A couple of friends were with me today when I beat Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic for the first time. As they watched me slaughter the villain (Malak never landed a single hit on me, unsurprisingly), one put forth the question: what kind of Jedi would I be, given the option? This is a ridiculous question, for reasons I'll get into in a moment, but I didn't have anything else to write about in this Entry, so here you go.

The short answer to the question is, I would not be a Jedi. I am, in fact, utterly unsuited to be any sort of Jedi, light or dark. In spite of my extreme geekdom, Jediness actually holds no appeal at all. The reason is simple: extremes. The Force is, generally speaking, a function of extremes. One is either good, and must perpetually limit onself to avoid the pull of temptation, or one is evil, and faces increasing loss of control as the dark side takes over one's mind slowly. As has been discussed elsewhere in this Journal, I am not, by nature, a creature of extremes, being an individual with a natural tendency towards balance between law and chaos and good and evil. I would make a terrible servant of the light, because I refuse to compromise my love of lying and cheating. I would be equally unsuited for a servant of the dark side; while there is nothing in the universe I want more than power, I would rather not have to spend the rest of my life scrambling to get more and then fighting to keep what I have.

I was going to save the following for the next entry, but since this has been yet another relatively short answer, here is today's

Bonus Feature:
The Cardboard Tube, Volume 3, Issue 6
Emergency Backup Cardboard Tube
Author's Note: Last issue, we featured the only issue of the Cardboard Tube to get completly cut from the Bandersnatch; this is the column which replaced it, and while it's not one of my favourites, enough people said they enjoyed this column that it seems worth posting the uncut version. This is also the last of the Cardboard Tubes which will be getting printed or reprinted in this Journal, so there may be no Bonus Features for a while. I'm sure you'll all live with the disapointment.

"I'm going to hunt down the people who have strong opinions on subjects they don't understand. Then I'll bop them with this cardboard tube." -Dogbert

Over the last month or so, I have had the dubious pleasure, thanks to the laptop computers of several friends of mine, of playing again all the old Nintendo games that captivated me in my youth. Some readers will say, I'm sure, that at 20 years old, I'm still in my youth. That's fine, since the games are still wonderful.

Now, wonderful is a funny word. Some things are really wonderful, and by this, I mean, say, a beautiful flower or a work of art. And then, some things are just so utterly bad as to be wonderful, like a Godzilla movie. Nintendo games are awful. The thing is, though, that they're just so incredibly bad, so mind numbingly ridiculous, that you can't stop playing. Gamers call this the Toho Effect; you want to stop watching, but you just can't take you eyes off of the big, rubbery monsters.

On that note, let's talk about Dig Dug.

I've always loved Mario and Link, but as far as I'm concerned, the quintessential Nintendo game is and always has been Dig Dug. Let's start with the characters, shall we? The game's name comes from the main character, a little robot named Dig Dug. Unlike, say, the Terminator, or even Johnny 5, Dig Dug is something less than a horseman of the apocalypse. He is, in fact, armed with a bicycle pump. Using this terrible weapon of mass destruction, Dig Dug moves through the earth like a Herbert Worm on crack. When he comes across his enemies, the deadly underdwelling Pookas and Fygars, Dig Dug stabs them his pump and then (and this is the exciting bit) inflates them until they explode. This death scene is unusually graphic for a Nintendo game. Little Fygar bits fly in every direction. The brutality of this death scene was unchallenged in the gaming industry for years, until the release of Spider-Man on Nintendo, where hitting enemies with your webs causes them to explode in a shower of blood and gore. As far as game play goes, this game is "classic" which means you move up, down, left and right and nothing else. Your enemies, on the other hand, can pass through solid rock and move diagonally, but since they're about as dangerous as small, non-rolling rocks, they need every advantage they can get. The last thing that makes this game classic Nintendo is how it more or less goes on forever. Levels get harder with the addition of more and more enemies, and after roughly eighty levels, the game cycles back to level one. Rumors persist that some people have actually beaten Dig Dug, but since they've been reduced to gibbering vegetables, they couldn't be interviewed for this column.

Speaking of Gibbering vegetables, this brings me to Gyromite.

Don't feel bad if you've never heard of Gyromite. Most people don't know it by name. This game was made famous by R.O.B., the world's first in-home video-game-playing robot. Rob made this game famous. When you bought Gyromite, it came with an actual plastic robot capable of playing the game. He was no Deep Blue. Rob wasn't even a Battle Chess. But Rob was good enough to beat the average six year old when he was set to high difficulty, and that's all anyone asked of him. Rob isn't really appreciated nowadays; auctions for Rob on Ebay often go as high as 12$ before vanishing for lack of bidders.

"To think... you constitute one of my ancestors. I'm vaguely offended by that." Sid 6.7, Virtuosity

Gyromite itself is one of the better games ever released. You use the a and b buttons to lift and lower hydraulic pipes and crush enemies, and with the help an old man who looks like Doctor Light (or Einstein) you collect items in levels. The games has infinite replay value, not because it's fun, but because you slowly crush your foes with hydraulic pipes.

I feel it's worth noting that not all bad games are fun. Some are bad to the point of just being bad, and this describes most of the games that were released by Nintendo. Case in point: Elevator Action. In Elevator Action, you play a super-spy whose stylish red hair extends a good foot past his forehead, which I can only suppose is kept that way so that he can deliver lethal head-butts to enemy spies. You don't get to be so barbaric, though, because you have two other weapons. First, you have a Bruce Willis Handgun, being a small gun that never runs out of bullets. And second, you can crunch your enemies with an elevator. The game follows as you, the valiant hero, have stolen some documents from the Evil Spies from the top floor of their Evil Spy Headquarters which, for some reason, is taller than the Empire State Building. The game begins as you get the files and are now trying to escape from the building. I can only conclude that the Secret Files (tm) were attached to a Cunning Alarm (tm) because the Evil Spies (tm) are all Angry (tm) and trying to Kill (tm) You (tm). They try and kill you by staring at you for a minute. When that doesn't work, they shoot you, assuming you didn't just shoot them during the staring part. You've got a hell of a gun, too. When you shoot the enemies, they writhe around on the floor, scream, and then implode.

Now that I think about it, *you've* broken into the enemy spy headquarters, *you've* stolen their important documents, and *you* always shoot first... I'm really not sure that you're necessarily escaping from an *evil* headquarters.... But anyway...

So there you have it. Nintendo: the games weren't any good, but killing stuff is fun.

As a handful of my readers already know, I have recently had the great pleasure of starting a warhammer 40K themed d20 Modern game (as a player, no less). When one spends so much time storytelling and so little time playing as I do, one begins to forget the simple pleasures of sitting quietly, listening to the storyteller building up a world around you as he or she prepares to release you roughshod into that world to wreak whatever havoc pleases you. I love running games, but the pleasure of storytelling and the pleasure of playing are so different that they can't possibly be compared, nor can one be picked over the other. Anyway, being in a new game has, obviously, necessitated creating a new character, and since I've spent so much time in this Journal discussing how I craft stories and NPCs, I thought people might have something to gain from reading about how I construct my own characters for play. At the very least, those of you who are writers or storytellers yourselves will have one more character in mind that you can steal and use for your own.

First, a brief introduction to the WH40K universe, since all characters are shaped by the world for which they are built. The 40K universe takes place in our universe, in the 42st millenium (AD, we assume). Recorded history, for all intents and purposes, goes back only the last ten thousand years, which has been dominated the Imperium of Mankind, a gothic, ambigously evil empire that rules the known universe with a religious fist. The Imperium is beset by threats from within (traitors, rebels, heretics) and without (aliens, demons, rules-lawyers). The Imperium spans millions of inhabited worlds, most of which hold billions (or trillions) of citizens, and because FTL space-flight is hazardous at best and impossible at worst, worlds tend to be more or less independent states united tenously under the worship of the Divine Emperor. Our story takes place on the planet Nocturnus; the entire world is one immense city which has been built up in hundreds of layers until it is less a metropolis and more of a hive. It is, in fact, known as Hive-City Nocturnus. The world is a loyal Imperial planet, and as such, is policed and protected by the loyal Imperial Guard.

Enter our heroes.

The important facts to draw from all this background is as follows: Our characters are humans; they are earnest worshippers of the Emperor; they are loyal to the Imperial Guard; they are trained soldiers; they live in a massive city and have probably never seen "nature"; they are but single citizens among hundreds of billions on that world alone, which exists within an Imperium so large they cannot possibly imagine it; they are beset on all sides by enemies.

Now we consider the rules system. The game is being played by the rules of WotC's D20 Modern, which is basically analagous to the rules for D&D 3 except for minor variations. Furthermore, the game is non-magical, so no wizards or clerics. The basic character classes all center around a single ability; one might be a Strong Hero, a Fast Hero, a Tough Hero, and so forth. The first thing I typically ask myself is, what other characters have I been playing lately? I have been playing a lot of clerics and wizards in the last few games I played in, and I play mostly characters who are either big, strong, or loaded with leadership in terms of NPCs. This leaves one class which I haven't played recently, and furthermore, the one thing every military unit needs is a sniper. I chose a Fast Hero, who's primary ability is their dexterity.

Now we need a character concept; I never do anything on a character unless I have a clear concept in mind first. The character is a sniper, so he was probably recruited by the Imperial Guard early and has been training for a long time. Additionally, the character is in the Imperial Guard, and I want him to be loyal, so he probably wasn't a conscript. On a Hive World, the big reason to join the Imperial Guard is because the only alternative, unless you're born wealthy, is to go work in the hellish factories and eventually die. Hence, we have our background.

(Insert Name Here) was born in the city of Nocturnus in the lower industrial levels to a working class family. A healthy child with excellent reflexes and a good mind, the child's parents saw that his best opportunity to escape the inductrial levels was to advance in the Guard, and so when he was recruitment age they sent him off to the training camps. There, (INH) found that he had an apptitude for the lasgun and became a respected marksman.

The rest of character creation is fairly simple once all these steps are done. Feats and equipment are chosen to fit what has already been established, and finally a name is picked (by taking the names of two of the main colour writers for the 40K universe, squishing their names together, and adding "eus" to the end). A figure is found (because combat uses miniatures; I assemble and paint an Imperial Guard trooper from bits generously donated to me by Stuart, who plays the Guard as one of his armies). The final stage is to cement the character in my own mind, usually by writing a character history. In this case, more than enough information exists to make that purely a formality.

           Background: Gavlan Therreus was born in the city of Nocturnus in the lower industrial levels to a working class family. A healthy child with excellent reflexes and a good mind, the child's parents saw that his best opportunity to escape the inductrial levels was to advance in the Guard, so when he was recruitment age they sent him off to the training camps. There, Gavlan found that he had an apptitude for the lasgun andbecame a respected marksman. His skills attracted the notice of a captain assembling a special task-force for small, delicate missions, and Gavlan was chosen to be the squad's long-range combat expert.
           The next several years brought Gavlan intensive training in marksmanship, concealment, tactics, demolitions, and other skills judged to be of use to an elite infiltration squad. He became proficient in group and air vehicles, as well as several languages. When the opportunity arose, Gavlan volunteered to be fitted with a cybernetic targeting eye which, though unsightly, added to his already proficient aim.
           At the age of twenty, Gavlan now prepares to be officially accepted into the special forces ranks.
           Image: Gavlan Therreus is a young human male with the pale skin of a youth who has never seen the natural sun. Healthy and with a medium build, Gavlan has a slight slouch from hours spent leaning over a lasgun. Gavan is every inch an Imperial soldier, from his Cadian-style light armor to the Imperial issue combat knife strapped to his back. Gavlan's only distinguishing feature is the targetting implant in his skull; Gavlan looks as though he is wearing a pair of reflective sunglasses which cover his eyes and go right over his brow to halfway back his skull.
           Roleplaying notes: You are good at what you do, and you know it. While you are not yet the deadliest man in the Imperial Guard, you might just be on your way there, and the lasgun and longrifle feel as comfortable in your hands as your own fingers. Remember always that the Emperor protects the faitful and the faithful, in turn, protect the Imperium.

Bonus Feature:
The Cardboard Tube, Unpublished
Uncultured
Author's Note: This issue of the Cardboard Tube is interesting because it is one of the few columns never published in Bandesnatch. In the column's first volume, I was more or less given carte-blanche to write about whatever the hell I wanted. In the second volume, I was "strongly encouraged" to write about culture, particularly popular culture, and to reduce the amount of "pointless, stupid ranting" that I put into each column. By the time the third volume began, the Bandersnatch's Editor-and-Chief and I had something of a falling out (she hated me; I was entertained by her hating me, which made her hate me more), and my columns began to get cut if they did not have a clear, coherent topic about something in popular culture. While many (read: all) issues of the Cardboard Tube got cut down in volume 3, this column (which was originally slated to be issue 6 of that volume) was cut entirely. To this day, I have no idea if the editing and restrictions on me were placed there because the EinC was being spiteful or if she honestly was trying to ensure a higher quality of paper; I'll likely never know, because to this day I can't stand face to face with her without feeling the urge to begin laughing uncontrollably. So anyway...

"I'm going to hunt down the people who have strong opinions on subjects they don't understand. Then I'll bop them with this cardboard tube." -Dogbert

Right around Multicultural Week, way back when, I got involved in a very brief discussion with some associates as to which of a person's cultures were actually cultures and which were subcultures. It wasn't so much a discussion as a "yes it is/no it isn't" routine, but it got me thinking. The way I see it, my culture is Gamer, and my subculture is Canadian. I admit this only reluctantly... who wants to be a Canadian, after all?

Eric, I hear you asking, isn't it a bit late to tie your columns in with Multicultural week? Multicultural week was almost a month ago, but it is never too late to make a spurious rhetorical connection between two concepts. In my world, procrastination is a virtue, so get used to it.

As we all know, the only culture that many people our age (and most other ages) get in their lives is the stuff that turned their milk into their yogurt. As I see it, culture is a matter of perspective, just like everything else. You may be born into a certain group or country, but does that mean that the local culture is your primary culture, or even your subculture? The answer is that a culture is only yours if you see it as being your culture. If you don't see yourself as a Canadian, then the culture all around you is simply something that happens to other people. My culture, then, is whatever I choose to let it be. This may not be an accepted definition, but then again, I'd like to see a doctor of sociology try to write the Cardboard Tube.

In case anyone is curious, last issue's Cardboard Tube was cut because it wasn't entertainment related, which is no one's fault but my own. This one is entertainment related. So there.

Let's start by looking at one of the base elements of culture: food. We all know stereotypical Canadian food: beer, beaver tails, poutine, ad nauseum. None of these really jump out at me, so obviously they aren't a major part of culture. Next there's Jewish food: chicken soup, schnitzel (sic), and so on. This is much closer to my food of choice, and it's better than Canadian food because it won't kill you in two servings. Lastly, Gamer food: soda, munchies, occasional fruit (for survival only). Suffice it to say, I'm drinking flat cola as I write this.

C: 0 J: 1 G: 2

Next, we have music. My long-time readers already know my thoughts on music (death to Bobby Vinton!), but for the benefit of newer readers, a culture-by-culture comparison. Canadian music: we have two possibilities here. Canadian music can either be said to be folk music, wherein children crack corn (and we don't care), or pop music by Canadian artists (and we still don't care). Next is Jewish music. This would be Klezmer or religious music. Both are excellent if you appreciate them fully, but I don't. Still, anything is better than Celine Dion. Thirdly is Gamer music: Army of Darkness, Weird Al, and the Imperial March. As I write this, playing in the background is Rest in Peace, sung by Spike from Buffy: the Vampire Slayer.

C: 0 J: 2 G: 4

Random Thought: Has anyone else noticed how many colons I'm using for this issue?

Up next for examination is a personal favorite: hobbies. Canadian hobbies include such glorious things as hockey, drinking, and making fun of politicians. By all rights, I should actually include playing videogames here, since it's become very mainstream. Next are Jewish hobbies: since we're dealing strictly with stereotypes here, I'm obliged to put in studying the bible as the first one, followed by... well, beyond that, it's basically Canadian culture. And, of course, we have Gamer hobbies, and if you feel this category requires explanation, you really aren't the sort of person to be reading the Cardboard Tube. Survey says: I got a late start on this column because I spent four hours today playing Risk, whereas I'm not even sure who our hockey team's quarterback is, or whether he's allowed to tackle the shortstop when he gets to the 13 yard line.

C: 1 J: 2 G: 6

Now let's look at our scores. Canadian culture scored one point -- it would have been embarrassing it I'd had to give it a 0. Jewish culture scored two points, which is better than Canadian culture did. And, of course, Gamer culture ran over the opposition with a tank, burned down their houses, spat on their ashes, uprooted their gardens, and rolled dice on their graves. Clearly, my primary culture is Gamer, and my subculture is Jewish. One might argue that Canadian is also a subculture in my life, but the sort of person who believes that is probably the sort of person nobody listens to.

Reading this, odds are good you don't think my numbers are any good, or that I should have included other cultures in my list. I remind the reader that the point is that culture is completely subjective, and if your scores come out different it just means that you're not me.

This is a tragedy, I know, but I'm sure you'll learn to live with it.

Clayton Paulo Born: 1173 AD Died: 1204 AD Final Death: 2004 AD Born in the city of Venice in Italy as the Dark Ages neared the cusp of the Enlightenment, Clayton Paulo was the third of eight children of a prosperous merchant. Born too late to be the significant heir and too early to be doted upon, Clayton was left largely to himself in his early childhood and turned to his tutors and books for his companions. Physically unremarkable, Clayton possessed a mind that rivaled any of his teachers and an instinctive grasp of alchemy the likes of which his instructors had never seen. Here too, however, Clayton was not wholly remarkable, for though he was clever, he was not brilliant, and in time he completed his studies with no outstanding honours and was left to find his way in the world. It soon became apparent to Clayton that he was not like others. He did not think himself a bad man, but felt neither pity or mercy for others. His skill with herbs and concoctions found Clayton favour in the gangs, and soon he was one of the most sucessful men of the Italian drug trade. From there, it was only a small jump for one of Clayton's skills to branch out into information brokering and assassination, both of which he used to become one of the leaders of the Venice underworld and, in a few years, one of the key figures in a criminal organization that spanned Europe. Over time, Clayton found that he had a gift for going unseen where others could not, and for crafting toxins no other had imagined. Years passed. Clayton became distant from his family as rumours of his activities spread, and he thus began to devote all of his time to his work. He learned to speak English, French, and Latin without accent, the better to take an active part in the information trade, and his wealth began to exceed his ability to count. The idyllic situation did not last, however. In the year 1198, a friend of Clayton's took an overdose of narcotic and died; Clayton was blamed and a sizable bounty was put on his head, forcing Clayton to flee Venice and Tuscany as a whole. He traveled West through Milan, to France, and North into England, where word of the bounty had not spread. With what little wealth he had saved from Venice, Clayton bought his way into the royal court of Prince John Lackland and also established several false identities among the peasants. Another year passed as Clayton administered his empire from England before he was forced to flee again. Public opinion against John threatened to become rebellion as rumours spread that King Richard had been seen on the road to England. Taking what he could from the royal treasuries, Clayton set back on the road and crossed back onto the Continent, travelling south. On the way, he was intercepted by agents of one Lord Guaconi, who invited Clayton to be one of several guests at a feast. There, Clayton and the other guests narrowly avoided being slaughtered by Guaconi and his followers, vampires all. Clayton, arguably, did not survive the night, for he awoke a vampire himself, of clan Nosferatu. At first, Clayton reacted poorly to his new life, as he was drawn into intercine warfare at the dawn of the formation of the Camarilla. However, as he began to understand what he had gained -- the ability to assume any image, to hide in plain sight, and superhuman strength -- he quickly forgot why he had been upset in the first place. Clayton's acceptance of a vampiric existence was finally sealed less than a month after his embrace, with his first diablerie. The next centuries passed quickly for Clayton. He set up a base of operations in Scotland and travelled widely, turning his gifts to aquiring power and wealth. First forewarning of the formation of the Camarilla put him in a position to assume the power of several powerful elders who were slain during this time, and Clayton put human agents from his criminal organization into places to cement his powerbase. Two centuries after his embrace, Clayton had all the wealth he could desire and all the power he felt he needed; he retired from the eternal struggle, becoming Inconnu, and settled down to enjoy eternity. Centuries passed, and the world left Clayton Paulo behind. The discovery of the New World opened vast new markets to Clayton's organization, but he himself never traveled there, content to send his servants and, increasingly more often than not, his pawns, to do his will. As time passed, he rarely left his haven, instead using agents to bring anything he was curious about to him. Like many elders, Clayton eventually began to enter torpor for years at a time, and thus, at the close of the twentieth century, Clayton Paulo contentendly slept through Gehenna.

Claton P'Lo Born: 2373 GC Died: 2404 GC Final Death: N/A Born in the city of V'Ness in the kingdom of Tal as the Century of Chaos neared the cusp of the Carrot Invasion, Claton P'Lo was the third of eight children of a prosperous merchant. Born too late to be the significant heir and too early to be doted upon, Claton was left largely to himself in his early childhood and turned to his tutors and books for his companions. Physically unremarkable, Claton possessed a mind that rivaled any of his teachers and an insitnctive grasp of alchemy the likes of which his instructors had never seen. In this area young Claton found no one to be a peer, for his genius and his amorality set him apart from others, and in time he departed his studies to find his way in the world. It soon became apparent to Claton that he was not like others. Faced with pain and suffering in the city, he seemed incapable of pity or mercy for others. In another time or place, he might have been found and taught to protect others, but left to his own devices callousness grew to psychopathy, and the quick profits of the underworld drew him. His skill with herbs found Claton favour in the gangs of V'Ness, and soon he was one of the most sucessful men of the Talian drug trade. From there, it was only a small jump for one of Claton's skills to branch out into information brokering and assassination, both of which he used to become one of the leaders of the V'Ness underworld and, in a few years, one of the key figures in a criminal organization that spanned the continent. As his influence grew, Claton found that he was immune to magic in all its forms; he could not be healed by it, but was also invulnerable to even the deadliest of spells, as his enemies found to their dismay. With this advantage and his own cunning, Claton soon ruled the drug trade across entire kingdoms, and little happened of which he did not know or could not have learned. His organization self-sustaining, Claton turned to alchemical research. Experimenting with his own blood, Claton developed two drugs: Silencius, which rendered the user incapable of wielding magic, and Scratch, which temporarily gave magical ability to otherwise untalented individuals. These two were both sold to users and used as weapons by Claton's own men to secure his hold on the markets. Claton also developed Quilius, a mixture of hashish and hemlock, to which he inadvertently became addicted. The idyllic situation did not last, however. In the year 2404, the Carrots of the Abyss invaded Claton's world. Acting on information they had received, the Carrots traked Claton, slaughtered his guards, and took him to one of their factories, where they began to use his blood to make weapons capable of "turning off" a target's magical abilities. A group of adventurers attempted to rescue Claton, but due to infighting in their ranks and their inability to treat Claton's massive wounds magically, Claton P'Lo was killed. Death was for lesser men than Claton P'Lo, however, and his soul returned from death as a ghost, with fearsome powers to complement his formidable talents. Claton's wealth bought him magical armor, which returned to him a physical body, and as the Carrot Invasion began to overrun the Prime Material, it was Claton's forces which formed the basis of a resistance. The Armored Ghost led an army millions strong against the Carrots, first on his world and then taking the battle to the plane of the Carrots. There, Claton's intricate schemes collapsed, as the adventurers he had sent to breach the Carrot defenses failed and Claton's own doomsday device, a magical nucmlear bomb, devastated Carrot and Prime alike. Only a handful of creatures survived the blast, Claton among them, and the refugees escaped to a new plane. There, though, Claton weakened. As a ghost, Claton constantly fought against degenerating into a mindless spectre, and now, having become, albeit accidentally, one of the greatest mass-murderers in the Multiverse, he sank into a depression for months, sitting unmoving save to slay those who came to close to him. Claton's businesses were renewed by his lieutenants in his absence, but these floundered without his leadership and alchemical genius. At last, a single brave adventurer found a plant, a narcotic capable of effecting ghosts, and brought it to Claton. The herb restored Claton to his senses, and he awoke from his stupor to find his power broken and his organization disrupted. With renewed vigour and eternity in which to rebuild, Claton P'Lo retook his organization and began, once more, the long climb of becoming the most powerful drug lord on the land.

Bonus Feature:

The Cardboard Tube, Volume 2, Issue 6:
That Which Almost Made Sense
"I'm going to hunt down the people who have strong opinions on subjects they don't understand. Then I'll bop them with this cardboard tube." -Dogbert
Author's Note: This column represents the first time one of my columns got cut for being... not nice. While my work had previously been cut for length, for coherency, or to suit the aesthetic tastes of stupid editors, That Which Almost Made Sense was cut because, in the opinion of some editors at Bandersnatch, people might have felt that I was being insulting to them. This was an entirely justified opinion, since I was, in fact, going out of my way to insult a particular demographic -- you'll be able to guess which -- in nearly every paragraph. It is with great pleasure, therefore, that I reprint the complete, uncut version of this issue, which includes not only the stuff that got taken out by the editors, but also stuff which got taken out by me, by reason of GLM. This column might also be interesting to readers of this Journal because it's an example of the way I interact with people when I'm in a bad mood, which very few of you, fortunatly, have ever seen me in.

A priest, a rabbi, and a T-800 walk into a bar. The priest orders a drink, and the bartender gets it for him. Then the rabbi orders a drink, and the bartender gets it for him. Then, the T-800 kills the bartender. The priest and the rabbi stare at the T-800 in shock, who says, "it was a stupid joke anyway."

That joke has nothing to do with this issue of the Cardboard Tube, but it was supposed to. I'll get into why later. In fact, this issue is very different from the other issues of the Cardboard Tube in that it's a meta-column, which for the benefit of those of you who aren't me and thus can't be expected to know these things, means that it's a column about itself.

The astute reader will probably have caught the little jab that was directed at everyone who isn't me. The less astute reader is drunk at Annies and trying in vain to locate the Scoreboard, convinced as he is that it's on this page.

The Cardboard Tube this week was meant to be a lengthy essay about insults, how they're wonderful things, and how the average person is very bad at using them (and is just generally incompetent, too). Three times, however, I finished the column and then lost it due to a computer error. I have therefore lost all will in using that topic, and if not for my music collection playing in the background, I'd probably go out and kill something. Aah, the calming effect of the "Lost Boys" soundtrack...

Anyway, the end result of this little Snafu (situation normal; all flarked up) is that I'm writing this column just a few precious hours before the deadline which I don't actually have to meet but want to for the sake of my own alien code of honor. Since I am momentarily unable to focus on anything except the writing itself, I decided that that would be exactly what I would write about.

Random interjection: I lost my voice this week. Do you have any idea what a thing like that does to someone whose greatest redeeming feature is his ability to make a snappy comeback to any situation? Just imagine the scores of people out there who, for an entire week, have been denied the opportunity to be uncertain if the big word I just used was meant to mock them.

The astute reader has probably noticed that I'm not currently in the most lucid or friendly states of mind as I write this. The less astute reader has stopped trying to find the scoreboard, but only because he has passed out on the floor.

I sympathize.

At any rate, people frequently ask me how I can churn out so much text in time for every issue of Bandersnatch. In fact, on a good week, I take up the third largest number of column inches per person in this paper, which is especially impressive considering that I write only one feature per issue compared to the two or three most Bandersnatch writers take up. My secret is exactly as is stated in the preceding paragraph: I'm not in the most lucid states of mind when I write. I have no need for drugs or alcohol; these are all crutches for people who can't hallucinate on their own. All I need to escape the bounds of my puny mortal shell is a keyboard, an internet connection, and Windows Notepad. Electricity helps but is not essential.

What I basically come up with is a phenomenon known as Free Writing, which again, people who aren't me shouldn't feel bad if they are unfamiliar with or unable to comprehend. The exercise here, as some of you know from your English classes, is to sit down and write the first thing that comes into your mind. If something else comes to mind before you've finished, switch to that immediately. Ignore punctuation if it doesn't feel natural (although in a just world, comma splices would still be punishable by torture, and don't get me started on apostrophes). Keep going until you find that you've stopped, and then read back what you have. In general, it will be a page full of gibberish with occasional insights into your own psyche.

I, on the other hand, come up with the Cardboard Tube.

Having now had this wonderful glimpse into my head, I can sense you wanting to turn the page to something else. Heck, I can probably see you. It's probably Wednesday afternoon and I'm watching you read this. Look up and look around slowly. Maybe you're sitting on the bus; I could be the guy sitting next to you reading that novel. Spooky, ain't it?

This brings me to my next point, such as it is. As a columnist rather than a serious writer, I'm under no obligations to stay one a single coherent thought if I choose not to. Oh, sure, it's encouraged that I find some sort of topic for these things, but it's also encouraged that people attend all their classes, and except for me, how many of you people actually do that?

In turn, that little gem brings me to what actually is the topic of this issue of the Cardboard Tube: readers. We at Bandersnatch are naturally quite curious to know just how far our message gets. Are you amused by the lack of sense in this issue? Incensed at my not writing about some cultural icon from your childhood? Now's your chance to speak out and let people know. Since I'm not using my allotted space to send any actually meaningful messages or morals, I'm going to instead make this little survey. Cut out the next paragraph, tear it, keep the page, copy it down, whatever. Bring a copy filled in to the Bandersnatch Office (H-041, across the hall from the oval), or just as good, e-mail it to me at emperor@aericanempire.com. One way or another, put in your name and maybe attach some comments. If you've ever had the urge to bop me with my own weapon of choice, now's your chance.

I, (insert name here), read Bandersnatch.

Now, isn't that easy? I guess you can't really fill it in, but you can always get a sheet of paper from someone or even just drop off the piece of newsprint itself. Do you have something better to do that you can't send an e-mail or drop of a piece of paper? If you're an Ovalite, you don't even have the excuse that you never come to that part of the school (although you might haave the excuse of not currently recalling where the school is, precisely).

Before I run out of room, I feel I should insert a smidgen of intelligent content into this. Here it comes. Ready for the wisdom?

"In ancient times, if Roman soldiers fled a battle, they would drop their shield to run faster, but if they fell in battle, they would be carried home on their shield. Roman Matrons would send their children off to war and say, come back with your shield or on it. Later on, this system declined. So did Rome."

I kind of feel that I should have tried harder to come up with an intelligent, meaningful column for my loyal fans, but then again, I don't really care about my loyal fans, so I don't feel too upset about the whole thing.

Today's Entry gets back to an issue from early in the history of this Journal: the issue of whether or not it's a journal in the first place. Most web-based journals tend to fall into one of three categories: poetry, ranting, and daily diaries. I don't write poetry... hate it, in fact, with only a very few exceptions... and I do spend plenty of time ranting, albeit with far more grace, style, and arrogance than most writers could ever hope to achieve. This leaves the daily diary format, which is probably the most common among people who believe that the fact they are capable of stringing words together means that they should. Since it has been pointed out to me several times how surprised/impressed/pleased people are that this Journal has at no time been a daily diary (and, for that matter, has pretty well defied all other attempts to classify it), today I present for my readers: what I did on Tuesday!

Tuesday, October 12, 2004 (yesterday, as of this writing) should be read in the context of what the day was, generally:
Four classes
One holiday (International Moment of Frustration Scream Day)
My weekly D&D game
All times are in Imperial Standard Time (GMT - 4:56). For purposes of record keeping, the "day" begins at midnight of Monday and ends at Midnight of Tuesday, a full 24 hour period. For reader convenience, only significant activites have been added; it did not seem necessary to log every time I brushed my teeth, showered, went for a drink of water, etc...

2:42 am: fall asleep. It is worth noting that I had been in *bed* for some three and a half hours already.
6:36: Alarm goes off, wake up, dress (black shirt, you all know the one, blue jeans, black t-shirt, underwear, socks).
6:39: breakfast: two pieces of toast (challah, well done), cup of hot chocolate (lactaid 2%, 1/4 of a serving of decaf coffee, chocolate syrup), orange juice.
6:54: Pack knapsack, say goodbye to stuffed toys (really), leave.
7:42: Arrive at school. Go to psych lab, check e-mail, read webcomics.
8:16: Go to first class (animal behaviour). Arrive early, read Muriel Gray's The Ancient.
8:49: First class: parent-offspring conflict, inter/intraspecies parasitism.
9:48: First class ends, go to psych lab, work.
11:00: Leave lab, go to games club. Check e-mail, sort papers, double check vampire weakneses in Monster manual.
11:20: Go to second class. Arrive early, read.
11:47: Class starts: Abnormal psychology - organic disorders. Review of material before midterm.
12:50 pm: class ends. Take out books, read, because next class is in the same room in twenty minutes.
1:28: Class 3 starts: Abnormal psychology - behavioural disorders. Post traumatic stress disorder, symptoms common to rape victims and normal recovery times.
2:29: Class ends. Go to games club. Lunch: schnitzel sandwich on challah with maple diana sauce and barbecue spices. Read textbooks, do homework.
3:40: Go to class 4. Arrive early, read.
4:06: Class starts. Honours seminar, student presentations of articles.
4:24: Give presentation: Genetic influences on why some maltreated children become antisocial and others don't, focusing on known mutation of MAOA encoding gene on x chromosome. Do good job.
4:32: Question period after presentation. Do okay.
4:43: End of presentation, sit down.
5:37: Class ends, go to games club. Read, chat with friends, check e-mail.
6:00: Go to library, help friend take out books about angels and Dead Sea Scrolls.
6:11: Back to games club.
6:45: Order pizza, start game.
7:30: Eat pizza. Surprisingly good.
9:28: Game finishes. Leave, give friends lift home.
9:43: Drop first friend off, wish happy birthday, slightly disapointed by lack of surprise on friend's part.
9:56: Drop off second friend. Go home.
10:01: Get home. Unpack bags, check e-mail, do stuff.
11:06: Get in bed.
11:48 (approximate) Fall asleep. Dream about zombie army.

There we have one complete day in the life of Eric. I swear that nothing here is made up or exagerated in any way, although a couple of times may be off by ten minutes or so because I forgot to write times down after the D&D game. I trust that all readers have found this to be a suitably interesting entry, and rest assured, I'll probably never write one of these entries again.

It has been pointed out to me, in the wake of Entry 41, that character portraits on this page, almost without exception, end in the death of the character featured. I have now written a number of character portraits for this Journal and in nearly every case, it ends in the demise of the character in question, which has led some readers to be curious as to why characters keep meeting horrble fates. I can answer these readers in one simple phrase:

There are no happy endings.

It has been wisely observed by various authors that the happy ending is an impossibility; you cannot say the characters lived happily ever after because very few characters live for ever, and those who do are rarely happy for even a majority of the time. A character protrait can end with "and he stood victorious over the torn remains of his foe!" but the fact remains that the next day, the character has to get up again and, having just finished a quest, probably just lounges about the house all day with nothing much to do.

This is not to say a given story can't end happily, of course. Most stories (at least, most fictional stories) do end happily, or at least, satisfactorily, and if I wanted to I could certainly end character portraits with a high note. The problem with that is, in a sense, it means lying to the reader, because I promise them a complete portrait of a character and that means chronicling the character from beginning to end, which usually means birth until death. This is not an attempt at depressing my readers... this is literary accuracy.

It is also worth considering that the majority of the character portraits that have been posted have been the tales of villains, and villains, one way or another, tend to get fraaled over in the end. This is because, since I believe we all live in a fundamentally flawed and unjust universe, I tend to ensure that my characters live in very just universes, and that means that when the hero an the villain face each other at the heart of the abandonned gold mine, the hero gets the gold and the villain gets the shaft.

Because, after all, happy endings may not exist, but I still believe in them.

Extra Special Bonus Feature!*
*Disclaimer: Bonus feature actually of only average specialness

The Cardboard Tube, Volume 2, Issue 1
If You're Holding the Paper, it's Already Too Late
Author's note: This issue of the Tube was actually shamelessly plagiarized from an old humour file created by fans of the White Wolf Storytelling Games. The original file described how the evil corporation, Pentex, through their subsidiary, the games company Black Dog Publishing, had released a collectible card game known as "Mystic: The Grouping." The cards used a variety of psychoactive drugs and evil magic to make themselves irresistable to buyers, creating a fanbase that was both fanatical and irrational. I make no excuses for having stolen the column idea, but I do offer my sincere thanks to the wonderful people who wrote this and to the wonderful people at White Wolf for this and other releases of theirs which brought such pleasure to my life. If I'd made any money off of this, I would have happily given a fair share to you.

"I'm going to hunt down the people who have strong opinions on subjects they don't understand. Then I'll bop them with this cardboard tube." -Dogbert And now for something completely different.

Hello, plod, and welcome to the Cardboard Tube, the last bastion of nonsense in what might otherwise be an educational school paper. My name is Eric Lis, and it is my great pleasure to welcome new and old readers to this new year at our beloved John Abbott College. For the benefit of first year students, I plan to use this First Issue Collector's Item to explain a bit about the paper, and for the benefit of my returning readers, I have decided not to let that annoying "reality" thing interfere.

Welcome to the Cardboard Tube; watch that first step.

The Bandersnatch dates back to 1979. Formed by the same people who founded the Gamers Club, Bandersnatch was, from its inception, a strange thing on campus. It mixed actual news with commentary and the ridiculous rantings of people like myself. The paper changed a great deal each year as editors came and went, occasionally even graduating, but for the most part, the basics of the paper stayed the same. For decades the paper was appreciated only by a small group of readers. However, in the mid 1990's, the pioneers on the paper's executive came up with a way to increase readership: mind-altering drugs.

The first and simplest trap is the ink used on the back ads and the front cover. They are actually highly addictive, euphoric chemicals which remain inactive until they contact human sweat. A small bit from each cover touched is then absorbed through the skin. One issue will create a dependency in a normal person within three or four days of handling the ink. The more the paper is handled, the less effective the drugs become. Within a few weeks, new copies must be found or withdrawal will set in. This has encouraged the suggested strategy of staying near copies of the paper at all times, which gives readers reason to pick up multiple copies or even hang around the Bandersnatch office. Withdrawal causes feelings of incredible apathy in subjects which can last for anything from a day to several years, depending on continued proximity to the papers without reading them, as can easily be seen by a cursory examination of the student body.

The next level is a bit more insidious. At least one paper in every stack of one hundred is an icon to the gods of chaos of some sort. These icons induce feelings such as greed, envy, covetousness, etc. They encourage the readers to find more issues, even if they don't actually read them, and most especially encourage the finding of more icon issues. The icons cannot be easily identified by anyone outside of the executive body. Once or twice a semester, there will be extra icons printed up; these are passed off as special inserts of two or three pages.

With a few copies, even just reading each issue once, the effects are not obvious. With more than two readings of each issue, the personality changes a bit, with more than five copies of each issue handled, the change is marked and obvious. The more they have, the more they want. A curious reader can become a greedy collector within days due to the snowball effect. In the various sections, different sorts of icons and normal drugs have been added. This practice was not obvious until the end of the first semester of last year, when the arts section accidentally ran an icon in each issue that was so controlling the section had to be removed, destroyed, and completely reprinted. The icon in question called to those who did not own it, and gave them the feeling that they'd be so much happier with the issue, and their lives will not be complete without it. That they must stop at nothing to get that issue. The other person must have made contact with the pages of the arts section for it to take full effect, but even with proximity a small attractive glamour was operating. Luckily, the error was caught and the icons removed. Rumors persist, however, that the school administration may have some of these issues left.

In addition to widespread use of all that, many of the Bander Bins and newspaper boxes are also weaker icons. These activate around a lot of people, and exert a strong attractive pull to obtain as many of the issues as possible, via simply picking one up or even worse methods. Bandersnatch typically supplies high-traffic Bander Bins with less copies than they expect the demand to reach, thus increasing the resentment of those who got few or no copies towards the paper and each other. After a few days of the Bins being empty, the Bandersnatch staff refills the Bins to start the process again. The side effect of this is that demand for the next issue exceeds previous issues. The down side of this is that those who do not get enough copies frequently become highly resentful and begin to complain vocally over small errors.

But what of the people in charge of the Bandersnatch? Editors are overexposed to the drugs constantly, as are the people who handle distribution of the paper while the ink is still wet. This overexposure tends to negate the overall effects as they are burned out of the subject's system. This does tend to result in editors having strong, almost territorial feelings towards their sections, and has been known to cause irrational behavior. Typically, irrational behavior in the executives of the Bandersnatch is not fnord seen as unusual.

You might ask why I, one of these much feared executives, has revealed this information to the general public. Now you know that there is a terrible, manipulative, and insidiously cunning conspiracy working in the student body, one which even extends so far as to effect teachers and staff who read the paper as well. Having learned of this conspiracy, there is one logical solution: join it. Yes, now you too can take part in this insidious plot to take over the school, and you can contribute to it. Come to Bandersnatch and apply to join today. Say that you read about the job openings in this column and you will be tested to see if you are qualified to take a part in Bandersnatch before being welcomed into the shadowy corners of the school. We're in the basement of Hertzberg, entrenched in the hallway opposite the Oval (or "Cantina," as many call it). The avalanche has already started; it is too late for the pebbles to vote. Join us!

Oh, and enjoy your year at Abbott.

What do you get when you multiply six by nine? The answer is forty two, assuming you have thirteen fingers.

Today is the 42nd entry to be made in the Journal; considering that for most of the Journal's lifespan I have been updating every third day, this means I have been doing this for about one-third of a year. The mind boggles. Anyway, to celebrate this event, today we discuss numbers. Specifically, we discuss my favourite numbers, because I'm the one with the passwords.

42: Now, everybody reading this, by all rights, ought to know why the number 42 is significant, but just in case: According to the Book of Adams, 42 is the answer to the question which explains life, purpose, the universe, existence, and everything. The number 42 explains every facet of existence in a manner which makes the universe a sensible, nifty place to live. This presumes, of course, that you know the correct question, which no one does. In the years since the dawn of the Book of Adams, 42 has been accepted by Geekulture as being one of the most true (and therefore beautiful) things in existence. 42 is an inherently wonderful number, and all things associated with it are equally wonderful (assuming you have sufficient imagination).

Pi: My absolute favouritest number of all is 3.1415926535897932384626433832795, give or take a few digits. Generally, I take pi to be 3.14159, but that's purely for convenience sake, and I would recite a longer form of it if I could ever remember anything after the first 9. Pi is nifty for several reasons. First and foremost, as the Bandersnatch mythos cleary states, everyone loves pi. Second, pi is remarkably fun to say. Sit down for a moment and say the word "pi" over and over again in a variety of voices, and you will quickly come to love the word. It's a much more fun word than, say, artichoke, and while it isn't quite as much fun as fnord, it is still a wonderful word. Third, pi is a conception of scientific beauty. Pi is a perfect number; it applies unfaillingly to thousands of equations and single-handedly explains some of the most complex mathematical and physical laws ever discovered. Most of my readers don't have my appreciation for the artistic beauty of physics, but rest assured, pi is one of the most perfect ideas ever constructed by human thought.

As I sit here writing this, it occurs to me that I really just have the two favourite numbers, and so this is going to be a fairly short entry. I'd add in a special feature or something, but since I'm not at home, I don't have access to my files... I guess that's it for today, then.

Today's entry answers a question sent in by a new reader who was browsing the archives and requested more information about the various Chosen of Ragon who have appeared with varrying lifespans over the course of my games, stories, and other media. Thus, we now present an incomplete exhaustive list of all previous Chosen of Ragon who have ever lived (or whatever), including several I made up just now.

Beelzebubbles
Beelzebubbles has already had his own entry, so go read that instead.

Mister Jeter
Mister Jeter lived and died as Jack the Ripper in the prime material plane of Earth. Little more than a paranoid psychotic on his homeworld, Jack was planeshifted by mistake by Ragon to the golem's own world and turned into a powerful mage who sought out those who had squandered their lives and taking their souls for himself. Armed with an artifact-level magic item in the form of his cane, Mister Jeter served as Ragon's chief scholar for decades before metting a messy end at the hands of a band of heroes and their twelve-gauge Rod of Destruction.

Iron Orc
The last survivor of a group of orcs and goblins in the dungeon of Raven's Ruin, the creature who became Iron Orc was a goblin slave who swore vengeance on the adventurers who slew his family, and hunted them for months across the land. Sought out by Ragon after the golem's first encounter with the adventurers, the goblin was gifted with massive size, superorcish strength, and near invulnerability in exchange for going forth to slay all those he was already planning to. After leaving a swath of destruction across the landscape for hundreds of miles, Iron Orc was eventually slain by the same heroes who destroyed Raven's Ruin, when they managed a seemingly impossible attack through the eye-slits in Iron Orc's helmet.

Yee
The great apostate of the Monks of Tae-Kwon-Leep, Yee was a mighty warrior who served under a school of monks solely in pursuit of the power to beat people up. When his motivations were uncovered, Yee was banished from the school. Though he had not yet learned the schools deadliest arts, including the fearsome Finger Poke of Doooom and the dreaded Boot to the Head, Yee none-the-less took with him enough knowledge to found his own school of combat. Ragon enhanced Yee's already formidable abilities and gave him the power to channel pure energy in his attacks, resulting in the Dawn Ninja Fighting Style, known for such deadly strikes as Iron Spike Splits the Eye, Death From Beyond, and Yee's signature strike, the Fist of the Nova Dawn. As Ragon's chief assassin, Yee was eventually slain by the golem armies of Shettar of Sorinia, whosse mechanical bodies Yee's powers could not harm.

Mister Sandman
A ghoulish creature from the Plane of Dreams accidentally summoned by Ragon in a magical ritual, Mister Sandman was recruited by the golem and given fearsome powers over mortal sleep. Mister Sandman was armed with his Magic Bag of Sand which could put any mortal to sleep with a single strike and which was shaped suspiciously like a blackjack. Though having deadly control over dreams, Mister Sandman lacked the firepower of other Chosen in the waking world, and was eventually slain by Ragon's enemies.

Fulmenor
A dwarf who was rejected from his mountain home and grew into a genocidal, dwarf-hating and self-loathing murderer, Fulmenor was found by Ragon while torturing a victim with a pile of Shocking Grasp scrolls. Fulmenor was given the power to draw forth lightning from the very air and hurl it with unerring accuraccy, and Fulmenor was furthermore polymorphed by Ragon into the body of an elf. Though Fulmenor was perhaps the most powerful Chosen of his time, and nearly slew the adventurers who defeated the rest of the Emerald Host, he himself was defeated when, while summoning an electrical charge, he was knocked into water and shorted himself out. Though Fulmenor survived, he was helpless against the carniverous nagillators of the sewers and was devoured.

Nogarad
The reanimated corpse of a... ahem... "hero"... who had previously opposed Ragon, Nogarad was converted into a creature of shadow and armed with a vorpal blade which could effortlessly cut any non-black object. Reanimated primarily as a psychological weapon and not a warrior, Nogarad was easily dispatched by his former companions when they discovered his undead state.

Inertiaman
Claiming to be the last surviving Chosen of Ragon after Ragon's imprisonment in the Netherhells, the embarassingly named Inertiaman was gifted by his master with the power to reverse the kinetic energy of nearby objects, as Ragon's enemies discovered when they attacked him with a vorpal frisbee and he turned it back upon them with a glance. One of Ragon's deadliest Chosen, Inertiaman concocted the plot to kidnap Santa Clause from the plane of Earth and mind-control him to use his translocation powers to help conquer the world. Though easily able to defeat the heroes who opposed him, Inertiaman was defeated when Santa was released from mental domination and, revealing himself to have once been Wodan, Norse God of Judgement!, Santa cut Inertiaman in half with a single stroke of his enchanted battle-axe.

Blender, Toaster, and Freezer
Three siblings who joined Ragon together, Blender, Toaster, and Freezer were low-powered chosen who acted as Ragon's enforcers for only a few years before their defeat. Blender was given the power to cut anything he struck, and could be harmed only by natural weapons. Toaster was a creature of pure molten flame whose touch burned all those he could reach. Finally, Freezer was the opposite of Toaster, a creature of ice so cold as to freeze a human's blood with a touch. All were slain in battle with Ragon's enemies.

The Mindshredder
The second creature to ever become one of Ragon's Chosen, the Mindshredder was a powerful telepath who came into Ragon's service willingly in exchange for enhancement of his own inate power. Acting as Ragon's chief servant in non-combatant areas, the Mindshredder was one of the few Chosen powerful enough to survive being cut off from Ragon's power and as of the golem's imprisonment in the Netherhells was still actively furthering his master's goals on the surface.

The Green Vampire
The Green Vampire was a creation of Ragon's in magical experimentation to bring vampires back to life. Taking a vampire and an oak tree, Ragon created a creature equally capable of subsisting on blood and sap but with a psychopathic hatred of both humans and plant life. The Green Vampire survived Ragon's imprisonment and remained active for several years before being tracked down by druids, who staked the Vampire with his own arm and left him for the sun.

Steve
Intended to be Ragon's doomsday weapon, the entity known only as Steve contained within his chest the power of a small black hole and within his skull the power of a star. Either force could be used, in moderation, to strike down his enemies, and the power of each kept the other in balance. Steve was created with the purpose of holding him in magical stasis until needed and then deactivating the black hole, unleashing the power of a sun upon the world and destroying the entire plane instantly. Steve was never unleashed, however, as when Ragon was imprisoned in the Netherhells, Steve, like all Chosen, was suddenly cut off from Ragon's power, and instantly exploded due to the uncontained pwoer within him, taking one of Ragon's strongholds and a ten mile radius with him.

Gluemaster
The last creature ever selected by Ragon as a Chosen, Gluemaster was a gnomish alchemist obsessed with what made things stick together or come apart. Ragon gave Gluemaster the power to secrete a nearly unbreakable polymer from his hands, as well as the power to destabalise the atomic bonds holding inorganic material together. Though Gluemaster would have been one of Ragon's most powerful servants, he had his power for less than a week before Ragon was imprisoned in the Netherhells. Deprived of Ragon's power to sustain him, Gluemaster's form destabalised and he melted into a thick, ichory stew.