The Poggi Chronicles
How does one summarize the feats of Matt Poggi in only one book, nay, one trilogy? The answer is simple: you cannot, for he has done things few have ever even thought possible, and prevailed above all. Poggi, flawed as he was, still was able to overcome the implausible, as well as garnering the notoriety one should expect from being such a great man as he. I will not tell you all he has done, for I am just a humble chronicler, but I will try. I will try. Even If I cannot, and most likely I will not, you will know just what kind of a man Poggi wa- no, is.
Take a seat next to me. Is the fire too roaring for you? Is the tea too lemony? Have I forgotten to fluff the armchair again? No? Good, then let me adjust my monocle and we may begin. And where else should we begin then the morning of that fateful day, where Poggi began his most famous journey yet...
Chapter I
It was a day like any other. Poggi had undergone his morning ritual of waking, dressing, and eating. Now, this may seem mundane, but we are not talking about any normal man, no, we are talking about Matt Poggi, and he does not do things like you or I. He is fearless and bold enough to sleep in the nude. Stylish and suave enough to wear his hair in such a manner that he does. Exotic and tasteful enough to eat soy sauce and tater tots for breakfast, where cereal would normally prevail. Ah, yes, even the daily life of Poggi is of a higher level than the commoners of this world, but the story must continue, so I will stick to the details.
If I can recall, it was his...sophomore year in high school, I believe. This meant he was coming of age, soon to own his own car and drive in it thusly. Until then, he bided his time, spending it mostly conversing with his companions, the most notable of which were his trusty sidekick D-Go and his loyal chronicler, myself. It was during then that we had our first encounter with a man that we would later deem 'Old Man Gaben'. It was through the windows of the café, where we were currency feasting on our second breakfast, when I had spotted something oddly peculiar. Up drove an ordinary delivery truck, but its driver was anything but ordinary. As he exited, me and Poggi were stunned; was it really him? Gaben? The one who singlehandedly created Valve from the ashes of despair? It was, and we were certain of it.
Now, most people would run to him for an autograph or a picture, but not us. We both knew that he was the only perosn who knew the whereabouts of the elusive Half Life 3. Sounds strange, I know, but back then, it was a whole different story. See, in the wake of Half Life 2, a sort of...void, was formed. In essense, it was the physical manifestation of the want, no, need, for a sequel to the sequel. Half Life 3 was a dream that was never meant to be, until we stepped in. There was a reason for Gaben not releasing Half Life 3, and we would not rest until we found out what it was. We rushed out, but by then he was gone, as quick as he appeared. In defeat, we returned to the school, waiting for tomarrow.
The next day brought the first step to the puzzle. Something amazing happened that day: the planets alligned, the galaxies collided, and Jerma Rumble 2016 was released a year early. By some twist of fate, Old Man Gaben and Poggi met in the hallways of the school.
"Hi." Was all Poggi said, and all he had to say. Old Man Gaben could see it in his eyes: he was the one. He leaned in closely, and whispered into Poggi's ear. He told him the secrets of Half Life 3. It was an amazing thing, that conversation they had. Poggi became enlightened in the thing sought after by many. 'One more for the books', you're think right now. Oh, how you are wrong, for that was only the beginning. You see, right before Old Man Gaben disappeared into the crowd, he had sworn Poggi to secrecy. Alas! How painfull that was! He knew all he had ever wanted, but couldn't tell anyone about it! Surely there was a way, there had to be, right?There was.
In Poggi's hand, he found a small, Team Fortress 2 crate key, slipped there by Gaben's gentle, caring hands. This was the first piece to the puzzle, and we were about to start putting it together. The next period was when us three met, and there we began studying the key.
"No way, you met him?" D-Go gaped in disbelief, as did I, I should add.
"Yes." Replied Poggi. "And this key is the...key...to discovering why Half Life 3 never happened."
"Such a sad thing, it is." I had spoken. "The people deserve Half Life 3, and we of all people should give it to them."
"Right, but first we need to look at this key for clues, something that could lead us to...the troof." With that, Poggi gingerly placed the key onto the table, and we went about analyzing it. In a matter of minutes, we had found a microscopic inscription at the base of the key.
"I can't read it!" D-Go yelled in frustration.
"But I can." I confidently stated, and with my monocle (Yes, this very one I'm wearing right now) I carefully deciphered the code. "It reads: '41.8902° N, 12.4923° E'"
"It...can't be." Poggi gasped, as he lowered the spectacles that were suddenly on his face in a dramatic movement. "That's...that's..."
"The coordinates of Italy, yes." I answered. "Gaben wants us to go to Italy."
"But why!?" D-Go slammed his fist into the table, the shockwave creating a small earthquake down in China.
"Only one way to find out," Poggi stated, looking into the distance. "We'll just have to go there.
And just like that, the journey had begun. Normally, a trip to Italy would be easily solved by buying a plane ticket, but times were changing. The mafia gang known only as 'The Trash Masters' had recently risen to power, and had a complete monopoly on all planes going in and out of Italy. They would only sell tickets in exchange for inforfatioin reguarding Half Life 3, and that was something that we just couldn't spare. Instead, we would have to cross the Trans-Atlantic land bridge, the one that only appears once every decade, on foot. We would travel for days upon days, meeting strangers, battling ferocious beasts, and pretty much just chilling out, adventure style.
Poggi donned his custom-made trench coat, which reached only to his mid-thigh, and exotic black adventuring pants. His shoes were red beauties, lasting through any weather condition and coming out shiny as ever. In his leather sheath, we wielded the mighty Italian Breadstick, which was been growing staler and staler as it was passed down his family, By now, it could bash clean through Burgah Boy and deflect anything from bullets to lizardfire, which had come in handy in his old Hawaii adventuring days.
D-Go wore an everyman's t-shirt, fitted with the brand logo that took up most of the shirt space without paying him anything for the free advertisement. That, and his jeans, made up everything he needed to kick butt and ass alike. Well, that and his pet familiar, Walking Taco, which was a...walking taco. Inside if his jean pockets were serveral tastier-albeit inadimate-tacos. Eating only one gave him the explosive diarrhea needed to take out an armada. He dusted off his shoulders and hoisted up the armchair.
As for me, well, I sat in that armchair. I wore a very distinguished robe, one that even Poggi was jealous of. Now, it may seem strange, but it makes sense when I tell you that I do my best chronicling in my favorite armchair. I would prefer a fire along with it, but I settled for just the armchair. With my free hand, I aligned my monocle into place. This particular monocle, yes, the one I am still wearing, could reflect sunlight, and on occasion moonlight, into a concentrated blast of pure cosmic energy. Plus, it made me look really, really cool.
With all of our things taken care off, we walked off into the sunet, Poggi leading the way, followed by D-Go, who carried me and my armchair without breaking a sweat, as I continued to chronicle the ever-growing feats of Poggi.
In the distance, too far away to see, Ryan, leader of The Trash Masters, stared at us from across the Trans-Atlantic land bridge, his beady, rat-like eyes scanning every detail.
"Donny, send the rats." He commanded, in an awesome Italian mob boss accent. "And bring me anotha' Cuban cigar, will ya?"