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The Dangers of CheeseBy Mike NurseyThis is the sad tale of a gamer that was bitten by the Warhammer bug. No, Paul, that's not the end of the story. He was a nice lad at heart, who began to frequent his local GW store in High Wycombe. Each gaming evening he would pack up his O+G army and without any supper make the pilgrimage to the gaming tables. On the way he passed a large delicatessen, and would pop in for some cheesy vestibules. Not that cheddar, or even Red Leicester was his favourite, but any blue vein cheese, and Gorgonzola. He began consuming them in ever larger quantities, and was soon spending as much in the cheese shop as he was in the GW store. This gives some idea of how much money he was pouring into the cheese shop. Every night he would drag, or roll in the case of an Edam the huge volumes of the stuff back to his house, where he would pour over his army book through the night, munching on the odd pound or three. Of course this much cheese has some serious consequences in brain activity. More and more he would use the special characters, appendix lists, and giants by the bucket load. One day, he turned up with a complete army of giants, except for the general who was a special character. (You're normally only allowed two giants in an army). More and more he failed to turn up for work preferring to perfect the army list. The appendix armies were not enough and he began to write his own, first one invincible character on a dragon, then another, just in case. People would stop talking when he entered the GW shop, shake their heads, and walk away. He started to dress in orc clothes and on more than one occasion was seen in the park, pretending to be a fanatic swinging a ball and chain above his head, and crying out 'mind those trees'. (Fanatics are destroyed if they hit trees). He formed his own re-enactment group, the Green Raiders, although he was the only member. Eventually his employers could take no more, when his reports were filled with words such as Rulz, + Da Boyz. Clearly, he needed help, and eventually his old gaming friends found him slumped in an alleyway clutching his beloved rulebook, and muttering 'please don't feed the Wyverns'. Over the long months his rehabilitation began, and soon his armies were reaching reasonable proportions. However, he then hit the big time. His company, selling authentic Orc weapons took off, with a series of fantasy films set in New Zealand. (You know the ones). He hired his own personal Warhammer trainer and the old call of the giants, special characters began again. His intake of cheese began to rise. Although now he heated it on a spoon and sniffed Parmesan off the table in his plush penthouse suite. It was only a matter of time before the Wyverns returned. You have been warned. |