I put my fist through the viewscreen . . . . . . The Marlin and I stand in a throng of onlookers watching the competition. Seasian's catapults have withdrawn from a village, fleeing the onslaught of Matty's war chariots. Just then another band of chariots pours out right in front of Seasian, and he's caught in the bull's horns. People are screaming, ranting, fists in the air, I hear the distant echo of jackboots.
Horses collapse, foaming from the mouth.
Drivers are sent airborne, their necks snapping on impact with the ground. New York City, 1995. Operative Two, then a WotC employee like myself, is in charge of the decor. He has arranged for the tournament staff to wear brown shirts and black pants, and has black and red banners hanging from the ceiling. The Marlin and I aim our plastic guns at the screen of the video game and fire until our fingers are sore.