Sim Resolution

Way way back in the ancient mists of time (March 2008) I wrote of my crazy ex-third flatmate Victor Ninox’s relationship with a World of Warcraft fan called Darlinghe Moonbloode. I say called because she certainly wasn’t named Darlinghe Moonbloode, and even the registrar had refused to honour her deed poll.

Her real name was Yvonne Stamp, so perhaps we shouldn’t judge her too harshly. For her name, at least. We can judge her plenty harsh for almost everything else, including the way she ruined Vic’s life.

Okay, so a lot of people have ruined Vic’s life, including Vic’s parents, my ex-girlfriend Winona Bonavista, the Australian Taxation Office, the list goes on, but the special kind of pain and misery Darlinghe Moonbloode brought to Vic’s life really does deserve highlighting.

Picture the situation: my exciting sunken executive lounge in my parents’ Balmain investment property for which I swear I will start paying rent for as soon as my next cheque comes through.

We’re in the middle of one of Sydney’s famous freak storms which occur with such reliable regularity I don’t really understand how they can be considered freak anymore. Lightning is stabbing at the CBD skyline. The power is out.

With each flash of lightning, I see the haggard form of Victor Ninox approach from the eat-in kitchenette. He looks drawn, haunted. He’s carrying a claw hammer.

“Dude,” he intones, standing before me in the darkness, “I totally want you to hit me in the head with this claw hammer.”

Lightning flashes. Thunder rolls.

Later, in the pub, Vic explained that he wanted me to hit him with the hammer to put him in a coma so he could escape his relationship with Darlinghe Moonbloode. And then, horror of horrors, she came in through the door.

Rain streamed from those acres of black velvet. She had a massive hat, covered in black lace and plastic black roses, and it had suffered a sort of collapse in the weather, wrapping itself around her massive jowls.

She tore it off, flung it to the side, spotted Vic and I over by the laser jukebox, and advanced. It was like plate tectonics. Like the end of worlds. She was Leviathan, and we had unwisely drawn her out.

“Baby baby baby,” she said in an unexpectedly tiny, sweet voice. “What you doing here? We’re running Molten Core again tonight, as part of the celebration before Lich King comes out and ruins everything.”

“Eep,” said Vic.

“We need you baby,” said Darlinghe, laying hold of Vic’s twig-like arm. “You need to buff the offtank.” She followed this up with a stream of World of Warcraft terminology so arcane even my seasoned diarist’s brain couldn’t keep up.

“No,” said Vic, very quietly.

There was a pause, in which lightning flashed and thunder rolled.

“Oh baby,” said Darlinghe, “you’re so funny. Come on now, my corsets are damp and I’m starting to get a chill.”

“You need help,” said Vic, still very quietly. “It’s not right. Eighteen hours a day logged in or queuing to log in, it’s not right.”

Darlinghe’s impressively craggy forehead collapsed in on itself to form one of the most terrifying frowns I’d ever seen.

“Please,” Vic went on. “Take this chance. Let’s just stay here in the pub, and drink white spirits until we pass out, throw up in the gutter, and then have to get our stomachs pumped in hospital. Even if we pick up a Golden Staph infection, it’ll still be better than raiding Molten Core for the nine millionth time.”

Instead of replying, Darlinghe just hauled Vic out of his chair by his forearm. It was like he’d been chained to an unexpectedly well-upholstered steam locomotive. I followed, in a sort of horrified fascination.

We zigged and zagged through the myriad alleyways and side-streets of Glebe, NSW, until we came to a crumbling terrace. All the lights were out. The front door was like a gaping maw.

“That’s odd,” said Darlinghe. “Why aren’t the lights on? I hope the fusebox didn’t blow again, I only just managed to log in!”

She rushed up the front steps. When we entered the living room, all the lights suddenly snapped on. There were thirty or so people in there, all staring anxiously at Darlinghe.

“Yvonne,” said an older woman, who by her sheer bulk must have been the mother, “this is an intervention.”

Darlinghe’s heavily-mascara-ed eyes bugged out.

“Mum? Dad?” she squawked. “What are you doing here?”

There was a short and slightly confused pause.

“This is an intervention,” repeated an older man. He was portly, but with thin arms, and long flowing grey hair. He looked rather disturbingly like Vic. Disturbing, because he was clearly Darlinghe’s father. He held a large fire axe.

“There comes a time in every girl’s life where she has to put away girlish things,” said the mother. “Such as World of Warcraft.”

Darlinghe’s eyes narrowed. But she was simply too far away, and there were too many people between her and her father, so she was unable to stop him marching up to her computer - which formed the centre of a sort of black-velvet shrine in the dining room - and putting the axe through it. He obviously knew PCs: he went for the case rather than the 17” CRT monitor.

Then all hell broke loose.

Vic and I stopped, dropped and rolled. As relatives and childhood friends bounced off the walls and cracks appeared in the lintels, we escaped to the front porch. Vic lit a cigarette, and this time I didn’t even hassle him about it.

“Did you organise that?” I asked.

He looked at me with haunted eyes.

“Dude,” I said, clapping him on the back. “I am seriously impressed.”