forget what he looks like. He’s the most notorious assassin in Italy; I think we know when he sits on a bench next to us!

“He’s also one of the few people in town who hasn’t lost his nose to The Pox, of course we know his face! When he stole money from a lot of my relatives, then did a swan dive off the church tower into a haystack, that’s when I knew he was mocking us. Or when Da Vinci gave him that flying machine? Forget it! When you’re literally the only person who can fly, you’re no longer in hiding.”

Finally, one citizen offered this solution: “He should have the decency to get his money through acceptable means, like murdering deviant Popes or stabbing other thieves to death in the center to entertain us. Has he not read The Prince yet? Even serfs know the two things you never take from people is land and women. I think he must have meant money as well. Maybe Ezio should listen to the guy instead of just using a world renown writer as another hand in murdering people! I hope Dante is somewhere writing a new Epic, instead of wasting his time running around and killing things!”

Further reporting by Dan Wilbur.

“LOL PSN MORE LIKE P-SUCKIN”

“PLAYSTATION MORE LIKE PRAY-IT-WORKS-STATION”

“HEAVY RAIN MORE LIKE SHITTY RAIN ON MY SYSTEM THAT DOESN’T WORK”

These are just some of the output of 360Gamer4939, a young man from Florida whose pride in his choice of gaming system knows no bounds. In these, and countless other posts on message boards, game blogs, and internet chat rooms, he has boasted for over a week about the brief outage of the PlayStation Network for gamers around the world.

“It may have been the best thing that ever happened to me,” he told us. “PS3 fans always get to be so smug with their ‘wah wah red ring this’ and ‘blah blah service outage that’. Well, guess what – now who’s got the reliable system? That’s right, me. Suck on that, PlayStation fans.”

The tables, it seems, have been turned – at least in the eyes of 360Gamer4939. Whereas once, he had to resort to mudslinging like “GEM IS A GAY NAME” and “ROLE-PLAYING GAMES ARE FOR FAGS”, now he has a strong basis for his argument – the brief outage of an online service, for a portion of PlayStation 3 users. “The facts are finally 100% on my side – the Xbox 360 is clearly the better system.”

360Gamer4939 will continue to preach the gospel anywhere he sees fit – as long as it doesn’t involve leaving his computer chair. He has a lot of time to preach the gospel these days – his 360 is currently on its way back from being repaired for its fifth red-ring.

[all quotation marks have been added by the editor.]

On Monday, March 1, 2010, Alan Wheat, a 27 year old “man” from Durham, North Carolina awoke to news that struck him to his core – the PlayStation Network was down, and even turning on his PlayStation 3 could cause dire consequences for his “progress” and his “trophies.” The “man” read the news carefully, once, twice, then a third time, hoping that there was some way he could find a way around it.

Since he lost his job in October, Wheat has spent most of his days with his PlayStation 3. He has “explored” alien worlds, “traveled” to far-off countries, and “met” a number of exciting characters. A few “care packages” from his parents have sustained him over these months, as his girlfriend left him in December, telling him to “get a life”.

“I was totally planning to “meet up with” Matt,” Mr. Wheat told us. “He and I were going to “hang out” and play the new Borderlands DLC “together” – I’ve been waiting for this for a while. But then the whole network went down, and how am I supposed to “connect” with him when I can’t even turn on my PS3?”

The “man” then went into a long description of his “Home” on his PlayStation, as well as his “friends” that he enjoyed to play various games with. His “Home” stood in stark contrast to his pizza-box-riddled hellhole, a sublet from a “friend of a friend,” neither of whom he’d seen in a span of at least six months.

“My “Home” is great – I’ve even got a lot of really cool “outfits” for “myself”. “People” make fun of it, but it’s “fun” to “relax” and “dance” with a few “interesting” “girls” online,” he told us.

The “man,” upon learning that the PlayStation Network would be down for the rest of the day, spent a few hours “reading” blogs, then settled down to a marathon of “films” from his days at “college.”

In a follow-up interview this morning, the “man” seemed “overjoyed” that the PlayStation Network had returned. He was glad to “see” his “friends” again, and to “have the chance” to “meet” “new friends” in his online “games”.

The alarm clock goes off in the bedroom of a small, suburban apartment.  It’s 7:00 a.m.  Brendan Garrett, the apartment’s tenant, should be rising from bed and preparing for work.  Instead, Mr. Garrett lies beneath the covers – his bloodshot eyes staring at the ceiling spackling.  His orange tabby cat, Peyj, is pawing feverishly at the bathroom door.  The alarm sounds once more, but is quickly silenced by Garrett’s pale hand upon the snooze button.

“I think I’ll just stay home today,” states a sweating Garrett, “I think, maybe–.” Garrett’s voice is cut short by an agonizing pain deep within his abdomen.

It wasn’t always like this.  Just three days earlier, Brendan Garrett was a happy, normal, 27 year-old man.  His job at the local paper distribution company, PulpCorp, was beginning to take off.  Plus, the new girl in accounting was a “total boner factory”.

“Yeah, man, I’m gonna’ nail that redhead, Kathy,” Garrett told Hardcasual on Friday, “I just need to lose a few pounds.  Luckily, my buddy works at the health food store and he hooked me up with these detox pills.  This should totally clean my system out.”

After a brief stop for half-off appetizers at Mr. Jumbo’s Wingageddon – a local sports bar – Garrett made his way to the Ikea overload he calls an apartment.  The cat’s food bowl was full and the answering machine only contained the bothersome ramblings of a mother who didn’t understand the potential of letter-sized ream sales.  Garrett threw the plastic bag containing the bowel purging tablets on the coffee table; shaking his head while slamming the machine’s delete button again and again.

A rerun cop show played silently on Garrett’s rear-projection television as he sat on his white faux-leather couch, sliding the strange looking box from the bag.  The cover was adorned with bright, vibrant colors and a foreign language.  Garrett turned the box over in his hands before removing the instructions.

“This stuff is from Japan,” he told us, “so it’s got to be good.  I mean, just look at how skinny and shit all those Japanese people are.  I bet they eat these things like M&M’s…like fuckin’ Japanese M&M’s.”

Garrett tilted his head back, tossed one of the large multi-colored pills in his mouth, and quickly washed it down with a healthy amount of Acai Berry VitaWater.  “I’m glad I started this on a Friday,” he said, “I bet I’ll be shitting my brains out all weekend.” That night — stumbling back to his bed that came delivered in a box — Garrett didn’t seem to notice the strange glow or eerie Eastern music coming from the detox carton.

It was 3:30 a.m. when Brendan Garrett was awoken by the distinct feeling that his rectum was about to explode.  “Man, I guess that stuff has started working,”  Garrett thought as he ran to the bathroom.  He sat upon the toilet; bracing himself for the inevitable deluge brought upon by the mysterious, detoxifying pill.  All at once came a great pressure, followed by sixteen solid minutes of the loudest fecal downpour ever recorded.  Garrett breathed a sigh of relief.

Like many weirdos, Garrett had seen the various “colon cleansing” pictures on Google.  He knew the next step was to grab a piece of rolled-up newspaper, turn on his camera, and snap a picture of the horrific aftermath in his toilet.  Returning with the newspaper, Garrett reached into the toilet bowl and emerged with his prize.  However, what he discovered would change his life forever.

Draped over the wet sports pages hung a creature.  It was multicolored; like a rainbow.  Two large, bulbous, pink knobs adorned the ends.  The beast’s face smiled up at Garrett as it began to writhe and stretch its body to great lengths.  Garrett screamed and threw the paper down.  He ran, slammed the bathroom door behind him, and dove under the covers of his cheap, Swedish bed.

It’s Monday now; 10:30 a.m.  The alarm clock sounds again, but it’s too late for work now.  “It’s too late for anything,” thinks Garrett.

Kathy, the girl from accounting, rings the doorbell just in time to hear a loud bang.

She enters Garrett’s apartment and begins to scream as she reads the word written in blood above the bed:

“GIRL”

Hardcasual attempted to locate the health food store, but there was nothing there except for an empty lot with an old, crazy Native American guy sitting in it.  He started shaking a stick at us and laughing…fuck that guy.

Further reporting by Matt Clark.

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.

When Mrs. Biederman brought home the copy of Tony Hawk: RIDE, carefully tucking it away behind the towels in the family linen closet, she must have missed the thick gloom that followed her car back from the Best Buy like the grimmest of wedding cans.

Excreting from the video game’s box, a tangible sadness embedded itself deep within the Biederman household, hidden behind walls and in unused cabinet space. It was at first no more noticeable than a fresh mosquito bite. The kids would just suddenly lack any drive to help clean the table or Mrs. Biderman might cry a little longer than usual during those seasonal commercials where the son comes home from Iraq — with a tin of instant brew coffee nonetheless. No one knew where these feelings came from or why they had arrived. They just were. And then they weren’t.

Ignored and enraged, the portents persisted. One late afternoon, the Biedermans’ dog, Bo, barked at the front door for a good two hours with nothing out there but the slightest of drizzles. And on another, while doing her Algebra homework, their daughter and middle child, questioned if maybe, like was it possible if, Mr. and Mrs. Biederman had adopted her. After all, neither of them had her nose.

The uneasiness brewing in that linen closet was almost pinned down when, on a night less than two weeks from Christmas, Mr. Biederman tucked in his youngest. While plucking crusties from his son’s eyes, he noticed the child’s skin had turned rigid and cold. “Like a crocodile,” he told Mrs. Biederman during their nightly alone time together in front of the television. “You,” she snorted, “have never once touched a crocodile.” “I’ve touched crocodile boots,” he countered but by then Dancing With the Stars had returned from the commercial break and the peculiar occurrence was all but forgotten.

No matter how clear the omen, how obvious the warning that something was wrong, really, really wrong, it seemed the Biedermans managed to fold it up neatly with their logic and pack it away to be forgotten like all those old linens in the closet. And the copy of Tony Hawk RIDE ensconced between them.

On Christmas Eve, the gods, or whichever forces in the universe whom decide what is right, took action against the looming threat of a Christmas morning with Tony Hawk RIDE. Like a Roman candle, the Christmas tree erupted spontaneously into flames after one of its infinite tiny colorful light bulbs burst with a charge, lighting the dry green needles and sending them whizzing across the living room. Ornaments cracked and ruptured from the heat and the sharp smell of burnt popcorn filled the house since the healthy snack had been freshly strung and hung on the tree that morning.

When the firemen finally let the Biederman clan return to the house, they found a heavy glob of brown and green goop pocked with sparkly glass and ceramics where the tree and the presents once were.

But Tony Hawk RIDE had not been there under the tree. Mrs. Biederman originally thought it would be such a surprise, on Christmas morning after the kids finished with the other presents, to send them up to the linen closet for one last gift. Now, RIDE would be the only present as the rest had been destroyed and any remaining money in the family’s savings account would be used to repair the house and finance their eldest daughter’s reconstructive surgeries — her burns were quite hideous.

24-hours passed slowly, as they tend to do while filling out home insurance claims and tending to your burn-victim daughter, but soon enough Christmas morning arrived. The children and their father huddled in the living room around the Christmas glob, which hadn’t been removed though they all knew it probably should have been as it was clearly a health hazard. Mrs. Biederman, upstairs, reached through the towels in the linen closet until her hands blindly clasped the hard videogame box. She pulled it out and made her way downstairs, delusionally triumphant, thinking this the savior of an otherwise dreadful holiday.

She set the parcel before the family and perched herself on the glob. The youngest son, whose skin had grown so cold and hard that it flaked where it met his cuticles, gingerly peeled back the wrapping paper. “Tony…” he read aloud, pulling the paper back more.

And darkness swallowed the house.

The accusation, which has been cooking in political and videogame blogs for weeks, boiled over this week when Senator Perry, while playing Modern Warfare 2 with a sickly child at a leukemia fundraiser asked the a body guard how to invert the controls. “Make it more like Descent,” said Senator Perry.

Under incredible pressure from the public, Senator Perry held a small, private meeting with the press at his private estate, confessing he had “never served anytime as a Flag Runner,” but did spend a couple months after college playing the story modes in a “really great Coast Guard game.”

Critics of Mr. Perry wasted no time voicing their opinions:

“It spits in the face of all those gamers who voluntarily gave up their lives to constantly play this online phenomenon,” says Pvt. C0rnh0lio69, “It’s like he never served!  If he hasn’t been on a 25 enemy kill streak, how will he ever know to hit left on the d-pad to launch our tactical nuke perk and win the match?!”

“May I be the first to nominate MustLoveDog23?  He served his time, headset and all, and he has the record to prove it!  He’s won nearly every Prestige Mode medal!  What has Mr. Perry won? A couple achievements in BioShock. ”

Senator Perry claims his multiple years as a National Laser Tag Champion also benefit him as a potential Commander in Chief.

“What’s at stake here is the senator’s credibility,” says GravyGuy64 “What about his stories of ‘super-sick moments calling in air strikes’ and ‘knifing bros?’ Lies! All lies! We want our President to be a sociopathic virtual murderer.  That’s what he promised us in his campaign!”

“I know that I never served active duty online,” Perry said at his press conference this afternoon, “but I did win a Purple Heart for my service in the Gulf War.”

“Gulf War?!” says Pvt. C0rnh0lio69, “I stabbed my neighbor in the back just to get a flag back to some arbitrary spot.  What did he do?… Really, what did he do in the Gulf War? I was born in 1994.”

Additional reporting from Hardcasual’s own Daniel Wilbur.

Don’t let mainstream media brainwash you with their half-truths about Modern Warfare 2. Yes, the game  features a scene in which the player can (but doesn’t have to!) shoot civilians in an airport; however, in-game context proves developer Infinity Ward to be making an insightful, necessary point about terrorism and I’ll explain after you suck my balls, faggot.

Bitch.

See, fashioning a fictional act of terrorism that plucks our real life fears has hitherto been the stuff of post-9/11 authors and auteurs, doctors and documentarians. That’s why I predict, with its record setting sales, Modern Warfare 2 will act as an ambassador for video games as art, cathartic dramas, commentaries of our time, portals for human interaction in which you can gobble my nob like it’s a matza ball you fucking Jew.

Gobble-gobble, turkey ass bitch.

The public flogging of Modern Warfare 2 is just another example of mainstream media sacrificing earnest, nose to the grind stone coverage for lazy, just add water controversy. This wouldn’t have happened in the golden age of journalism—you know, before they hired all these niggers to cover basketball. What, you got a problem with the way I speak? Yeah, leave a comment, pussy ass bitch. I’ll come to your house and pop your momma’s ass.

Ratatatat, ratatat.

Modern Warfare 2 is more than a controversial single-player campaign. Its multiplayer mode is the perfect outlet for competitive gamers and also features the necessary materials – namely headsets and identity concealing user IDs – to culture my vernacular. It’s a forum for poet’s like myself, not poet’s like you, you Walt Whitman wannabe limp dick.

There’s also spec-ops, the coop mode. I play spec-ops with my friend, Jeffrey — no-homo.

It’s a game that expands our thoughts on globalism, militarism and the need for a real bro. Because bitches B Bitches 4 Life.

I wouldn’t be championing this if I didn’t believe in it.  I’m its biggest fan.

A Hardcasual Editorial by Lucas Sims, “MrSi6tyNi9e.”

During a promotional event for heavy metal adventure game Brutal Legend, Jack Black was reportedly consumed in flames when a fan’s too close lighter tribute ignited the hem of his polyester muscle costume.  First responders say it was nearly eight minutes before a horrified passerby splashed the star with a large cup of soda, extinguishing the blaze – admirers had mistaken Black’s agonizing screams for his signature metal yells.

It’s been two weeks since that unintended pyrotechnics display consumed a Gamestop store along with a nearby fragrance boutique, delicatessen and day care and Mr. Black has finally woken from his trauma coma.

“This is off the record, right,” asks Tricia Lee from her bedroom window. She leans out to light a cigarette, mistakenly taking our non-response as compliance, and continues. “He looks like a sliced pickle.”

Lee’s a burn nurse at Bellevue Hospital ICU, the unit attending to Jack Black. The plastic muscle costume was a mixed blessing, she explains. On one hand it started the fire, but on the other, the polyester insulated him from the flames, saving his life. But then again, the fabric melded with his skin, melting, then quickly hardening into an excruciating shell of soldered flesh.

“It’s a cage of unhappiness,” waxes Lee. “That’s how I described it in my poetry blog.”

Inside the hospital, paparazzi fight for a photo of the pickle star.

Black’s folds of charred “skin” are preserved under a thick glassy layer of lubrication. His eyes, beady sallow specs like two white sprinkles on a chocolate muffin: one of Black’s favorite foods, which he still enjoys. Now, nurses must blend it, plunge it into a syringe and squeeze it through a small whole in his cheek – for now, a provisional mouth.

But Black’s first post-coma words shock his caretakers. Using his stub hand, a hole in it like an action figure grip, he scrawls out a sentence:

“This is so metal, I relish it.” The words of a sliced pickle.

Nathan unravels his silk black tie, exhales a steady, cigar huff of a breath, and takes another swing at the Windsor knot. “Who named it the Windsor,” he says aloud to no one in particular, “Because he sure got the sore part right.”

Nathan’s caught himself doing this recently – quipping to himself. A weird tick he must have picked up during that miserable quest for El Dorado.

“I wonder how Elena’s doing,” Nate shouts. The statement echoes in the room, amplifying as it were trying to maintain a conversation with itself. It was on that same quest he had met the perfectly highlighted nymphomaniac. A magnesium hot fling for two weeks gone, and they haven’t since spoken.

Nate opens a tattered satchel, his travel bag, and pulls out three bubble wrapped containers of rubber cement.

With his thumb, he pops each bottle open, then uses his index and middle fingers to collect globules that he hurriedly applies under the belt area of his ¾ quarter tucked thermal shirt.

For Elena, the shirt’s tuck was a point of contention. He thought it a distinguishable fashions statement; she found it an insurmountable sexual obstacle.

“I better check the weather,” yells Nate, awkwardly changing topic with himself when comes a, “Quiet down in there,” from the raspy androgynous voice in the room one over. “Motel’s the only time I can watch my HBO.”

The laptop in the corner glows, illuminating a torn painting of Jesus’s visage preaching over the hilly plains in what looks like Oklahoma pre-industrial revolution. How’d he wind up living out of a Motel? “Oh yeah, the weather.”

Stealing wireless from the café/diner next door’s tricky: he must balance the computer on the Bible atop the Yellow Pages above the bookshelf next to the front door. Right alongside the vent. Ping – it’s a low signal, but this will have to do.

Nathan turns on Firefox. He checks the weather (warm with a chance of drizzle). He checks his Gmail (need to pay that credit card bill). He checks Facebook (Elena has an update).

“Elena has an update!”

“Quite, I said!”

Over the voice of that raspy he-she, Nate hears his conscience, a chorus of his friends and family. “Don’t check Elena’s Facebook page,”  they say from the backest part of his head. “Defriend her.”

Click. Elena’s page loads. A status update. She’s boiling green tea and didn’t like last night’s Mad Men. And a new photo album. Click. Click. Click.

He whisper to himself, “Good, she’s not with any intimidating men.”

Her profile, it too has changed. She likes 30 Rock, now. And old school Foo Fighters. She’s still single.

Nathan considers masturbating to pictures from the album “My Trip to Bermuda.”

“That would be creepy,” he groans. “And I’ve already glued down my shirt.”

Look at the time. Nathan has to leave in a half hour. He has a date with that new girl.  Chloe what’s her name. Harry Flynn introduced them. She’s his type, Nate thinks.

Back on the screen. Click. Now, Elena stands next to a hunky man in Bermuda. He stands a foot taller than her. His face his strong, mature. Much more mature than Nate’s. The man wears a nice jacket. Cuff links. Fully untucked button-up. And a perfect Windsor knot. She looks happy.

A hundred miles away, hours later Elena Fisher logs in to Facebook.
Nathan Drake is… going out tonight.