Hello 2011! I thought it would be nice to say hello and introduce myself. Well here I am, and since I decided on some resolutions before you were born, I think I might have a good time with you while you're here.

As the lithe figure crept further into the hall, his gait grew more and more lizardly. It was this lizardlike way of moving that allowed him to penetrate into the deepest sanctum of the stone temple, with it's rough hewn stones softly exhaling an air of ages past. He knew he had reached his forseen destination when the chanting of the cultists outside dropped just below audibility, and began to play on his subconscious.

As some of you know, video games that are produced in Japan need to be translated, or Localized as they say in the industry, and there are teams that translate all of the Japanese text into English. This can be a tricky job, as translating the text verbatim without taking culture and colloquialisms into account can produce some rather interesting results.

Well for one of the latest Monster Hunter games, Capcom decided that instead of having Americans translate the game from Japanese, they would have a Japanese team learn English and translate their game into something that Americans can appreciate.

I later received these proofs, with a request that I do some copy editing before the game goes Gold (actually pressing the discs).

In the coming weeks, I'd love to share some of these images with you. From what I can tell, when taking our culture into account the Japanese localization team mostly watched reruns of Fear Factor and Jurassic Park: The Director's Cut. Most likely because this best reflects the Target American Audience for the Monster Hunter series.

Once upon a time, there lived in a dingy prison cell a man named Edgar. Ever since his third year of school, he had lived with a reputation of being quite unkillable. Strangely enough, this made him quite a dangerous fellow. For where ever Edgar went, there were sure to be all sorts of fool-headed sods who thought they might be the one to best him and undo that fateful reputation. Sure enough though, Edgar was vitally stubborn and refused to be snuffed.

Black Arches and the Peanut Butter Prison

The Chapter the Fourth

A play in three acts

Dramatis Personae:

Nick Baker the Bone Crushing Inventor

Jayson Ehm the Hard Drinking Physicist

Aaron Houghton the Metallic Coffee Guru

David Simpson the Olde Frontispiece

Bono the Prisoner of Fortune

Also:

Guards the watchmen and lackeys

Scientists the men of science

Cultists the men not of science

act i

Indoors: Vegemite Lockdown; a dreary dismal brig composed of Vegemite, an Australian yeast-spread.

Some might describe the color brown as having qualities of both green tints and those of red. Vegemite, David had thought, would have followed the same

logical color scheme. He now found, that it didn't seem to exude the color brown as a combination of red and green tints, but instead of a singular "brown-

ness" that was so deeply rooted in the idea of brown itself, that it seemed entirely separate of red and green altogether.

"Hey, David," Aaron spoke as he looked up, "aren't you colorblind?"

"Yes, I am." David said with some remorse.

"I was just sitting here thinking when I overheard your thoughts about the color brown."

David seemed to have learned to frown rather quickly.

"You're right. I don't really know how to distinguish brown from green."

"So that being said, Vegemite lockdown is rather brown, and I would appreciate it if you would think a little softer next time." Aaron said with some measure

of concern.

"Sure. No problem." David said nervously.

The room seemed markedly plain, having been constructed of yeasty bricks that formed their surroundings. Even the low benches that now supported their

depressed bodies seemed to be made of the same bland sticky substance. The only point of distinction that came to any of their senses was a small faint disc,

glowing softly somewhere in the ceiling. It must have been the sun, with this sickly disc being the remnants of any rays that sought to pierce this

architectural fiasco that was the Vegemite Lockdown.

Jayson, more than any of them, seemed to be taking this incarceration sadly. He just sat on the bench on his side of the room, staring at the small disc in

the ceiling. If any of them didn't pay particular attention to his eyes, he seemed not to be blinking at all.

"Would you like some water?" Nick said as he offered a small brown cup to Jayson.

"No." Jayson said simply.

Nick then silently offered the gooey container to the rest of the quartet. They all turned it away with the folding of their hands.

"This is how they get you." Jayson began, disturbing the odd silence of the room, "They give you food and water. Most prisons would withhold food and water

from you, but here..." He shook his fist at the cell.

"Here, they give you what you need, they give you plenty. It is all served on yeast plates, and in yeast cups. I wouldn't be surprised if most poor saps in

this place come to like the taste of it after time. You get it in you, and then you never get it out. Even after they release you from this prison, the

prison comes with you inside, and it never leaves you for a moment."

They all thought this was rather apt and profound when a small noise disturbed the concentration of the room. It was as if the building reacted to what

Jayson had said; as if the veryprison itself had gas.

"What was..." Nick began, when the noise cut him off and had them all searching the room with their eyes.

Before any of them could move or speak, a brick set into the wall suddenly shifted, and fell into the room. It was displaced with a small hole, and quickly

growing from that hole was a wriggling, grasping arm.

end of act i

(the players exit to backstage and enjoy filtered water in styrofoam cups. the director shifts in his chair.)

act ii

They all goggled at the sight of the disembodied arm that wound and grasped it's way into their cell, and when they thought the bony protrusion couldn't get

any longer, it suddenly capped itself off at an angle with a man's head and body.

"Right! I'm not going to get through! Edge, I told you!!!" yelled the man with a definite air of self satisfaction.

He looked around the cell at the four shocked prisoners and with his hand, pretended to tip a hat that he wasn't wearing at the moment.

"Oh, halloa there!" He chimed and then looked to each of them with a lippy smile. "Perhaps you've heard of me, I'm Bono."

None of them knew what to say, or how to begin, but now that he had introduced himself, he did seem rather singularly Bonoish. He was wearing a mesh shirt

with long sleeves, and his hand was gilt with conflict-free rubies and sapphires. His head was clad with a bandana designed to look like an American flag,

and even in the gloom of the prison he was wearing blue tinted sunglasses.

"Hey, do any of you want to buy a small African child?"

"Um," Nick said, seeming rather concerned about Bono's inhumane attitude.

"I mean, I picked all of these little guys up when it was popular. You know. In my time, getting in on a trend right after Madonna was still fairly early in

the game. Who knew that she had dropped off so hard?"

"I knew." Nick said.

"Anyway, you don't have to pay me for them now, or even at all. I just have more of them than I can handle. I don't know how to pronounce even one of their names,

let alone the whole bunch."

"Hmm." said Jayson. "I don't really need a small child that isn't mine, but perhaps you have something that might help us get out of here?"

"Have I told you how much these kids love to eat Vegemite?" Bono said cheerily. "Have I mentioned that?"

"I don't believe you." Aaron said calmly. "I can hear your thoughts, and while they are so mind numbingly insane and unintelligible, I am sure that you're as

trapped as we are."

"Okay, okay, okay." Bono began, his demeanor changing rapidly, "I can see you guys aren't going to be fooled."

The group seemed relieved that Bono was to behave.

"Hey, any of you guys wanna buy some acid?"

They were going to shake their heads at the incorrigable behavior of U2's frontman, when loud footsteps were heard approaching in the corridor.

"So? Real cheap!" Bono insisted

"NO!" David said and began shoving the lanky Brit back into his hole.

The footsteps came to a hurried halt, and two large guards threw open the cell door.

"You're going to wish you had bought the good stuff!" Bono said matter of factly as he disappeared into the wall. In the next cell, hushed arguing could be

heard.

The four of them took defensive stances and prepared to fight off whatever assault the guards had intended to bring to their yeast themed lives.

The guards looked at each other with satsified and bemused grins respectively.

"Hey, are you the lackey?" said one guard to the other.

"No, that's you." said the slightly portlier guard, "I'm the watchman."

"Drat." said the gullible guard that was really the watchman. "I knew I should have read that dramatis personae."

"As far as I'm concerned you're both lackeys!" Jayson said, familiar aggression grew warm in his voice, "What do you want from us?"

"Why, we're here to take you to the lab. For experimentation." said the lackey smoothly. "You'll never believe what's going to happen to you!"

end of act ii

(the audience shuffles uncomfortably, and discusses the shoddy merits of such a poorly executed piece of drama)

act iii ~The Long One~

The guards, almost as a show of complete arrogance, put down their halberds and rubbed their hands together.

“So, which one of you are we going to experiment on first?” They eyed the band with ill intent in their eyes. “You! You have the shortest hair and will be easiest to strap into the mechanism!”

They meant Nick, the band's lead guitarist and inventor. He was also a physicist, but didn't have a reputation for drinking quite as much as Jayson.

“Alright, take me.” Nick said calmly.

The rest of the band couldn't believe how serene Nick seemed.

“Oh, no.” started the portly lackey. “Not one of these tough guys. It isn't fun if they don't resist at least a little.”

“Why don't we take the blonde?” suggested the watchman.

“No. Wait!” suggested David.

“Yes! Why don't we take the blonde one!?” conferred the lackey whose name was actually Charles.

“Noooooooooooooooo!” suggested David rather dramatically with the waving of his arms as the two guards took hold of him and began to drag him from the cell. “Noooooooooooooo!”

The tone was more akin to the O sound in the word “do” than in the word “toe.” If David's father were there, he would have been embarrassed.

Jayson moved to defend his friend, but Nick took hold of him.

“Perhaps this is what David needs. Perhaps, this is what we all need.” he said.

“Have you gone crazy?” Jayson implored, concern clear upon his face.

“No. Perhaps we all could use a life changing experience.” Aaron said peacefully.

Jayson didn't like it, but somehow Nick and Aaron were on the same wavelength on this issue, and decided to chide his instincts.

David let out one last pathetic howl as he was dragged into the hall and the door slammed shut behind him. There was nothing his friends could do for him now. He was alone and at the mercy of Charles and the other guard. They took him down the hallway with long labored squishy steps. His feet seemed to drag shallow trenches into the floor as they dragged him toward the lab. As far as he could tell, there were no other drag marks in the hallway, just some old footprints. David considered that perhaps he was the first test subject they had found who fit their particular needs.

The guards' pace slowed a little as they approached an armored looking door (as armored as you can make something out of yeast jelly), and Charles pulled from his pocket an ominous looking key that terminated in a grinning skull. He unlocked the door with a loud clank, and they began to pull David into the lab.

“Now don't lose that key Charles!” said the watchman, “Last year when you lost the lab key at the Halloween party, we ended up getting that ridiculous novelty key to replace it.”

“Oh, I know!” said Charles, “Skull keys are so 1950!”

They flicked a switch to the side of the door, and the lights burst to life. Bringing David around, he could finally see what he had been dreading. He spent the entire trip facing backwards, left to ponder and anticipate his fate. Now with some growing terror, he was privy to some of the particulars of this experiment. The room contained a chair with firm looking straps, to which they quickly and happily secured the blonde singer slash guitarist slash keyboardist-when-needed. In front of the chair were several scientists and one youngish looking man with shaggy black hair. His skin was pallid, and his arms had a lean strength to them. A strength that hides deep in the muscle, waiting only to rise when a thousand selfish hipsters on their bikes take to the streets. He was clad in old jeans, probably the jeans of his ancestors. Over his shoulder was a leather strap, securely holding a solid-body Telecaster guitar, menacingly outfitted with six humbucker pickups in a row. The rest of the room contained several machines, which appeared to be other instruments fitted with gas engines and rudimentary computers. One of the instruments, perhaps a talking drum, seemed to be combined with an abacus and the guts of an old television.

The watchman and the lackey quickly hurried from the room and shut the door behind them. The scientists all pulled on thick looking rubber gloves and boots, and secured dark lensed goggles over their eyes. They completed their safety with solid looking earplugs which took some wiggling to insert into their ears. The young man with the guitar had no such safety gear. He didn't even have shoes.

“Do you have any last words?” he said slowly to David.

“Yeah.” David started with sudden snark to his tone, “Why were you idiots standing around in the dark?”

The wiry guitarist smirked at the remark. “Begin.” He said.

He began slowly pounding out massive riffs from his guitar, the distortion seeming to bend time itself. The tone was aggressive, yet paced and methodical. Tranquil, though bone-achingly loud. As he played his automatons began to pulse and bob each in their own unique ways, adding texture and punctuation to each measure. The synth bot in particular seemed to be getting into the groove and began hopping around the room.

David's eyelids began to sink low, but he was unaware of this. His vision had already gone beyond black, and he couldn't begin to feel his face. He sank back into the chair, vaguely aware that the straps were no longer tight against his body.

When the last thoughts slowly dripped out of his toes and all consciousness had perished, the relentless guitarist watched David slowly fade away.

* * *

act iii Epilogue:

Elsewhere, two shadowy figures were debating in scarcely audible whisper.

“It's just TOO high. It can't be done.”

“You're wrong. I've done it before, and I can do it now.” Said the slighter of the two, dire confidence riding in his voice.

“Well it isn't worth the risk, in any case.”

“You know that it is.” He looked back over his shoulder, and then back to his long haired companion. “You don't know what I've seen. It's worth all the risk. I know what I have to do.”

He turned to go, and it was only then that the longer haired of the two saw that the slighter was already wearing a parachute.

“Don't worry! I've done this before!”

Cloaked in the night while the others slept, he opened the door to go. Only his long haired companion was there to see the wind play about the room for a moment, and then it was done. For better or for worse, he had done it again.

Far below on the surface of the globe, a mass of cultists were forming into a rough group and beginning to chant. Their slow syllables pulsed menacingly into the night; words, they thought, that would go unheard by anyone but their idol. Another did hear their words, and though the temple was unlit from the out side, he navigated his parachute toward the unmistakable sound.

Once again, from a great height he had slipped undiscovered into a dangerous situation. This time, more than ever the fate of the world hung in the balance.