Yesterday’s entry was maybe just a bit too amazing, I think, and I have to restore the balance by making today’s twice as awful.  Them’s the rules, as they say, and who am I to break them?

Besides, today I’m just a bit too busy to be sitting here not doing what I should be doing when not doing what I’m currently doing, writing this entry for you.

Baking these words with love.

It actually doesn’t take me that long to write each of these, as it’s not exactly like I’m having to make any of it up, instead pulling from my photographic memory to paint these recreations of a life once lived for you all to take in and hopefully spread around so as to undo the damage done by all those obese, bearded rumors born of petty rages and foul trickster games.  And it’s actually a lot of fun for me to do so, in case you were wondering whether or not I was torturing myself with putting one of these out every single day until this month ends.  Yesterday’s, for example, was probably some of the most fun I had in a while, and when I got to the true as hell part about the locomotive of macaroni carrying cheese ghosts, I almost choked I was giggling so hard.  Then I drove my car into a 7-11.

Texting is bad enough, but don’t you ever try typing on your laptop while driving a moving vehicle, guys. It’s just really not safe.

Hell, this is already getting longer than I want it to, so let’s just smash today’s fact into your face, smashing all your teeth out that you may give the specter of idiotic rumor a blowjob so devastating that it goes to sleep immediately, giving us an opening to sneak in and  stab it to death.

FACT:

UNREAL TOURNAMENT was the official game of choice in the INVADER ZIM offices.

When we first started setting up shop at the studios, we were pretty horrified at how low tech the operation was, with even email being a pain in the ass.  I remember the day J. Bondy, head of color, came into my office crying, holding on to a box of crayons that he had been given by the studio.

In time, everyone that needed the hardware got it, some with a bit more power than others, but everything did the job.  Of course, one of the first things we did was agree on shooting one another like mad every chance we got, and what let us pull that off was Unreal Tournament.

Sometimes we’d play during lunch breaks, but generally we’d play when our days were done, the writing staff, the color crew and myself, mainly.

Now and then we’d throw in a bit of Quake 3 Arena, or the odd experimental go at lesser titles like RUNE, or SIN, but it was always UT that we went back to, always hungry for another go at Facing Worlds matches, or custom maps like that lego world one, or the bizarre fast food restaurant map where all the players were the size of mice, jumping around over the seas of sizzling grease.

These gaming sessions were a chance for us to blow off steam, to unwind after what could be some very stressful days.

Even some of the board artists got in on the action, including storyboard artist Ian Graham.  This was the only part of unwinding that wasn’t very relaxing, as Ian would, after each and every kill, run into the office of whatever co-worker he just killed in-game and berate them, stomping around the room and swiping whatever was on their desk or shelves onto the floor.

You’d hear it happening if it you weren’t watching it happen in your own office, Ian gloating over in the next room, or down the hall, calling the vanquished all manner of terrible names.

I’m not even sure what was up with the guy, as he was pretty good and had no reason to posture the way he did, but posture he did, one time saying nothing after taking color supervisor J. Bondy down with a headshot, simply marching into his office to kick Bondy square in the neck.

Ian would get so cocky that he would set himself up in a a killing position, just behind his intended, and often camping victim, then leave his computer to run over to the player controlling intended victim, sneak into their office (usually by crawling along the ground or sticking to the shadows), get behind them and deliver a horrific blow to the back of the head.  When that person would come to their senses a bit, Ian would yell “You been GRAHAM’D!” and then leap up, landing on the person’s stomach.

Graham would then run back to his own office, completely without restraint, smashing into walls, stumbling over things and knocking over whatever he had to to get back, and fire off whatever weapon he had armed into the head of his victim’s player character.

We knew things were getting out of hand, sure, but some incidents were a bit worse than others, giving the ZIM-side of the office, a side with an already not-so-hot reputation, a bit more heat than we were comfortable with.

This one occasion, I heard a slight rustling in my office, and knew that I could expect to be “Graham’d” as soon as I turned around.  Getting the jump on Ian before he got the jump on you was rare, but it did happen now and then.  I sighed and turned around to get the thing over with, saying as I turned, “Alriiight, let’s get this over w-”

Ian had a little child, a girl of around eight years, lifted up and clutched around the waist with one arm.  In his other hand Ian held a revolver, like…a Dirty Harry looking Magnum.  I’m not a gun guy, but I know a .44 Magnum when I see one from just movies and games alone.  Ian had the gun pressed into the girl’s cheek, the flesh all red and raw from where he was grinding it in.

“Ian…Ian what the fuck are you-” I got out.

“SAY IT.  SAY IT!” Ian rasped into the girl’s ear.  “SAY IT.”

The little girl let out a stifled cry, but managed to say “Y…you been…Graham’d.”

With that, Graham let the girl go, the child running off crying, disappearing around a corner.  Ian fired the revolver into the ceiling, bits of foam and insulation peppering his hair, and he ran back to his office.

On his more subtle days, rather than making physical contact with the victim-to-be, said victim player would notice a graham cracker on his desk where there was none before.  That’s when you’d look back to your screen and just see your character lifeless, headless.

We’d try organizing matches for times when Graham was out of the office so as not to have to deal with his FPS terrorism, but more often than not he’d find out a game was going on and announce his presence by running, literally running into my office, or someone else’s office, and screaming in a 80’s hair-metal voice, “DID YEWWW THEEENK YOU COULD AVOID MY POWUHHHHHHH?!”,  that last bit reaching a pitch so shrill even the half-dead zombies in the Cat Dog area would raise their heads and moan just a bit.

Graham would then whip out his overpowered gaming laptop, a monstrous brick of a thing, and start setting up.  The best any of us had were some fairly capable desktop macs of the time, with the less fortunate running early generation iMacs.  Graham’s gaming rig gave him the edge, and so long as he had that thing we’d be putting up with his antics for as long as we could foresee.

So I cancelled the show.

Graham killed himself.

–ZIM FACTS. Here’s why—