You walk through the carnage of the battlefield, feeling your anger (and your gorge) rise with every casualty you see. True, most of them are casualties that you created, but it still makes you mad to see life wasted like that. I mean, you're supposed to be beating up hippies and frat boys to steal their loot and pass the time, not because there's some damn war going on. Senseless violence isn't as much fun if there's a purpose behind it.
You glance through the mist obscuring the battlefield (there always seems to be mist on a battlefield -- some say it's to obscure the parts that haven't finished loading yet, but you don't know what that means) and see a man in a subtly expensive three-piece suit sitting behind a rather incongruously placed desk. He's balder than a Pooltergeist, fatter than a Knob Goblin Harem Girl, whiter than Whitey's Grove, and smoking a cigar that's so big it looks like someone lit a Louisville Slugger on fire. As you get closer, you see a gleam from the fraternity pin on his lapel, and a matching one from his class ring.
"Look," you say. "It looks like you're in charge here, so --"
"That may very well be," he says. "In fact, I think you'll find that I'm in charge everywhere." He stands up, grunting a little with the effort, and walks around to the front of the desk. "Look around you, kid," he says, waving his cigar. "You won't find my name on any list of the wealthiest people in the Kingdom. You won't see me cozying up to the Council or staring down the Naughty Sorceress. But everywhere you go, you feel my influence. The world is my pledge, kid, and I swing one hell of a paddle. You know how the hippies talk about the Man keeping them down?"
"I never thought they were talking about an actual person," you say.
The Man bows in mock humility, his chins wiggling. "Nope, that's me. I'm the Man. Now, dog, what do you want?"
"Listen," you say, "you're the one in charge, so you're the one who can stop this stupid war."
He narrows his eyes and puffs on his cigar. "What's in it for me? Besides, those hippies slaughtered the fraternity's mascot. Brotherhood above all, kid, brotherhood above all. I take care of the Brotherhood, they take care of me. Bums and Paddles!"
"But the hippies didn't kill the goldfish!" you shout. "The goldfish was dead when I -- er, when the hippy got there. Some idiot put it in a fishbowl full of beer."
"Is that right?" he says. "Because I say that the hippies killed him. Everybody knows that's what happened. Doesn't matter if it's true or not. Besides, I'm a businessman above all things, and there's no business like the war business, kid."
"Okay," you say. "I've always heard that you can't fight the Man, but I'm ready to give it a try. It's about time someone knocked some sense into you."
|Commence the Sense Knocking.
You're fighting The Man
This guy used his frat boy connections (including his affiliation with the secret society Bums and Paddles) to become a legal version of a mafia kingpin. He's the one pulling the strings behind the scenes, rubbing his sweaty, chubby hands together and laughing while he gnaws on a cigar that costs more meat than an adventurer makes in a week.
Some call him a fat cat, call him a bigwig, but most just call him the Man, as in, "man oh man, it looks like you're about to get your ass handed to you."
Critical Hit Message:
He punches you square in the jaw. The giant gem on his class ring leaves an imprint on your face that's actually kind of pretty. Oof! Ow! Argh! Ooh! Ouch!
He stabs you with a solid baconstone letter opener. Ow! Ooh! Argh! Ow! Ow!
He burns you with his giant cigar. You see that scar? It's about the size of a cigar. Do I stutter? Ow! Eek! Eek! Argh! Argh! (hot damage)
He whips out a giant, chrome-embossed, ebony-and-sandalwood paddle and paddles you with it. Fancy! Eek! Oof! Ouch! Ooh! (sleaze damage)
He whips out a glass ceiling and smashes it over your head repeatedly. Now matter how hard you hit it or it hits you, you just can't seem to break it. Eek! Ow! Ooh! Ooh!
He tries to punch you, but gets winded from the effort and has to sit down.
He tries to stab you with his solid baconstone letter opener, but baconstone is brittle and the point breaks off. There's probably a moral in there somewhere.
He tries to burn you with his giant cigar, but you accuse him of compensating for something.
He tries to paddle you with his custom-made paddle, but gets winded before he starts.
He suddenly stops and clutches his right arm. "Oh no, it's the big one!" he says. "Oh, I've wasted my life, I should have cared for my fellow man...wait, never mind, just gas."
You stand over the Man as he lies motionless on the battlefield, breathing shallowly, his eyes glazed. Then he sits bolt upright, draws a deep, rattling breath, and laughs at you. "So, kid," he says, "you think you hippies have beat me, don't you?"
"Um," you say, "given that you're sitting over here, and your legs from the knee down are over there, I'm gonna say 'yeah, we beat you.'"
"Ha! Shows what you know," he says, then has a brief coughing fit. "You hippies are incapable of planning for the future. I wouldn't have walked onto this battlefield without a back-up plan." He reaches his hand into his breast pocket (wait, he's not wearing a shirt -- wow, this guys is seriously wounded) and pulls out a silver cylinder with a glowing red button on it. "You see, I had my little frat boy minions rig up the hippy camp with roughly, oh, let's say an assload-and-a-half of TNT. Goodbye, you commie losers!"
"Wait, don't --" you say, but it's too late. The Man pushes the plunger on the detonator, then falls back to the ground.
Nothing happens for just the right number of tension-building seconds.
Then the entire frat house explodes in fantastic, apocalyptic, really kind of nifty fashion. You hear a series of muffled "booms" as kegs full of cheap beer overheat and rupture, undoubtedly showering shrapnel on anyone left in the house. Shrapnel fills the air, a mixture of splintered paddles and chunks of exploded keg.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, silence reigns (except for the groaning of the wounded and the crackling of flame. A charred Soggy Wofl T-shirt floats down from the sky and rests poignantly at your feet.
You stare blankly at the destruction around you, then realize you're obligated to make a witty remark. "Remember, kids," you say as you strut off the field, "idiots and explosives don't mix."
Occurs at The Orcish Frat House (Wartime).
- The Man can be extremely difficult as a low (or no) skill character. For a character with access to a Slimeling, getting a slime stack or two can be incredibly helpful. Slime stacks de-level a monster by 10% for each stack used. The Man is approximately Monster Level 240, one stack will reduce this to 216, and a second stack will reduce this to 195. This is far more manageable for a low-skill character. Stacks also do a sizeable chunk of damage at the start of the fight.
- You can fight him for 50 rounds, instead of the usual 30. Keep this in mind when deciding how much damage you need to do per round.
- He takes double damage from spooky and cold damage.
- He cannot be CLEESHED.
- If you attempt to choose "Commence the Sense Knocking" while drunk, you get the message: "You're too drunk to go there. So don't go there."
- This monster cannot be copied.
- The Man is a slang reference to government or authority.
- Due to his looks and his demeanor, The Man may be a parody of Wilson Fisk, also known as The Kingpin, from the Marvel Comics series.
- It also appears that The Man is loosely based on The Big Lebowski from the Coen brothers' 1998 film The Big Lebowski, especially since his counterpart when fighting on the frat boys' side is The Big Wisniewski.
- "Nope, that's me. I'm the Man. Now, dog, what do you want?" is a reference to the movie Finding Forrester, where Sean Connery says the line, "You're the man now dog!" It's also a possible reference to YTMND, a popular website based originally on Sean Connery's line in Finding Forrester.
- The cigar burn hit message is a reference to the movie The Breakfast Club.
- The critical hit message refers to the business term "glass ceiling".
- The secret society Bums and Paddles is a likely reference to the real-life secret society Skull and Bones.