CHUNK 666 vs. Brian Herbert
Lo!! The Sumpification of this cow-town of a outpost of the hinterlands CHUNK 666 calls home momentarily intermissioned to make chunking around a not-nonpleasant experience. A handful of us loafed around The House of Lords (… And Ladies), and polished off the remainder of a bottle of cheap Thai whiskey, wherefor, properly lubricated, we rode.
The primary destination was a house party of a neighbor of a friend of Big B.'s. But firstly a detour was to a location perhaps best left unspecified. Thereon, this gaggle of CHVNK helped themselves summarily and generously to delicious pumpkin pie, negligently left to cool on an open window sill.
From thence we went to said social kegger near-abouts.
After a good hour or so sipping some sort of colonial beverage claiming to be from India, and discussing, in various and sundry manners, Life in a Provincial Township, and CHUNK 666's niche in such hinterlands as this, and the interaction of the two, and namely the continuation of certain archaic, dated, near-feudal social customs relating to being a Genteelman (or Genteelwoman), Namely, the identification of certain negative traits (blood feud, inebriation, vendetta), as well as positive ones (blood feud, inebriation, vendetta).
Eventually Denk grew restless and bellicose of this line of conversation, and posited the pack hit the road. Namely, that we roll downtown and gatecrash Orycon 27.
Plate I. Orycon27 program, obtained by our agents.
Orycon, for the uninitiated, is Oregon's largest science fiction (and gaming) convention (although I am informed attendance has been on the decline as of late due to chronic infighting). They essentially rent out an entire hotel for the weekend, sell and buy goods and stuffs, play games (rolepalying, board & card), speakers, etc., and so on and so on.
Oh yeah. Brian Herbert and his little hack writer friend were special guests this year.
Arriving downtown, we grilled an exiting participant for information. We had missed the costume ball, but apparently there was an on-going "dance hall." We secured the squadron and easily slipped through a door as some hotel employees were leaving. Down an escalator and a hallway and into the darkened dance party.
Wow! Let me tell you, Sci-Fi Convention people know HOW TO PARTY! Big B. got so excited during one the numerous impromptu occurances of circle dances that he busted out some breakdancing moves in the center of it. This was promptly followed by two ladies strutting their stuff with some celtic dance moves.
We hung out for about an hour before we began to feel we should split. We were tempted to locate ourselves to one the numerous "private parties" being held in individual hotel rooms, where, we assumed, more than a few Conventioneers were, probably, in all likelyhood, getting absolutely shithammered. But this seemed a difficult proposition to fulfill as it would require us to scope the halls floor by floor, calling attention to the fact we lacked the necessary badges identifiying us as having paid our registration fee(s).
Best then, to leave. We took the obligatory photographic evidence to record our presence (of Denk & Big B.on the dance floor), and bolted.
The squadron made the quick flit to the apex of the Hawthorne Bridge and drank the lone remaining beer from Big B.'s kit. As the Sumping began once again, we headed our separate ways.