An encounter with a strange medallion leaves sixteen year old Gestalt possessed by the spirit of an ancient Demon King, making him a key player in a war between the Demon King and the Goddess of Life. Unfortunately, the Demon King wants to destroy t...
'There he is,' thought Gestalt Chernobog. 'Mr. Absolute Terror himself.'
The androgynous figure of Count Varney stood before him with a piercing gaze, but it was hard for Gestalt to feel intimidated by a man who crept around in a long-sleeved, puffy, white, buccaneer shirt with lacy trimming.
If there were a proper dress code for vampire lords, Count Varney was definitely trying a little too hard to look the part.
Too much Austin Powers, not enough Dracula, thought Gestalt.
In any case, it was time for him to die again, or whatever it is the undead do when they fade to ash.
"Gestalt, turn off that game and let's go!" His mother shouted. Gestalt's concentration was broken. He sat on his beanbag, and stared at the pixels of his TV screen. The August issue of L33T Gamer Magazine lay on his lap, and it was opened and turned to the walkthrough guide to Forever Fantastico 7.
Blah, he thought. I can't save in the middle of a battle.
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"Gestalt!" His mother shouted again.
Maybe if I pretend I didn't hear her...
"GESTALT!"
"All right, all right! I'm coming!" Gestalt turned off the television but left the game console running. There was no way he was going to lose all the progress he had made.
"Did you put on the tunic yet?"
Gestalt looked to his bed and saw the large, brown, burlap potato sack with three large holes cut into it.
"No, Mom," replied Gestalt. "I'm not wearing that thing."
"Oh yes, you are!"
"Oh no, I'm not! It'll give me a rash!"
Almost immediately his mother stood in his bedroom doorway. She was dressed in a white silk blouse and black satin apron; her pseudo-15th century 'serving wench' costume.
With her brown hair rolled into Princess Leia buns, Gestalt's mother stared disapprovingly at the black t-shirt he was wearing, the one with the cross-boned label of his favorite punk band, The Jolley Rogerz—and her face soured when she looked down at the baggy, black, bondage pants he'd been wearing for the past three days.
"Lose the clown pants," she said.
Gestalt fixed his eyes defiantly at his mother. He wasn't backing down.
"Fine," she said. "I don't have the time to argue with you. Comb your hair at least."
Gestalt went to the bathroom and spiked his otherwise handsome black hair with styling gel until his head resembled a porcupine's butt.
His mother sighed.
"All right, let's go."
"A Renaissance Fair is a wonderfully great way for getting in touch with your family roots,"— Or at least that's what Gestalt's mother often told him. However, Gestalt had little interest in attending a silly social gathering for old nerds.
