Pretty much by now my knee was a painful mess that I intended to
really put out of it's misery. My Self Proclaimed Vice President
secured a few free tickets for free entry to a party at a local bar.
This ticket was for the mythical White Wolf party. I hadn't been to
one of those in over ten years and the last one was a good time.
Marc and myself and my good friend John head out excited about
the prospects of some fine beverages.

What I didn't realize is that they changed the way things are done, or
maybe I just forgot. I refused to walk and caught a cab to drop us
off at the address. A sleeping homeless man told us there was no
party there but we had figured that out ourselves. In the 17 seconds
it takes to figure out the ticket address is bogus, the cab is gone.

Now we call David at his hotel room (he felt like he had to lie down
and couldn't join us) who tells us the club name on the ticket is
bogus on the ticket and the address is west not east and it's just
around the block. A quick search for a cab and it's clear this is the
most desolate place in Indianapolis at this time.
A painful, excruciating, and sober limp to the next block over reveals a long line waiting to get into a club. As we get closer we
realize we are entirely the wrong demographic and this is not the White Wolf party but the party where an individual may be, fittin'
to bust a cap in sum Cracker's ass cuz he be crunk. Just to clarify, that individual would be crunk not us because I was still,
literally, painfully sober and far from crunk.

Luckily, some helpful police officers corrected David's mistake. The name of the club on the ticket was correct but the address
was completely wrong. Well, I guess it was still in Indianapolis. The area we were in, once again, did not support taxi usage. We
limped to the party location. This included dodging cars with drunk people in them and a trip across an uneven gravel lot under
construction.

So then we arrive at an abandoned garage with a large group of young goth people slowly milling about. Eventually we get in. I
immediately get in line for a vodka tonic and drink it while I move to the back of the line for a refill. A few times of this and I
could tell the bartender was not approving. What I didn't know was that she was feeding me vodka poisoned by Chernobyl and
that was why she was so upset. She knew I didn't have long to live.
I almost forgot, this is what I saw
when I got in. That seemed fine
but then things started to get
weird. Probably when the poison
began to affect me.
Things then just became stranger as the
night went on. Some people reacted like
this. Luckily, Marc secured the
depravity on video.
Then, Marc captured some more depravity
on video. By this time my mind had
suffered such a terrible shock that I was
able to comprehend what was going on.
Mercifully, before things could get any worse, the Tcho-Tcho celebrities began to show up. These are very similar to the
celebrities you are familiar with from TV, film, and magazines but remade by chaotic capricious gods. Rather than become
aggressive my blasted sanity and fragile mind-state made them much more sympathetic toward me. In some cases they were
very helpful.
Here I am jacking in to
Tcho-Tcho Cyber-John-Lovitz.

And to the right we're best
friends!
Like you we also had heard Tcho-Tcho
Snake Plisskin was dead. We were
happy to discover we were very wrong.
We spent some time with him and he
allowed this picture to be taken as a
sign of brotherhood.
Then his tribe welcomed us and we stole
everyone's soul with our camera. Though
maybe not everyone cared.
A Contest....

What perceptive viewer can identify this
Tcho-Tcho celebrity?

Please email your answer to
chris@muskulls.org
Following last call at the White Wolf
party we waited for a shuttle to take us
back to downtown. Here we are with
Tcho-Tcho Glenn Danzig!
Then the lights got weird and people
started filming us. My staff counsel
advised me from pursuing a ballroom blitz.
Then the room started to get all goofy.
Someone kept asking me if I had enough (nice
guy) or that it looked like I had enough and then
suddenly I was outside.
And right at this time we ran into Tcho-Tcho Michael
Berryman. He was very nice and was trying to sell us
some of his radioactive junk and a home made DVD, "The
Tcho-Tcho Hills Have Tcho-Tcho Eyes." My staff
counsel advised me against any late night Tcho-Tcho sales
and I was escorted to the hotel to rest the remains of my
shattered knee.

Thus ends my recollection of Gen Con 2007.
Here we are at the Ram and things are
getting a bit out of focus for both me and
the camera.
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