The Gaming Outpost

You dream of talking Scotty dogs in kilts, and white wigs eating parsnips, and wake to female giggles. Rubbing your eyes of sleep, you spot two bewigged gal-pals conversing in the next room. One turns and smirks at you, pointing her legs at her legs which are trouser covered with a bright blue felt. The other hushes her, and smiles kindly at you.

Her eyes enchant, but evidently you are a transvestite here, wherever here is. And pretty young things are not typically impressed by cross-dressing.

They finish touching up their wigs, which evidently collected dust, and redonned them like a pair of English judges ready to sentence a cross-dressing lunk to social exile.

And then they came over to you, and the divine smell of freshly cleaned female with a light flowery scent abruptly ran into your stink from several days of hiding out. They speak to you in some language you do not know. Evidently, the sink can understand your thoughts, but humans can not. It had to happen sometime. Machines got smarter than man.

With fresh smiles, they urge you to your feet. Staggering a bit, you rise, and try not to look so be-shambled with your creased shirt you had slept in.

They led you to a wall and it ramped open to an elevator. Inside, very close to two lovely ladies, which did not seem to bother them. Up. The door opens.

Around a corner through a corridor, with English signs, and into a sizable square room. Hundred feet across, and a lofty fifty feet dome. Hardwood tongue and groove echoes under your feet bringing the eyes of the three hundred, maybe four hundred people your way.

They are sitting bunched tightly on long benches of variable length of glossy hardwood lathe with a smoothly rolling design. The benches are divided into four groups, each facing each other, in a giant square, with each group a flat-topped triangle which left a hollow square in the center.

There a man in a fancy kilt with a green beret beamed at you as the girls led you down the nearest aisle between the two triangles. With a sinking feeling, and the sound of your three footsteps echoing through the whole large room, you realize the girls intend to take you down to shake the smiling man’s beefy hand, and then plunk you down in the front row of the triangle to your left.

It feels rather as if you were entering your senior year high school auditorium at the wrong high school, in your underwear, and all the listeners are Swedish. And you don’t speak their language, but you’re expected to deliver a speech.

You slow your feet, but eventually, you come to the end of your green mile, and the man at the front claps your hand, and says something warm which everyone can hear.

Eek.

He obviously expects a reply.