Kenny’s filthy notebook (filled with oodles of doodles on genitalia) legible page #1: Why am I working as a journalist when I could have joined the Sex Olympics and defeated my nemesis Brad Stallion in a challenge of intergalactic carnal conquest to compensate our manhood?
|Sure, sure. I’m optimistic, alright. In either sticking my thing into someone or someone sticking something in me. Like a sharp metallic object.
Also, I’m asked to choose my sex (there’s only Male or Female and no “I Like It Every Day & Night” option). Then, I get to name this suave mustachioed ladies’ man in dated suede suit. That’s what Londoners used to wear right? So, anyway, I gave him a nice Scottish name of McCormick; the last of the proud Highlander McCormick clan. What fires burn in his heart for a sword, he had transferred to his peni- er… pen. Just pen. No “I” after that. Or “S”. Or anything.
So, anyhoo, notice that the screen’s real estate is being occupied into 3 distinct areas. The top bar shows from left to right: Location, Date, Time (notice it’s close to 11pm when the game starts?). The bottom screen shows the description that cannot be conveyed with visuals alone and usually shows either a redundant movement instruction chart (LEFT & RIGHT to move and UP to enter orifi- er… egresses, I mean) or a menu of commands like Maniac Mansion, only this game is its older & smarter overachieving brother who ended up down-n-out after losing all his money to crack, whores and crack whores.
So, here’s the thing: From what I’ve read in the manual, I’m an up-&-coming (this one is so painfully obvious that I can’t be bothered to do it) reporter for the Daily Courier. Like Superman without the powers. Or even Lois Lane. But the game is nice enough to set me up with a serial killer nemesis. Also, I found out that the Daily Courier is actually a rather sad piece of work with only one reporter covering all the goddamn news in town. The hell?
|Every shit job in the world starts with a “Welcome.”
Now, the first time I played the game, I assumed I was a Night Reporter – covering the news from the graveyard shift of 10pm to 6am. I’m gonna recreate that line of thought for you guys here just for old Nostalgia’s sake because she always makes me wear some rose-tinted glasses to look at old crap best left forgotten.
Right in the beginning, I’m stationed outside the Daily Courier, just itching to start my journalistic career. Oh, why didn’t I just start out as a paparazzi cameraman, snapping upskirt photos of celebutantes? So, I might as well just enter the building.
|Oh, joy. An old coot for a boss. There goes my “Office Romance” Mass Effect style wishful thinking.
|Sure. McCormick this. McCormick that. Waitaminit. It’s past 11. Why the hell are you still here?!
|Oh, really? You know everything, don’t you? Would you wanna trade jobs?
|Isn’t that the cutest London cabby you ever saw?! Hey! There’s only 1 door! How did I manage to squeeze in there? Is this a clown car in disguise?
Stay tuned, fellow adventurers.