by Alphaville Herald on 28/04/10 at 12:14 pm
by Jezz Enoch, Hillbilly Hellion
Now you listen up good, cause I ain’t sayin’ nuffin’ two times. I gots better stuff to do, like shootin’ folks who bothers me.
But since Pix done said she aims to pay me to write this-here thing up for y’all. My damn dumb brother, Pappy, who usually wastes your time, are busy settin’ up his latest squat. He got throwed out of Squat 1.0 when the neighbors quit their fake land (proberly because o’ Pappy) and them Linden Flyin’ Monkeys swooped in and cleaned out both plots.
Pappy ain’t one to court no dangers. Hell, he only wants to court pretty gals. I are the Enoch famberly member who deals in trouble. So if’n you folks am on the lam, livin’ in some Gawdforsaken wasteland for free, instead o’ payin’ a passel of them Linden Monkeys for your land, you cain’t do no better than Jezz’s Rules:
Rule 1: Git a parcel that gots scripts turned on. Pappy am such a sissy that he went and got one without that, and what kind of fun am that? You cain’t get knotty and nekkid, cause the damn sex-doodads won’t work rite. They ain’t no fappin’ in that kind o’ place.
Rule 2: If’n you cain’t find scripted land, git some next to a good spot. Pappy did one thing good–probly by accident–he found land that am next to for-sale land that DO got scripts turned on. So I reckon I could shoot or cut up or burn stuff to a crisp over there, or ride me a cowboy once I does some drinkin an’ gits me a wild hair stuck up my bizness end.
Rule 3: Pushing folks around am FUN. Check that "about land" tab thing and be sure the deadbeat who up and left the land have got it runnin’ so you can commence to aim and fire at anybody who comes along, or run ‘em down with your fake car, then shoot ‘em dead.
Rule 4: For-sale land am great. I tells you what–them owners don’t come round too often, and them Lindens, if’n they checks, won’t know that you ain’t some friend o’ the seller who am "keepin’ up the place" until it sells…which ain’t often on the Mainland these days. They am fake land goin’ empty in Zindra, too…hoo whee Katie bar the door! XXX Squats!
Rule 5: Git it in your head that no matter what you does, some gawd-damn goodie two-shoes will catch you. Suppose it are a reg’lar person: use Rules 1 & 3 for some laffs before you gits ARed. I recommends gasoline and fire, cause the fun lasts longer than shootin’ them dead rite away. Chain saws does good close work, too, but you am gonna need you A) one of them latex pervert suits you kin hose down later or B) some blood-free, non-pervert clothes when you am done with the cuttin’ up.
And most folks won’t AR your butt if’n you plays dumb (or mean: see rules 6 & 7). One time, out drivin’ my ’75 Nova stock-car, I spotted me a city-boy who was buildin’ sum’fin. I put the hammer down, and that rascal flew a mile when I hit him. He were the land owner, and he banned me before I could git some rounds off at his skinny latte-drinkin’ butt. That ain’t the same as no AR, I reckon. Besideways, you git banned and they am plenty other places to run folks over (and shoot ‘em or cut ‘em up later for laffs).
Jist recollect this: most folks, even sim owners, am too dumb or in a hurry to read the dang rules. An’ readin’ am rite important to gittin’ stuff done (like how to AR when you gits after ‘em).
Rule 6: If’n it are some JLU fake hero, git your friends qwik and you ALL run them over, then use Rule 7 (in this kase, just say that ya’ll am havin’ a fake smash-em-up derby for a fake county fair).
Rule 7: If’n it are them rascals from Linden Lab who finds you out, well, once agin’ just play dumb. This am easy for Pappy, who would say sum’fin like "why, Orificer, I was just a-testin’ this stuff before I buys me a big ol’ Linden Dream-Home like ya’ll wants me to and moves in wif my fake wife, Clotilda-Mae, who gots her a prim-bun in the oven, don’t you know."
Or (rule 7, part B) you does it MY way, saying "Pappy Enoch told me to live here, cause he said King Mark are a rat-fink who cain’t run a crap game, let alone no fake-world game. Besides, I are just a po’ widowed gal whose lovin’ husband vanished…just like the other three done did….oh boo hoo hoo what am to become o’ poor me."
Well, they found the body from my last husband, but his head am still missing. How soever that do be, if’n you aims to be a liar, keep them lies short and haul out details only as you needs ‘em for backup.
Final Rule: buy yo’self a fast fake car, so you kin run like hell and find another squat when the deal goes down.
Okey-Dokey, Pix. I’ll take my money now. I reckon you pay out faster than that pussel-but, mealy-mouth, corky-arm, tom-cattin’, good-for-nuffin-but-shootin’-dead brother o’ mine. I lost me one eye in the roller derby cause o’ him goin’ to jail (and I had to take up skatin’ to buy our po’ mama’s medercines).
He ain’t bought me no glass eyeball yet, but I aims to git one out’n his hide. Mark my words. I knows where he am a-squattin’ and I done put some TNT under the tawlet seat in the outhouse, rigged to blow at 400+ pounds o’ fat boy takin’ a dump.
Next week: Fat-boy returns (maybe from orbit in the first-ever Hillbilly Space-Crapper) to write how y’all should decorate your squat.
Hugs, Kisses, and Reloads,