I decided to try to do this write-up as coherantly as possible, but I discovered that my short term memory is like a ram disk. It's there until I shut down, then it's wiped. Thursday after work I went to the Marriott to help out with the network room. The core group was, naturally, nowhere to be seen. I called Denis who claimed he was doing "Jim's bitch errands" and woldn't be back until about 10pm. He suggested looking for exploits in the hotel or getting roof access to watch planes land. I chose to check out the speaker rooms and network room. I told the hotel I was with the convention, which is true (hey, I was going to the con), and I needed to see the rooms. I had conscerns about the hotels lax attitude regarding setting up at that point, but soon learned what they lacked in setup, they more than made up for in bug-up-the-assiness. I was answering fairly obvious questions to the hotel staff about setup when NFF and Darkcube rolled into Dodge. I hung in the lounge with them exchanging stories and having a good time as people started waking up and coming down from their rooms. I had to bail about 7 to get ready for the weekends madness. My plan for Friday was grab my shit and go, be at the hotel by 10am, noon at the latest. Instead I had my own bitch errands to do including having my oil changed, having the morons at the oil shop fuck up my starter, and fix my own damn starter in the parking lot of a Murrays. Ninty-three cents later I was on my way. I arrived at 2pm. I checked in, found the hotel had fucked my reservations from 2 beds to 1. A roll-away cot (that filled the thimble-sized room) was offered. Fine, whatever. I called the guy I offered the spare (now non-existant) bed to, hooked up with him (and girlfriend, also staying in the room), passed off the second room key, loaded my shit, and checked into the con itself. Being a smart bastard, I knew beyond a doubt that I would be too toasted to aquire my guest pass when my guest got there, so I got it right away. This was, by far, the shrewest move of my professional career. There was a shortage of "official-looking" passes. There were some nifty substitutes, but I didn't even get my speaker pass until Sunday, but the key people dealt with these headaches like the troopers they are. Friday night the general unwashed passes (green) were long-ago dispatched. A lovely girl who's name is withheld offered Denis the bra she was wearing for an official pass instead of the back-ups. He politely told her that the only one he had was a black (core group only) and that she'd have to give him more than her bra for that. I offered Denis my spare offical pass if he wanted it. I was at that moment, his hero. The bra was used as a hat by him for many hours and he's planning on having it stuffed, which is one of many reasons he's my hero. About 4am Denis, Suidroot, me and about 4 others cleaned the shit out of both speaker rooms and the network room. We filled 2 50 gallon trashbags with beer bottles, cans and empty pizza boxes. On reflection, I don't recall anyone with a red badge (lackys genetically engineered to clean and get shit for people in black badges). I crashed at 8am. I slept an hour. I discovered that in my haste I didn't grab a hairbrush and that the hotel didn't provide toothpaste (which is a constitutional right, last time I checked. Isn't it Crest, liberty and and the pursuit of Cresent Freshness?).I was completely wiped, but luckily I had breakfast with Forno, heard embarassing stories of drunken foolishness as seen in "Win NFF's T-shirts, round I", payed $8.50 for pancakes that tasted deep-fried. But as anyone knows, surviving long enough to dine with Rick Forno is both a cresent fresh and an accomplishment in itself. Sometime between waking up and my wife bringing pizza (true love means never having to say you're hungry) the un-named girl offered Denis the chance to auction off her clothes. He took this opportunity to do what nobody ever suspected from him: A tasteful flesh auction. At the zenith of the auction-plans it was like this: 4 very attractive women (all patrons of the con) would be wearing several rc4 shirts, cat5, and bikinis (they all brought bikinis). Invited guests would bid on swanky con shirts, the winner would get to take the shirt off the lovely lady (the only thing making a con shirt better is a chick too hot to date you was just wearing it). when they were down to their bikini tops bidders could bid on the chance to sign the girls on "the exposed flesh spot of their choice". The proceeds would be a 50-50 split with the girl. The entire plan was kept tightly under wraps. Very few people knew anything. In fact, the only person who knew that wasn't on the trusted resourse list was Denis' bitch Spike. You may remember Denis' bitch spike as one of the kids wearing duck tape. In particular, he was the annoying little fuck that instead of helping keep the con clean and running smoothly, got himself handcuffed to a chair. It hasn't been proven that Denis' bitch spike (his real name is Denis' irritating little bitch spike, btw) let the cat out of the bag, but it's my unofficial (but likely the case) opinion. I'd already heard he was telling anyone who'd listen what he knew. What he didn't know he made up. Stupid little shit. I don't recall the details, but as best as I recall, the hotel heard we were going to be having "strippers and hookers". This kinda put a kabatch on the plans, but as they say, even the best laid plans can fall asunder if Denis' bitch doesn't keep his fucking mouth closed. Unofficial quotes I may have heard but wouldn't swear to in court: Well, since Im not wearing a black card, anywhere on the carpet is fine to put out that cigarette. Fuck them. Tear the place up. This is a convention. We're not welcome back to the Marriott We're officially not welcome back to this or any other Marriott. Ever. We're blacklisted. The police want us to leave 5 at a time with our hands in plain sight.