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Yu-Gi-Oh! Chronicles of an Average Joe (Chapter 2 is up!)(characters gladly accepted)

Kenny Bohner

By Kenny Bohner
in Creative Writing

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Kenny Bohner Newbie

Kenny Bohner

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The year is 2012. As December nears, strange things begin to happen... very strange. The natural fabric of Existence is thinning, with universes colliding, merging into ours. The source? The ancient Spirit Tablets' (reprinted in the Modern Age as cards) power stirs. To make matters worse, we're still at each other's throats... humans never learn. For their own survival, though, they're gonna have to.

[spoiler=Characters] (Use this as an app)

Name: Kenny Bohner

Age: 22

Residence: Queens, New York

Appearance: About six feet tall, perhaps a little taller. Weighs in at roughly 200 pounds. Has a dark, dude-get-a-haircut-mop-top, and darker than your average cracker skin. Has blue eyes, with a yellow ring around the pupils. Not horribly out of shape, but not ripped by any means. Dresses casually, and usually wears his Mets cap.

Biography: Born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to Ken Bohner (the second; Kenny's the third, with his great granddad being the senior) and Judy Mullen. Lived there until he was about seven, when his family moved to Brooklyn, New York, where Kenny's paternal granddad had purchased a radio station. A girl from his apartment building also moved to Brooklyn that same year, and the two would wind up as neighbors again. Her name was Amiko. In Brooklyn, Kenny met his best friend Joey, who would eventually become his roommate, and Amiko, who he'd not known previously, as well as a whole cast of other people. He was blessed with amazing skill as a duelist, and turned semi-pro at the age of 15, turning pro at age 19. He lives off of his meager earnings, like a band member.

Personality: Very easygoing, with a good sense of humor. He tends to be very care-free most of the time, but tends to be a little manic-depressive. Loves The Beatles, and considers himself a semi-hippie, still eating meat and not going out of his way to buy organic. Very liberal when it comes to politics. He's considered quite intelligent by those who know him, but his unkempt hair and tendancy to take most things as a joke cause most people over the age of thirty to think of him as a good-for-nothing. Notorious for having good luck, yet bad fortune.

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Name: Joey Barone

Age: 21

Residence: Queens, New York

Appearance: He's a ragamuffin, honestly. He's a big guy, about six-two, and 245 pounds. He's got surprisingly fair skin for an Italian, wild, dirty-blonde hair, and brown eyes. Doesn't shave very often, and typically has a decent amount of 5 o'clock shadow. He wears simple, oftentimes tattered clothing.

Biography: Born in Brooklyn, New York, to Nancy DiPacci and famous mob don, Tony Barone. Wanting nothing to do with the family "buisiness," he fled home when he was eight, living with his older cousin, Larry, alienating his father and brother, Frankie, in the process. Grew up extremely poor, and made fast friends with Kenny and Amiko in high school, and even moved into an apartment with Kenny, in the summer of '09, concerned about his financial future. He picked up Duel Monsters in his spare time to keep from going nuts, you know, watching his cousin go nuts, what with all the loan sharks at his door at all hours of the day. He and Kenny won a major tag-team tournament in 2009, as well, earning them a spot on the New York semi-pro organization.

Personality: The type of guy everyone loves to be around. You'd think he'd be all sulky, but, no, he developed an incredible sense of humor, I guess to keep himself from crying. He's an amazing guy, too, and the one that everyone always flocks around. Also border-line hippie, and open-minded.

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Name: Amiko Cho (though she's known as Ami by all of her friends)

Age: 19

Residence: Queens, New York

Appearance: Quite short, only about five feet tall, with a voluptous build (I know I didn't include her weight, but, hey, YOU can ask her for it, if you value your life so little). Long, straight, onyx hair, and similar eyes, which leave no doubt as to her Japanese ethnicity. Unsurprisingly, she's by far the most fashion-forward of Kenny and his cast of goofballs, and spends far more than five minutes preparing for the day. Her face expresses emotion extremely clearly, so one would think that she'd, frankly, suck at Duel Monsters. It's not so, however; she often uses the "puppy-dog eyes" to her advantage.

Biography: Born into wealth from the start, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. However, this didn't last. Her dad invested all that he had quite recklessly into Kramerica Industry, which quickly went belly-up. Left with no alternative, they were forced to move into a very poor district of Brooklyn, with Ami's aunt, Tomoe. She, as she did in Philly, shared an apartment building with Kenny, and attended the same high school as he and Joey, being in the class three years behind them. The three of them just hit it off, and quickly learned that they shared a common past-time: Duel Monsters. As with the other two, she used Duel Monsters much like the majority of the neighborhood used drugs; as an escape from a deeply troubled life.

Personality: Very outspoken, and intelligent. She's sometimes a bit overbearing, usually when attempting to cover her own insecurities, like most people. Most often, though, she's extremely kind; sometimes even to a fault. Though, when she is in one of her moods, she developes biting sarcasm, in stark contrast to her sugar-coated honesty of the norm. Tends to be a little quieter, a little more reserved than her largely outgoing friends. This combination of additudes resulted in a love clusterfu polygon, in which she's attracted to Kenny, he, due to his lax nature and her shyness, doesn't pick up the subtle hints, he's convinced that he'll die alone, Joey's attracted to Ami, and also his long-time girl, Lisa, and nobody really knows what the hell she's thinking.

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Name: Roscuro Newman, Jr. (Known mainly as Ros)

Appearance: Very tall and lanky, about six five and 200 lbs. He wears the same suit everyday, which is a black jacket over an unbuttoned, pinkish dress shirt, and a cheap medallion. His hair is shoulder-length, straight, and jet black. He keeps it very tidy. Has a little chin beard thingie, and always wears black, mirrored shades.

Biography: Born in Manhattan, to Roscuro Pierre Norman Sr., and Maria Guthrie, in the winter of '75. Father fired from his job, relying on his mother for cash. Moves to Queens in '80, as he starts Kindergarten, at age 4. '86, cousin, D.J., born, in New Brunswick, Canada. Graduates in '93, and moves out of childhood home to 126th Street. Gets job in a new Japanese resturaunt opening up in the Bronx, a year later. June, '08, he meets Kenny and Joey, becoming fast friends. July of the next year, he meets Bob Norman, the hobo, and life was never quite the same for him.

Personality: Very smart, but shy. Held in high regard by friends, and has a cool aura about him. His attitude is pretty mellow and laid-back, even in a duel. He is very trusting.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Name: Bob Newman

Appearance: Roughly five-ten, and 225 pounds. Long, straggly, more salt-than-pepper hair, which curls tightly. He has a large beard that looks exactly like his hair. Wears either a spare suit of Ros', or else a Hawaiian-print shirt with a pair of cargo shorts (presumably stolen). Has lively green eyes, which show that tell-tale spark of insanity.

Biography: Refuses to speak of his past, except that he was in 'Nam. Oh, and he had a pet goldfish named Fido. Up until 2009, he was homeless. He was taken in by Roscuro, Kenny, and Joey, spending time in both Ros' and Kenny/Joey's apartment. His name doesn't appear on either lease, though.

Personality: Nuts, but in a good way. Friendly, and polite in his own way, but he's not all there. He flashes back to his stint in Vietnam, and goes through smack withdrawl fits at seemingly random times. Also, flashes back to acid trips. Evidently, he'd had a lot of bad ones... the guy's a lit fuse. He's hilarious to be around, not only for his random outbursts of love and/or rage, but also for his warped sense of humor. Occasionally gets into a walrus costume (identical to John Lennon's) and charges up and down the street (Ros and Joey have tried to confiscate the suit multiple times, but they can never find where Bob stashes it).

 

[spoiler= Chapter One]

Wow. Talk about pressure. See, I'm in a duel, right? But, not just any duel... this is the one that counts, the grand stage, the big dance, the Mother of them All... the Professional Duelists' Circuit World Championship... and, this isn't any ordinary Pete out there as an opponent, either... this is Ashton Stiller, who hails from Brooklyn, New York. The reigning champ was like a god to me; he was as big a hero to me as a sumo with a Thyroid condition, as cool as Elvis Presley, Burt Reynolds, Adam Sandler, Superman, Darth Vader, Mike Piazza, Barack Obama or Ozzy Osbourne, man... you catch my drift. And, anyway, I was in the middle of a come-from-behind win! Plus, I had my ace card, Supreme General Ukitake, on the Field, who was more than capable of winning right here! "So, Stiller," I said, with a slight mocking tone in my voice, "Anything to say during your last few moments as champion?" His response was...

 

"Some dance to remember, some dance to forget! Yeah!" He then broke into an audible air-guitar solo.

 

I then realized what had happened; it was time to get up. My eyes fluttered open to the chorus of "Hotel California," by the Eagles. Friggin' alarm clock... I thought as I blindly groped my nightstand for the evil contraption. I ended up knocking it to the floor, unplugging it. Well, I thought, That's one way to do it, I s'pose... I looked around, on my back, at my room. It really was crap. There was the moldy ceiling, which smelled a bit dodgy, the yellow-ish, peeling wallpaper, the once-white grey carpet, and the un-blinded, curtain-less, cracked, half-boarded window at the far side of the room, which was so smeared and dirty that you could barely make out the fact that this was a fifth-floor apartment. All that you could really see was the distant outline of Citi Field, the Mets' new stadium. The only furniture was a third-or-fourth-hand bed, purchased from a thrift store two years ago, with its plain white linens, a make-shift nightstand, which was a few milk crates stacked on top of each other, with a dollar store lamp on it, and where the alarm clock used to be. The only personal touch was a Mike Piazza poster that I've had since Kindergarten, which hung on the door (which I suspect to be the incarnation of Satan [referring to the door, of course]). Oh, I hated that friggin' door... it was partially off of its hinges, so, to open it, you really had to put your back into it, and when you did, it made this horrible, terrible sound... it was like the claws of my seventh grade English teacher, Mrs. Grantier's, fingernails scraping a blackboard from Hell. So, as gently as I could, I tried to open it, and, being Mr. Finesse, it made a sound about like the one I described, mixed in with a Slayer song, as it crashed to the floor. It not only woke up my roommate and the guy across the hall, but, I'm willing to bet, Adolf Hitler. It was that bad.

 

My roommate and best friend, Joey Barone, woke with a start from the pull-out sofa. He looked like he'd been through Rosie O'Donnell's underwear drawer, he was so scared. "Dude, Kenny, what the hell just happened?!" He asked, mouth moving at roughly the speed of light.

 

"Relax, man, that door finally gave out."

 

"Good-freakin'-riddance, ya piece of crap." Yeah, it was about time, but I wasn't looking forward to replacing it. "So, uh, Ken, any particular reason you're naked?" I looked down, and remembered that I was only wearing a pair of Coca-Cola boxer shorts. I rushed to the other side of our sprawling, three-room metropolis, to the sole closet. I opened the door, found random pants and my favorite t-shirt, and slipped on the former first. They turned out to be white athletic pants. I then threw on my shirt, a white tee with a hippie smiley face on it. It was so cool. I walked into the living room, which looked a lot like my room, but with a pull-out sofa, and a TV with a whopping 25-inch screen, with a V.C.R. Joey was already wearing some grey t-shirt (formerly white), a pair of jeans so threadbare and worn that my pants were a good bit thicker, and some ancient, faded grey Nikes, one of which was missing a lace, and he was watching Goodfellas (you know, the Ray Liotta movie?). "Ya 'bout ready?"

 

"S'pose... lemme get something to eat, though." I slipped on some socks and a pair of battered black Etnies, put my cell phone, which I won in a contest, in my pocket, and grabbed my Mets cap... only to find a pair of Joey's boxers in it. Oh, I thought, He'll pay for this... I walked over the aforementioned third room, which was a kitchen-dinette. What a freakin' joke. It sported an electric range top, a three-legged table, which was filled to the brim with junk, two white, Wal-Mart brand lawnchairs, with free stains, a dry faucet (we just used the bathroom's), and a whopping square yard of counter space, occupied by a mini-fridge with an old boombox on top of it. Joey was sifting through the pile of assorted crap on the table, and he found a box of Pop-Tarts. Satisfied, he started shoving the pastries into his mouth, one after another. I saw my vengeance, in the form of the Blizzard of Ozz, sitting next to the boombox. I set it up to Crazy Train, cranked the volume, and hit play. "ALL ABOARD! AHAHAHAHA!!!!" You shouldda seen it. Honestly. He jumped ten feet high, man. I wish you'd have been there. He proceeded to put me in a fake headlock, saying, "Gonna kill you one of these days..." although he was laughing, too. He handed me my Duel Disk, which was on the chair. He was wearing his already.

 

Oh, yeah, almost forgot; the reason I'm writing this is that I’m in a Duel Monsters League, here in Queens/Brooklyn, with connections to the World Championships, and that, just in case, I've got the event transcribed. So, here’s hoping, eh?

 

I looked at my friend. "You know, Joe, your shirt's on backwards." He checked, and sure enough, it was. "How'd you know?"

 

"No mustard stain." Boy, were we a sight; there was me, standing at about 6', with my black-and-blue Mets cap, which struggled to conceal my dark, dude-get-a-haircut mop-top, the ghost of a moustache, an AC/DC hoodie, which was unzipped to reveal hippie smiley, my track pants, the black Etnies, and my dinosaur of a Duel Disk. Then, there was Joey, who was easily three inches taller, with unkempt mid-length blonde hair, wild blue eyes, needed a shave, had a time-grayed mustard-stained t-shirt, ultra thin jeans, and those flippin' Nikes. He opened the door. "Let's roll."

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

So, we headed out the door. I locked the door behind me, when Joey said, "Toss me the key." I tried to turn around and toss it to him in one smooth, cool motion, but something went horribly wrong, and I fell, sending the key sailing into Joey's stomach. I pulled myself up as Joey bent down to retrieve the key, as we both prayed that no-one saw us. Except God. Hope He had a nice laugh. I called the elevator, pretending that none of that had happened. Joey hit the ground button, and the doors came shut. Oy, I hate elevator music. They were playing a Billy Joel song, slowed, with no vocals. It sounded like Captain Jack. When we stopped, and the doors opened, the lobby was a friggin' zoo.

 

It was like we'd gone from the Sahara Desert to downtown Tokyo, the crowd was so thick. There was a general pushing for the front door, and we did nothing to resist the flow. I was going to get a Coke from the machine by the front desk, but now, I supposed it wasn't going to happen. I looked around, and it really was a nice lobby, completely betraying all of the apartments. I guess they were going to get around to fixing all of those as soon as I can afford a house... The walls had nice, glazed tiles, about the color of sand. The floor... well, for right now, the floor was an endless sea of feet, so that was indistinguishable from a Foot Locker. Or a Lady Foot Locker. Either way. As we neared the front door, I had my first official senior moment... I saw a penny on the floor, and I bent down to pick it up. A-whoops.

 

I tripped up the guy behind me, sending him into the guy in front of me, and then... Bedlam. I swear to you, it was just like friggin' dominoes. I was actually hit by some guy’s wallet… and, once those two fell, they hit those in front of them, and those in front of them. Within seconds, shouts went up, like "My leg!" or "Madre de Dios!" or "I hate crowds!" or "GAH, MY FREAKING EYE SOCKETS!!” from all corners of the room, and everyone except me, Joey, some old man, and the woman behind the counter had crashed to the floor. The lady was really laughing. Hard. I though that she was gonna burst. She was holding her stomach, with tears rolling down her cheeks. Then, she, too, fell out of her chair. So, just the three of us, one of whom was a short, balding, hairy-armed middle-aged man, with a George Costanza hair-do going on, who yelled at us. Like, a lot. He was letting loose a steady torrent of swearing and obscenities of all sorts, language so colorful, you'd swear you were at a Pink Floyd laser light show. I couldn't help but laugh. Joey was as embarrassed as if his pants fell down to reveal Bob the Builder briefs. We walked outta there in a hurry. As soon as we were outside, "Man, what is it today with you? First the door, then the key, and now this! What happened, anyway?"

 

"Well, uh, I, er, found a penny on the ground, ya see, and, well, picked it up, and it, um, tripped a guy... or two." I couldn't read him here. He looked like he wanted to laugh, and stab me, all at the same time. Instead, he just shook his head, and said, "Man, I don't know about you sometimes…”

 

After that, we crossed from 126th Street over to Roosevelt Avenue, towards Citi Field, which was looming in the distance, watching over Flushing, and, judging by the graffiti, chop-shops, and drug dealers, wasn’t doing too good of a job. Ah, well. We love it, anyways. I mean, what can we expect from our Mets, you know?

 

The parking lot was buzzing with activity. There were tons of people parking, getting ready for the long day ahead. You see, today we were playing in a double-elimination style tournament, to decide which four Duelists will be admitted into the Professional Duel Monsters’ Circuit, the “Big Leagues”. I fantasized about it a lot… I mean, wouldn’t it be great? Traveling across the world, meeting all sorts of places, seeing all sorts of people…

 

I digress.

 

 

[spoiler=Chapter Two]We walked into the stadium, which was very tall, and made of a beige-colored brick, with the Citi logo on the top, followed by white block letters that spell out “Field”, with windows up and down the structure. On the inside, there were a whole bunch of glass doors, with the turnstiles in front of them. I was greeted by a guy in a Nirvana tee-shirt, who wore tattered jeans and a trucker cap that advertised the NRA. I was geared up for a political/musical debate that would cause us to miss the first half of the day, but Joey grabbed my hand and pulled me through, into the Jackie Robinson rotunda.

 

Man, it was beautiful! It made me forget about the state of the economy, and the fact that I was an unemployed New Yorker who was trying to rent an entire apartment and support two people whose only feasible outlook was playing a freakin’ card game, you know? I mean, there were two grand concrete staircases on either side, with an escalator in the middle, guarded by three program stands, and flanked by two more escalators, all of which were adorned with park lights. We walked up the center escalator, which wasn’t running. I passed by a guy I sorta knew from school, Ray Andretti, who was a year ahead of me. Joey waved, and he nodded. We continued up, and reached the upper level, where there were two flat-screen TV’s, a corridor, and a zillion glass doors. We walked through the center one, into the Caesar’s Club.

 

“You ready?” Joey asked.

 

“Puh-lease…” I said, unconvincingly. Joey just looked at me, smiling. “Well… maybe.” He gave me a playful shove, as we walked in the door.

 

The place was even bigger than I’d seen it on TV. I mean, a large part of it was that the tables and chairs had been cleared out and replaced with a regulation Duel Field, but… you know what I’m sayin’. Where we were was tiled with white, and there were the bathrooms right to our right, and in front of us was the beautifully crafted cylindrical pillar, which had a flat screen television mounted on it, and a couple chairs, which a bunch of people were lounging on, and watching SportsCenter, where they were making predictions on the upcoming PDC match, pitting reigning champion, Ashton, along with his protégé, Sebastion Ecuban, from London, against the champions of the Big Apple Tagforce Blowout, which took place in Manhattan a few weeks earlier… Joey and I wanted to join, but his girlfriend, Lisa, brainwashed him into going to the Hamptons with him for the weekend, and he didn’t even capitalize! That kinda made me mad, but, regardless.

 

The main area, which held the duel platform (which was about three feet tall, twenty feet wide and thirty feet long, outlined with card zones, and had six hologram projectors; two red ones [in the corner] on the red side, two blues ones [in the corner] on the blue side, and there were two command posts on either side with projectors on them… it was all very precise. On either command post, there were card zones, Deck zones, and Graveyard zones, and screens that read out Duelist stats) was carpeted in the same beige color of the outside, a bar on the right, which was incredibly long, and hopping with activity, and the left was lined with windows with field views.

 

We walked over to the bar, and took a seat between an Italian lady and a Latino janitor with a big, grey moustache and a cigar in his shirt pocket.

 

Joey saw the bartender and smiled. “Yo, Sam!” he shouted. Sam looked up from the dishes that he had been scrubbing at hearing his name, and he looked at Joey. His face immediately lit up.

 

“Joseph Lawrence Barone, is that you!?” He was wearing a stained, blue apron with the Mets’ logo (the baseball, not the N-Y), and graying hair, styled in a comb-over.

 

“Hey!” he said, “How ya doin’?

 

“I’m good, I’m good… how’s Tony?”

 

“Eh… when’re we gonna start this bad boy?” Tony was Joey’s estranged father, a higher-up in the “waste management” business. His brother, Frankie, works for him.

 

Obviously, Sam knew damn well that Joey was making a rather feeble attempt to change the subject, so he announced via a microphone on his shirt collar, “Alright, everybody! We’ll be starting the tournament events now, first match…” he drew a remote from his pocket, and the TV’s started to flash, and two faces were generated; mine was the first one, and the second one was… oh, boy.

 

Paul Finch was a good guy, but a notoriously vicious Duelist, running an all-out attack Deck, using Final Attack Orders, and cards such as Goblin Attack Force. He’s really hit-and-miss, but he did beat Joey before, many a time. He was a big guy, a really, really big guy, who was around twenty years old, with a black beanie cap and long, silver hair, with mild acne.

 

I walked onto the blue command post, and began to shuffle my Deck. Paul stared right into my eyes, blinking as little as possible, jokingly trying to "psyche me out." So, I plugged in my Deck, un-phased, with the words, “After you.”

 

He chuckled, and drew a card. "So, Ken... life been treatin' ya good?"

 

"Not horribly, I guess. You?"

 

"The market crash really knocked my cousin's buisness down a few pegs."

 

"Which one?" I asked, with a slight hint of sarcastic bitterness in my voice.

 

Grinning, Paul said, "All of them, but I meant the most recent one. Now, I'll set a monster, and end my turn."

 

"Alrighty, then... let's see what we've got to work with, then..." I said, mostly to myself, as I drew a card. Not a totally crap hand, I guess; it consisted of Trap Jammer, Fissure, Celtic Guardian, Polymerization, Supreme Synchron, and Weapon Change.

 

"I'll summon Celtic Guardian, and set a card," I said, as I played both the elf and a face-down Trap Jammer. A tall, slender, quite muscular man with lightly-complected skin, shoulder-length blonde hair, brown, warrior's eye paint, brown, leather garments underneath polished, green, Gaelic armor, and a matching cape shimmered into being in front of me. He wore a very Scotch/Irish helmet and wielded a longsword in his right hand.

 

"Now, my monster, attack!" I commanded. This prompted the elf to charge at Paul. A great, brown, humanoid bug with monsterous mandibles sprung from the surface of the Dueling Arena to block the attack.

 

"Man-Eater Bug's effect activates," Paul said, smugly.

 

Celtic Guardian easily dispatched the creature with two quick flicks of the wrist, but the head of it retained some life as the rest of its cleanly-sliced body fell, deader than Pee-Wee Herman's career. This barely living head snapped its jaws and took a fatal chuck from the center of the elven warrior's chest. He dropped his blade, and fell backwards like a felled oak, bleeding profusely. The surrounding crowd began to murmur collectivley.

 

"Dammit, Paulie... take it easy. I'll end my turn," I said, half-jokingly, as the holograms faded.

 

Smirking, Paul drew a card. "I'll set a card, and summon Insect Knight!"

 

Oh, boy. A six-foot-tall, pale, green-ish cricket from Hell, which was armed with a sword and shield, and armored with a metal exoskeleton. It had 1900 attack points, and I had no defense against it.

 

"Now! Attack!" Paul bade the overgrown bug.

 

It hopped about ten feet in the air over my head, and came down blade first. I hit the deck faster than a steel to an electromagnet, even though it was just a hologram. This got some chuckles from the crowd. My Life Points dropped to 6100 on the display board.

 

"What can I say, I felt sorry for ya," I said to Paul, as I pulled myself back up.

 

"Of course... I end my turn."

 

I drew a card. It was Goblin Attack Force... very good. The tides were about to turn.

 

"I'll activate Fissure from my hand!" I declared. A huge, abyssal gap opened beneath Insect Knight, and it plunged downward to infinity, casting its weapon high into the air. The gap closed itself back up, and the weapon clanked onto the surface of the arena.

 

"Now, I'll summon Goblin Attack Force!" A hoard of ugly, green, humanoid creatures, wearing tattered, purple muscle shirts and yellow, hide caps, armed with a wide variety of weapons, ranging from baseball bats, which were riddled with metal spikes, to rusty hatches, to even gardening tools like rakes and hoes rose from the ground in front of me.

 

Paul smirked. I wondered why, and then told my Attack Force, to, well, attack. I believe I said "kiss your lead good-bye, because you'll not see it again" or something to that tune.

 

Grinning broadly, Paul said, "I'm afriad not. Activate trap, Magic Cylander!"

 

"Ah," I said, poker-faced, "but I insist. Reveal trap, Trap Jammer!" The audience kinda "oooh"-ed at that one.

 

The horde charged Paul, only to be greeted by what looked like a giant Yahtzee shaker with a question mark on it. Beneath the cylander, an arcane seal appeared, shattering the thing. The horde continued their charge, meeting Paul's command post. His eyes were like saucers (no, he wasn't high, I meant that he was scared/surprised) as the first weapon touched him. A huge cloud of dust was raised, so I didn't get to watch the attack; I only saw Paul's Life Points sink to 5700.

 

After the dust settled, the goblins retreated, exhausted. They were panting, wiping sweat from their brows, leaning on their weapons, and two even slept. The audience cheered.

 

"Why, thanks, guys," I said, winking. "I suppose that that concludes my turn."

 

[spoiler=Chapter three (Not Finished)]

I felt good. Even though my "fans" were an assortment of my peers, the energy of a crowd behind me, no matter how fickle they were, always excited me. With this amount of momentum, I didn't foresee myself losing anytime soon.

 

"Don't get too cocky, Bohner," Paul muttered, under his breath.

 

"Me? Surely, you're joking," I said, showing off a little more than necessary, given the cirumstances.

 

"From my hand, I activate Soul Exchange!" A milky, translucent version of my attack force split apart from the original copy, and was pulled towards Paul.

 

"Now, prepare to wipe that grin from your face! I'll offer your Goblin Attack Force as a Tribute to summon my Empress Mantis!"

 

Suddenly, it got very quiet. My Goblin Attack Force shattered like glass, the fragments vanishing upon contact with the floor. A massive tulip sprung from the ground, in front of Paul. Atop that tulip sat the Empress Mantis, who had a slim, pink body, huge tufts of white fur around her neck, the top of her head, and on her arms. Attached to her wrists were long, wide scythes. She had huge, pupil-less compound eyes, and two antennae.

 

"Soul Exchange's effect prevents me from attacking you this turn, so you can take it from here."

 

"Okay," I said, weakly attempting to sound undaunted, "I-I'll draw a card."

 

While it's understandable to be worried in a situation like this one, I didn't quite know why I was. See, regarding my Deck's main weapon, Supreme Synchro Ukitake (made as a cross-over promotion with BLEACH... I've got one of three ever printed), I've had incredible luck. It never fails... here's a prime example.

 

I drew Pot of Greed, and activated it. I then drew my two cards, as per its effect... I got Damage Condenser and Supreme Synchron. This really caught my eye, considering I need the Synchron to summon my aforementioned Ukitake card. (sorry to leave so abruptly, but something came up)

 

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Kenny Bohner

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I remember this!

 

Are you rewriting the fic?

 

Well it's always good to try to give something a fresh start.

 

The later chapters really diverged from the beginning anyway. XD

 

Exactly. I hated it, and I scrapped the whole thing. I just lost sight of what had made it great to begin with

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Kenny Bohner

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Yeah... It went from a realistic yugioh fic to Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure fighting the forces of hell.

 

That... was weird.

 

Right. I plan to stay more traditional this time around, like the original series. But, I did have a question for ya... think you've got another character in you for your old pal? I think some fresh blood would really spruce the tale up. And, I think, maybe... well, maybe not. I'll elaborate when I decide.

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Weather Report - Stand Newbie

Weather Report - Stand

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I remember you! For the second time! Yeah! You're re-starting this story for the second time now, right? I really liked this thing last time! And the time before. Well, I hope it actually comes full-circle this time around. I'll give you a character, but just to say so, I'm already planning to use her in at least... two or three different stories I'm brainstorming as a side-character every time.

 

Name: Senkaiyo No-Last-Name-Given

Age: 24

Residence: Long Island, New York

Appearance: Stereotypically blue anime hair done into a ponytail, awesome blue shades reminiscent of these:Though they have two small points on the bottom-side areas, this is the closest thing I could find to them whilst searching the net. Also wears green orb-ish earrings. In terms of real clothing, she wears a neat red dress with a large collar and long sleeves. On the sides and bottom of the sleeves is a big yellow line filled in with smaller fashionable (?) black lines. It sounds weird for me to explain... but she also has go-go boots and gloves. Did I make her too stereotypically-stylized? I hope so.

Biography: A random gal who looks like she's still 17, she doesn't really have much of a backstory. She's just really insane. She also seems to have limitless energy (due to her love of sugar and caffeine, actually) and screams random exclamations at times.

Personality: Just as I described, she's overly hyper in a stupid way and doesn't have much in terms of logic except 'Hit it! If that's not enough, hit it HARDER!!' She runs a SIX SAMURAI DECK based around only the good ones (Yaichi, Zanji and that Dark-type one) and Special Summoning Grandmaster, Shien and that Shien Assistant-guy whatever his name was whilst using extreme draw power (Unity of Six Samurai x3!!) and negating Spells and Traps (Solemn Judgment x3!!), which ultimately results in a bunch of field clearings and big attacks, giving her the title of Crazy Awesome.

 

How's THAT for a confusing application?

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Nexev Newbie

Nexev

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Insects?

 

Not a very offensive deck in my opinion, I've seen it play a good stall but this is the first "I'm going to throw a cricket at your face and kill you" strategy I've seen.

 

Of course that hardly means much.

 

Hold up, I'll get some readers for you.

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Kenny Bohner Newbie

Kenny Bohner

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Thanks, everyone. Now, in order:

 

@willpower_9: Thanks, on both accounts... and, from what I've seen of you, you've got good taste, too

 

@Ethan: Yeah, I know. SPOILER ALERT this is the only time you'll ever see the dude. I saw potential comedic value and an interesting Duel in such a Deck, so I went for it

 

@Weather Report: You know I will. I always do ;)

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