It was one hell of a day here at Sarcastic Gamer, and we have the casualties to prove it. Peter Moore and Will Wright have invaded our base of operations. I repeat: Peter Moore and Will Wright have invaded our base of operations!

At approximately 2:30PM CST, a faint sound of a helicopter drew closer to our location. The noise level grew exponentially over the next two minutes, before we heard its steel propeller ripping through the air directly above us. The visiting Frag Dolls screamed for dear life as the sound of shattering glass filled the atrium. Two men dressed in solid black dropped in on fast ropes through the window panes above. I quickly took cover when I recognized he bang and whiz of small firearms, and reached for my own Walther P99 holstered on my hip.

They hit the ground running, in a hurry to get into the cover of the marble staircase across the room. I fire off two shots quickly, and hear an agonizing groan.

“YOU SHOT ME MATT! YOU SHOT ME!” Dave’s frantic voice shouted. “I’m bleeding all over the new sweater my mom got me dude!”

“STFU Dave, stop being a pansy and pull the bullet out of your chest. You need to help me!” I bellowed back at him. The raiders had the chance to reload and regroup, and clearly had an objective to accomplish. They held me back behind the 20 foot gold-plated Big Daddy statue with suppressing fire, and made their way up the stairs. I followed as closely as I could, leaving Dave to bleed to death in the middle of the room.

I knew where they were going. I knew what they were after.

Climbing stair after stair, bullets ricocheting off the handrails, I pursued them until the 4th floor, where they ran down the long, twisted corridor that led to the most valuable thing we possess. I rapidly discharged my weapon in their general direction, but they were too quick of a target in the narrow passageways. One of the aggressors was slightly more pudgy, but still not quite big enough to improve my shoddy aim.

A door in the hall swang open. Rothbart and Lono rushed through the doorway, panting and out of breath.

“Matt, we have to stop them. They are going to get to the Talent Room!” huffed Rothbart.

“This is no time for another rant Sean. There is serious business at stake. We have to stop them before they get to the Talent Room!” said Lono, picking up the pace on his sprint.

We were too late. The sole secret behind our writing style and humor had been discovered by the two intruders. There stood Peter Moore and Will Wright, with their EA-branded black apparel, in our room full of monkeys typing away at their workstations.

“You know we have to kill you now.” I attempt to spit out while catching my breath.

“Oh yeah? Is that so?” Mr. Wright says, with a half smile on his face. “Kill me, and EA will screw Spore up so bad that people will pay $50 not to play it.”

Crap. He was right. I could never forgive myself if Spore was ruined on account of murder. And even then…

…is Peter Moore’s stomach glowing…red?
TO BE CONTINUED…

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