CHAPTER THREE - ONE HANDED HACKS!
Brad and Gordon reappeared about 300 feet from where they originally were about seven hours later. Brad was waist deep in the swamp and Gordon appeared to be engaging in romantic affairs with a seven-polygon tree.
"How da heck did I get all da way over here?" asked Brad while trying to pull himself from the swamp.
"I dunno. Perhaps somebody is aware of da current packet loss and latency issues and are working to correct da issue," suggested Gordon while scratching his butt.
"I wish dere was an ETA on this problem," commented Brad. Suddenly a High Elf teleported in front of them and bowed. He was wearing the most expensive and magical clothing and jewelry possible.
"Greetings. I am High Elf GM Ryansdusvuarir'is T'yanwelawotyertsauis. I have been called here because there have been complaints regarding you two being a nuisance in this zone."
"Wha? What you talkin about?" Brad asked while scratching his butt.
"I have gotten a complain from Nysnashviansnytua Ve'Mutearyeamnsbvtyertsiaus regarding your actions and behavior on this server," the GM lectured. "He claims you two were running around in circles, breaking up and generally being a nuisance during the wedding of Byrearuentianaisle Neruaraghandauer and his wife, the lovely Wood Elf Ozamabidityeiwuid Mjorleraltieonaia. They were exchanging vows when you two so rudely interrupted them and began running around in circles on their stage. Interrupting a social event, which is a cornerstone of Norrath, is a bannable offense."
"What you talking about? We didnt do nothin'!" Gordon pleaded, a streamer of drool sliding down his chin.
"Arguing with a GM is a bannable offense as well. Consider yourselves gone." The GM replied while teleporting away. Brad and Gordon looked at each other in confusion.
"They aren't seriously going to ban us fo-"
UNABLE TO ESTABLISH CONNECTION TO THE SERVER
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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