Trolls
THE TEARS OF A TROLL
We shoot 'em. We beat 'em. We laugh out loud with our friends, when we feel their blood on our hands, when we impale them on our bullets. And seconds later they're forgotten, absorbed by other challenges, other victims. And we do not wake up, screaming and sweating, in the night, with their dead bodies on our retina. We do not mourn. We do not cry. 'Coz they are ugly. They're deformed. From the goblinsensations first minute, they were doomed to a life, as living targets for runners, whoose conscience disappeared decades ago. Doomed for a gravestone, where the only inscription are the two cruel words: "COMIC RELIEF". No one cares for them, and no one pays any attention to the crying person behind the horns and warts. That is the trolls role and destiny in the Shadowrunner roleplay. Or was!!! 'Coz when you have read this article, these diary pages, found in the gutter, by an anomoues person in Seattle. When you have felt this mans salt tears on you lips, you might just wait one second more before you let your weapons spit death; maybe you'll use one less combatcoolpoint. Next time...
A diary......But not like others. Never could I write "I" about myself. No, never. I have to step outside myself, rip myself from this from this body. But write, I have too, you have too, Alfred, or you
will kill yourself.
Alfred Wallace - Born on the 13 of January '25 add. No. 1207 90'th street Redmond.... Often has the numbers gleamed before your eyes. These words is what that exists about you, about your person. This is all you have achieved, to be a name and some numbers in a public database. You are nothing, just a little tiny cogwheel in a enormous machine. And sometimes you felt that your little cogwheel had stopped.... Even then - before the disease - you were, every now and then, overcomed by that feeling. But at that time, there was the warmth, the smiles, the friends, and your mother.....And the feeling did never become more than just that - a feeling. Not like now, after 'it' happened. And the friends party, and score chicks; brother who, at that time, was too young to understand, if he ever has. And mother has obviously forgotten you. Happily displaced the scandal of her life. Obviously they have all forgotten.....Every now and then, and it becomes more and more rare as the years dies out, one by one, when
you, of an old habit, let your fingers run through your tangled hair, you understand them. You fully understand their hate, their shame; you understand them in hat half a second, it takes for you, like a child, who loathe by an insect, too pull back the hand, quick as an animal, a bird, reflex. Alfie is ugly, Alfred is ugly, Alfie is a troll, troll, troll....Oh the children's song sounds, bad and scraping from their little, oh so little teeth. You hear the song from the street, from deserted apartments windows, you catch a glimps of it in the crowd of passing faces, in the TV-speakers face, when the mask of political accurately and understandness is teared by sharp, trained eyes (like yours), and you see the loathing in every single fold of the skin, every one, even though it's well hidden by plasticsurgery - his disgust by knowing that his words, his sophisticated, intelligent words might get out to people, creations like you. You're wate, Alf. Wast god damn', waste. Don't you know that they don't want you here?!? Do every one a favor and remove your face, your sprained face, get it out of their lifes. You might just be able to remove your face with a bullet, Alfred. Good idea?!? The punches after school, the punches that stopped, the day you
broke his face; him, their leader. Your uglyness can be used for something. Only when the door is locked, the TV turned off, the noise of the street, the eternal childish song, almost, but never complete, kept
out from your mirrorless apartment of old curtains and cardboard boxes, are you alone with yourself. You and your cat. - he's scratched from fights the day before. Now you see clear the scratches in the
fur. He can't fight as well as the others, ugly, dirty, bloodthirsty beasts. He is missing the one half of one of his hind leg. You and your music. When the white tones is floating out of your stolen music centre, filling the room, filling you, you memory, you can relax, forget. The tones, - string players, horns, percussions, but not voices, for gods sake never ever human voices. You and your bottle. It's not beautiful, Alfred, absolutely not beautiful, but it's yours. By the way, isn't it time too get down for more, Alfred?!? We are running low, whispers your memory, your scars, your horns, you. Soon you will forget, sleep, run into your dreamworld, where it is you that throws the rocks, your that sing the songs. When you wake up, you can be happy for your experiences, on a dirty old madras. Soon you will flee, back in there, forget till you open your eyes... 'Coz you can't run from your body. [Here ends the diarypages, and no one has ever seen a insignificant troll, named Alfred Wallace, who lived in Seattle once in the middle of the 21st century.
THE TEARS OF A TROLL
We shoot 'em. We beat 'em. We laugh out loud with our friends, when we feel their blood on our hands, when we impale them on our bullets. And seconds later they're forgotten, absorbed by other challenges, other victims. And we do not wake up, screaming and sweating, in the night, with their dead bodies on our retina. We do not mourn. We do not cry. 'Coz they are ugly. They're deformed. From the goblinsensations first minute, they were doomed to a life, as living targets for runners, whoose conscience disappeared decades ago. Doomed for a gravestone, where the only inscription are the two cruel words: "COMIC RELIEF". No one cares for them, and no one pays any attention to the crying person behind the horns and warts. That is the trolls role and destiny in the Shadowrunner roleplay. Or was!!! 'Coz when you have read this article, these diary pages, found in the gutter, by an anomoues person in Seattle. When you have felt this mans salt tears on you lips, you might just wait one second more before you let your weapons spit death; maybe you'll use one less combatcoolpoint. Next time...
A diary......But not like others. Never could I write "I" about myself. No, never. I have to step outside myself, rip myself from this from this body. But write, I have too, you have too, Alfred, or you
will kill yourself.
Alfred Wallace - Born on the 13 of January '25 add. No. 1207 90'th street Redmond.... Often has the numbers gleamed before your eyes. These words is what that exists about you, about your person. This is all you have achieved, to be a name and some numbers in a public database. You are nothing, just a little tiny cogwheel in a enormous machine. And sometimes you felt that your little cogwheel had stopped.... Even then - before the disease - you were, every now and then, overcomed by that feeling. But at that time, there was the warmth, the smiles, the friends, and your mother.....And the feeling did never become more than just that - a feeling. Not like now, after 'it' happened. And the friends party, and score chicks; brother who, at that time, was too young to understand, if he ever has. And mother has obviously forgotten you. Happily displaced the scandal of her life. Obviously they have all forgotten.....Every now and then, and it becomes more and more rare as the years dies out, one by one, when
you, of an old habit, let your fingers run through your tangled hair, you understand them. You fully understand their hate, their shame; you understand them in hat half a second, it takes for you, like a child, who loathe by an insect, too pull back the hand, quick as an animal, a bird, reflex. Alfie is ugly, Alfred is ugly, Alfie is a troll, troll, troll....Oh the children's song sounds, bad and scraping from their little, oh so little teeth. You hear the song from the street, from deserted apartments windows, you catch a glimps of it in the crowd of passing faces, in the TV-speakers face, when the mask of political accurately and understandness is teared by sharp, trained eyes (like yours), and you see the loathing in every single fold of the skin, every one, even though it's well hidden by plasticsurgery - his disgust by knowing that his words, his sophisticated, intelligent words might get out to people, creations like you. You're wate, Alf. Wast god damn', waste. Don't you know that they don't want you here?!? Do every one a favor and remove your face, your sprained face, get it out of their lifes. You might just be able to remove your face with a bullet, Alfred. Good idea?!? The punches after school, the punches that stopped, the day you
broke his face; him, their leader. Your uglyness can be used for something. Only when the door is locked, the TV turned off, the noise of the street, the eternal childish song, almost, but never complete, kept
out from your mirrorless apartment of old curtains and cardboard boxes, are you alone with yourself. You and your cat. - he's scratched from fights the day before. Now you see clear the scratches in the
fur. He can't fight as well as the others, ugly, dirty, bloodthirsty beasts. He is missing the one half of one of his hind leg. You and your music. When the white tones is floating out of your stolen music centre, filling the room, filling you, you memory, you can relax, forget. The tones, - string players, horns, percussions, but not voices, for gods sake never ever human voices. You and your bottle. It's not beautiful, Alfred, absolutely not beautiful, but it's yours. By the way, isn't it time too get down for more, Alfred?!? We are running low, whispers your memory, your scars, your horns, you. Soon you will forget, sleep, run into your dreamworld, where it is you that throws the rocks, your that sing the songs. When you wake up, you can be happy for your experiences, on a dirty old madras. Soon you will flee, back in there, forget till you open your eyes... 'Coz you can't run from your body. [Here ends the diarypages, and no one has ever seen a insignificant troll, named Alfred Wallace, who lived in Seattle once in the middle of the 21st century.