maniac’s field notebook
Sunday, April 3rd.
Drinking. Preaching. Not killing.
Faucervix are frustrating at greater distances.
Cornundacaudas are spawning like on steroids North of Argus.
No income, Isabela is almost broken. Barrel overheats every ten rounds.
Must get to the terminals soon. I barely afford a pack of cigarettes.
Time to do something.
Monday, April 4th
Preaching. Not drinking. Not killing.
Helped a miner discover a vein. She gave me 10 peds as appreciation. Bought ammo.
Tuesday, April 5th
Drinking. Not preaching. Not killing.
Prayed for Jitter. Jitter got a 404 PED crafting HOF. Gave me 10 peds.
Good thing people believe in me and in Lootius.
Damn, maybe he does exist?
Wednesday, April 6th
Drinking. Not Preaching. Not Killing.
You know, the problem with most diaries and blogs is that they are too freaking long! That’s why nobody reads 'em. Seriously.
The only reason I would read a long diary is if it was a person I care about.
Or someone, on whom I’m doing research.
Other than that, short, sharp paragraphs of no more than 4 lines are a lot easier to read.
I heard Pope John Paul finally made it. Is this what we live for? To have thousands of people on your funeral? Fame? Notoriety? Is this what we care for when we’re dead?
On the other hand, if even 100 people came to my funeral, sincerely, out of real respect - that’d already be a sign of a life lived gloriously not in vain.
But what is glory? And who needs me?
Thursday, April 7th
Killing. Drinking. Not Preaching.
Svetlana made a good point in her diary. PE is great because you can meet people from anywhere, anytime. If you like to travel and easy to get your ass up and go.
Like me, it’s no problem for me to get up and go, unlike some people. Some folks just sit around and think up millions of problems and reasons why they should stay home tonight.
Me? I met Svetlana, yes. Met her IRL. And I enjoyed spending time with her a lot. And I met Hawk too - and he is an awesome guy! And I think I should meet up with ZippO.
Sunday, April 24th.
Killing. Preaching. Drinking.
Good week overall. Lootius sends me mini-victories, although no globals.
A few good feffoids with 10-15 ped loots. Good little things.
ZippO asked me to bless his apartment on Genesis Star complex, and just as we got there - I was swallowed by the dark abyss of CTD. Never could get in touch with him again. Z, if you’re reading this, let’s set up a time. We have to do this right.
Repaired Isabela’s barrel, amplifier, and scope. She looks a bit happier, but still needs work.
Friday, June 3rd.
Not killing. Not preaching. Not drinking.
Svetlana’s utopic corny-girl-to-the-bone mood put me in an anti-state.
Hence, a little gloomy and disgusting remix of Lenon’s classic.
Imagine there’s no heaven,
We vanish when we die
No hell except for this one
All trees around are dry.
All birds are frozen silent
All eyes are frozen shut.
And not a single sound.
It’s easy if you try.
Imagine all the people
Living just to die.
Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do.
No order and no borders,
No place belongs to you.
A horde of some barbarians
Invades your cozy home
Because there is no army
To cap them in the dome.
No room to call your own
No privacy is known.
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
Your property and items
Shared by other men
Nothing to care or live for
And no religion too.
No morals, and no guidelines,
The freedom’s all for you.
Legions of teenagers
Spraypainting on your door
What a wonderful dream
But we still want some more.
Imagine total strangers
Taking your mother’s gold
The animals called humans
Trying to share the world…
You may say I’m a psycho
But I really don’t care.
I hope someday you’ll join us
In this collective nightmare.
Saturday, June 4th.
Killing. Not drinking. Not preaching.
I realize that my PE days might be slowly coming to a pessimistic end.
Hunter’s days, anyway. Empty mobs all the time are pissing me off. It used to never be like this. 30 mobs - not a single loot. 50 mobs - not a single good loot, just maybe 50 pec here and there.
My last success was enough to keep my gun repaired. MindBuster bought my thighs for 300. That was good. Out of that money - only 140 PEDs are left.
My last money, not counting the gun.
I choose to preserve it, rather than waste it in a frenzied chase of happiness.
Preserve it until the better times, and until empty mobs get cancelled.
Or what if it never happens?
Or is it time to quit?.. what am I here for? Do I really live for the hunt?
…
[I]rolls a cigarette, only two more left in the pack
lights it up, inhales[/I]
…
Yeah, I do…
Sunday, June 5th.
Drinking. Preaching. Not killing.
My landlord is doing a makeover in my apartment. Been moving all my shit all day. Spending my last money in bars. Bartenders cancel my tab one by one, because I never payed…
Knox is becoming a forbidden name there.
It’s interesting sometimes. I wander the streets of this magnificent bloody megapolis HadesHeim… so ruthless, so senseless. Walls of glass and concrete.
An intersection of busy lives… and me. Me in it. With a heavy rifle on my back I walk the virtual driveways with my virtual feet. I have no illusions anymore.
My pixelized eyes looking up the sickening toxic pixelized sky. Gray sky of HadesHeim…
My blind future. Like a stern teacher, life shows me there is no exit.
Time freezes like this. The moment of the moment.
The moment of the moment of the moment.
Poverty.
Time to find a shelter. It’s going to rain.
Tuesday, June 7th.
Not drinking. Not killing. Not preaching.
What am I still waiting for?
A glimpse? A glimpse of light? A glimpse of hope?
You know you have to do it, Knox. You know you have to.
It’s time to put yourself out of this misery…
Why am I here? Why am I still breathing? Do I have hopes?
You wish it was that easy, Knox…
Black and white version of my colorful dreams…
It’s not letting you go. It’s not easy at all. Isabela. I think Isabela is the only thing keeping me alive now. However lame and banal it may seem. My true love. My dearest rifle.
You still have a right of a 8000 bullet ammo clip. Your last song.
But maybe there is hope for us still? Maybe? What if?
My faith is not as strong anymore. I no longer see the way.
Is it really gone? No. No!
I am still the Priest! Not some broke bitter man.
This is killing me…
Konrad wanders through the desert as described in [B]THIS[/B] post
his travels lead him to a hidden bunker where he trades his way out with the mercenaries cargo ship, bringing him to Port Atlantis
…wow… it’s been a while since I saw this place, but what the…
Atlantis looks like a bloody damn circus… flags… decorations… what in the world…
smokes his last cigarette calmly
I hope they still sell alcohol… wow, what is this..?
notices the newly stationed battle ships placed on display
So they finally implemented the new technology? Was about time to start thinking about robots… Actually, these defenses look quite impressive… I wonder if we can hotwire a few of these.
Ehhh… but Lootius teaches: Thou Shalt Not Steal.
I hate this Christmassy nonsense…
wow… the Colonist Transport… this is so nostalgic… these stripes of red and white… ehhh… Konrad D. Knox, prisoner number 18796…
tear
Alright, let’s find the nearest liquor store.
[I]Fort Troy.
A shadowed figure passes through the halls of the communication complex.
A figure of a tall slim thin man silently moving along the walls of the lobby.
Konrad quietly sits at a table in a publicly accessible institution, holding one hand to his head, and holding a pen in the other. He writes a few sentences on a piece of paper.
His handwriting is hasty and hard to read, but the title of the paper, which seems to be a letter, says “WILL”.[/I]
-The entire range of possessions… the… entire… the mmm…
The man seems to be thinking every word through very thoroughly.
-The scope of my actions will determine the outcome… in the case of the worst outcome, my entire inventory should…
Konrad stops for a moment, adds something to the letter quietly, and signs:
Konrad D. Knox
Another moment passes, and he crushes the paper with his hand, tearing it apart and throwing it into trash.
-Ah, screw this.