Slower than a Bunny

Today, one of the other Arizona exchange students studying here at the University of East Anglia had a birthday party. Etta is turning 20 on Tuesday, and instead of having a normal college party, she decided that she wanted to celebrate NOT being old and threw a “kitty party.” This party included an ungodly amount of both sugar and caffeine (to the point that my hands are still shaking as I’m typing this out.) The party was in one of the kitchens in our dorm, looking out onto the lake.

Like most universities, UEA hosts a ton of different clubs – except here they call them societies. The club baseball team I’ve been playing on is technically called “the baseball society.” They have some more outlandish ones, such as the cocktail society (which the members of have shortened to The Cock-Soc) and the unanimous favorite: The Game Society.

UofA has something similar – as do a lot of universities. Except UEA’s game society has a large group of people who, every Sunday from noon until sundown, LARP. For those of you who are not huge dorks, I’ll explain. (For the record, I am including myself in the former group.)

LARPing is a lot like the renaissance festival. It is an acronym for Live Action Role Playing. People who LARP generally take it even more seriously than those who just role play – because LARPing involves costumes, real weapons, and most importantly: real battles.

Every Sunday, from noon until sundown – there is a battle at UEA. It starts on the field by the lake, and is driven deep into the forest. Every Sunday. Let me reiterate. Every Sunday.

This Sunday was no exception. We had our sugar party in the kitchen and watched them sword fight, throw dice at each other and then belly flop onto the ground after the numbers read a critical hit. Their HP was depleted and they didn’t have enough mana to cast a greater healing spell on themselves. Their only hope was that someone could resurrect them before it was too late.

As the party wound down the LARPers were much more entertaining to watch than the sugar. In fact, we all were watching pretty intently.

And then someone said, “We should go attack them.”

I laughed at this, liking the idea and imagining a battle of epic proportions in the forest. Our whole motley assortment, hyped up on sugar and caffeine, wielding sticks and screaming our cries of combat.

And then Dom turned to me and said, “You want to mate? I’ll do it if you do.”

Another gal at the table said if we both went, she would come too.

That is what I call an offer you cannot refuse!

We took a 10-minute break to prepare. Dom and I returned to the flat while Etta and her friend went to theirs to get shoes – and weapons. I immediately put on my catchers mask, throat protector, and grabbed the most fearsome weapon I had: a large, plastic, slotted spoon. I also grabbed a frying pan, with which to bang my large plastic spoon while I shouted an epic war cry.

Dominic put my colander on his head, grabbed a wooden spoon and a pot, and we headed back to battle stations.

We exited our base and approached the battlefield with vigor and bravery. A few cars passed us on the way, eyeing us the way anyone would eye a man wearing a catcher mask and waving a slotted spoon in the air. I gave them a thumbs-up – they honked.

“Think anyone has ever done this to them before?” I asked.

We had a few things that the LARPers didn’t. Actually, we probably had more than a few things that the LARPers didn’t… but the most immediate of those things was the element of surprise. While we clearly were doing something out of the ordinary, our appearance alone was not what made it obvious that we were preparing for an ambush.

From about 100 yards we could see them battling it out in the forest, standing in the middle of the dirt road that cuts through it. Dom said, “should we just run up the road yelling?”

In my casual Dave fashion I responded, “Yeah right, I’m not running that far.”

With a brute force charge out of the question, we elected to use more stealth tactics. Down on our knees, crouching under branches and hopping over fallen logs, we drove our way through the dense forest. We were ready.

We stood silently in the brush for a moment – listening. They had no idea what lay in store. With the sugar, caffeine – oh yeah, and that “adrenaline” stuff, I stood as still as I could, feeling my heart beating quickly and breathed in and out heavily.

“SPARTANS!!!!” Dom finally shouted. “PREPAIR FOR GLORY!!!”

“HA-OOH! HA-OOH! HA-OOH!”

“SPARTANS!?!?!?!?”

“HA-OOH! HA-OOH! HA-OOH!”

…and then, in the spirit of my old room mate, Kinsey - as I banged on my frying pan with the large slotted spoon - I shouted:

“TOTAL WAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Out of the brush we came with ferocity! Twigs snapped and a cloud of dust was left in our wake as we threw our war-ready bodies from the woods and onto the gauntlet with only our screams of combat brave enough to follow in front. The sky above us drew together in anticipation, casting a shadow on the dirt at our feet, which soon would be soaked with blood and glory.

At the end of our 20-foot charge, we stopped in front of a group of 10 who stood there, motionless and silent – kilts flapping in the breeze and bits of rain dripping down their leather tunics.

“Uhh…. total… total war?” I asked.

Nothing.

Dom lightly hit one of them with his wooden spoon.

“Look Mortimer,” said a paladins, “he’s spooning you.”

Someone chuckled.

“Really?” I asked. “That’s it? You’re not even going to chase us?”

They stared back at us.

I gave my pan and slotted spoon a rattle.

“Go bug them,” the paladin said, pointing off into the forest “they’re much more likely to fight you.”

I put the spoon in my back pocket and picked up a stick, then took off running in the direction I had been pointed, yelling, “TOTAL WAR!” and banging the stick on my pan, which, to my pleasure, made much more noise than the spoon had. Dominic and the other girl followed.

We got within 20 feet of this group, a group much larger than the first, and we hesitated.

“They have bows and arrows…” Dom said.

“TOTAL WAR!” I yelled, giving my pan a few more good whacks. Dom followed in close suit.

“SPARTANS, PREPAIR FOR GLORY!!!”

“HA-OOH! HA-OOH! HA-OOH!”

They too, ignored us.

“Come fight us, you cowards!” I yelled, waving my pan and stick in the air.

And thus, my invitation was accepted.

A small fellow, wearing a studded leather vest and a black robe drew his sword in both hands and hurled it off into the forest. He undid his belt and let that drop to the ground before throwing his wooden shield in the other direction.

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” he yelled, and very angrily, started marching towards us.

I wasn’t entirely sure if this wee-fellow was a dwarf of an elf, though when he got within a few yards of us it was clear that if he’d even broken five-feet, it only happened yesterday. Because he had neither a beard nor a battle-axe, I decided he was an elf.

I stood my ground, eyeing the little bugger, waiting to see what was going to happen. Dom took me by the shoulder and said, “Lets walk away Dave. This isn’t worth it.”

Then the elf started to yell.

“I HAVE BEEN HAVING A REALLY SHITTY WEEK, AND I AM TRYING TO DE-STRESS BY HAVING A BATTLE IN THE FOREST WITH MY FRIENDS, IF THAT’S QUITE ALRIGHT WITH YOU!!!”

“Look man,” said Dom, “we’re just trying to have a little fun. We’re not being malicious.”

“Oh, fun, huh? Yeah. Well, it was funny the first few times you did this, but it stopped being funny MONTHS ago, so fuck off!”

Question answered.

Two more guys started coming toward us – though unlike the elf, they seemed a lot calmer. One put his hand on the elf’s shoulder, while the other one came around to talk to Dom. Paladins, probably – but maybe Bards. I forgot to ask.

The man who approached Dom identified himself as the president of the game society. He told us that indeed, people really do come out of the brush in similar fashion frequently, though some of them actually try and start real fights. He apologized but told us “it’s hard to tell whose joking and who wants trouble.”

The elf shouted a few things about his parents getting a divorce and his grandmother being sick. I bit my tongue and let him yell despite my temptation. His Bard friend now pulled on his shoulder and led him back into The Shire.

“I’m sorry for the confusion, but I really appreciate your enthusiasm,” said the president-Bard. “If you guys really want to join us, show up by the lake at noon next Sunday and you can battle with us. It would be great!”

“Can I wear my colander?” Dom asked.

“No, it has to be approved gear, but we have plenty that you can borrow.”

“What about my noble war-axe?” I asked, pulling out my spoon.

“No, but you can use this one if you like,” he said, pulling a dagger out of his boot.

In the background I could see the elf trying to find his sword in the brush. The Bard stood glaring at us and a few people fiddled with bows and arrows.

Etta, the birthday girl, and a few friends had been standing about 100 yards back watching the excitement. As we approached them Etta asked, “what happened?”

“They didn’t think it was funny!” I responded, feigning surprise.

“They should have been appreciative – we spent like 20 minutes planning that!” Dom told her.

“That’s like – four times as long as it took to plan the Iraq war!” I responded.

When we were almost back to the dorm, still in combat gear with weapons drawn, I turned around and, one last time – for good measure let out a war cry.

“TOTAL WAR!!!”