Pyon's been concerned for his life often. His life has been, as I recall him once saying, "One prolonged staring-match with Death." He often survives. Other times, he flat-lines and comes back. It's never easy, and there've been times where he blatantly has lost some of his senses for extended periods of time. Even, once, his circadian rhythm after a lesion damaged his Hypothalamus. It's all a sum of his HHT - Hereditary Hemorrhagic Telangiectasia. As I understand it, his body doesn't produce capillaries, which kind of power-houses and detonates his vessels. Moreover, I believe it makes anomalous vessels or severe breaks and lesions in his brain, liver, and lungs. I don't know. It's kind of technical, and I read about it with a rudimentary understanding of many of the terms used. I only have a basic medical education.
But his Girl's always been the thing to get him through times like, well. Everyday. And he loves her dearly. They exchange caffeine-molecule coffee cups. He's stayed up late to catch her waking up. They've kind of been the couple I've wanted to be like, frankly.
But she left him recently. And his health sort of nose-dived. Or at least Pyon's will to live.
I didn't know what to say to him. I can't even claim to relate to him when the guy fends off shit that would cripple me, daily.
I don't know if he's got a long time or a little time, so I think I'm just going to tell you guys about Shawn. In fact, I'd typed the title of this to be "Dandelion Wine," but I think I'll change that right about now and call this The Official Pyon Post.
Maid Army's always been kind of an odd place. I think my statement that we're a Loose Collective of Don't-Give-a-Fuck is about right, until we have an event. Like the marrow drive, or the Package for the People we assembled. There were times Chat was active, and there were times it was dead. I think I met Shawn when it was live and when Fistbeard used to hang around there, too. Probably two years ago. Maybe three at this point. I was definitely ousted from the graced of Twohou if I were spending that much free time in Maid Army, because the two didn't get along.
But I remember we were all talking about how often I mail people, and I had just gotten some odd postcards featuring people arguing on a sign advertising bacon, Brando's moustache, and many slices of pie served at a Psychiatric Convention. I'd said that I wouldn't be above writing anyone in Maid Army. Fistbeard jumped aboard and so did Pyon. Pyon even wrote me back.
We began talking daily, and we had a mutual friend in Connor "Cat" Manley. Pyon had just recently been admitted into the hospital for an extended stay, and Connor was craving baked goods. I made a massive batch of what Shawn says is now his favorite flavor of cookie - Cranberry and White Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies. They briefly earned me the title of Food Waifu. It was pretty crazy, though. Suddenly, there'd been a huge demand for them. Everyone wanted some. Even Liam who never asks for anything. I made like, six batches in two days. I didn't want to look at another cookie for a long while.
...Funny story about Liam's - I mailed them in an impact-proof envelope and they never arrived. We like to joke that they were lost at Canadian Postal-Check, and that they have rotted and mutated far into sentience and now resemble something akin to the Venus Fly Trap from Little Shop of Horrors. Feeeeeed me, Seymour.
Pyon's never had too easy a go at life. I remember the moment he got out of the Hospital, post cookie-arrival, he'd chased his dog into the woods and got bitten by wild dogs. And another time where someone tried to break into his house, and Pyon'd actually stabbed the man. He spiraled into panic and guilt because the man died after fleeing the scene and the Police kind of found the body.
Once, they'd even opened him up to cauterize the lesions that often plague his lungs, and they'd accidentally sewn him back shut with a scalpel inside of him. I believe he literally removed it by hand, tugging it through his sutures. There are few things as utterly bad-ass as that. Bruce Lee probably comes close.
These things, they were all pretty outrageous. I used to tell Pyon he should write a book.
...His names. Shit, I should talk about that a bit. Pyon's always had a hilarious fondness for over the top offensive screen-names in game.
Pyon's also an avid doodler, writer, and such. I'd like to include some of it. Starting with something he wrote during his employment at an Arcade:
"32 Observations About This Goddamn Arcade I'm Working At"
Actually, I just walked behind this counter for the first time in a week. I'll look at your ticket voucher shortly.
Ma'am, do not act impatient with me when you're the one barging past the wall of ten-year-old flesh eager for cheap prizes and candy demanding I get your son his prize this instant. It is a plastic trophy, not a pair of wire clippers for the bomb.
Hmm, I probably shouldn't mention bombs here. There was a big thing about that in the handbook and the required evacuation and such. So I should totally mention bombs here.
Please shriek a little louder. If you shatter my eardrums into enough pieces, I will evolve a second consciousness able to assist you in getting a goddamn Blow Pop.
The Monopoly Machine didn't give you your tickets because you were trying to tip the goddamned thing over. I wish it didn't stop at merely denying you your tickets and token, actually.
Jesus, those donuts smell delicious. I should totally get so-- wait, I can spend two more dollars and eat until I want to throw up. Not this time, donuts!
Holy shit, why don't I work where the food is? I'd never have to deal with all those kids.
As you can see, half of China, I'm one person. Please wait your turn.
You, um, see that huge machine that says "Ticket Center"? You put your tickets in there.
No, not the Receipt Slot. The one that says "Tickets Go Here".
There are only two slots, one of which is slightly more obvious than facial necrosis. You put them in that one.
This slip says twelve tickets. You cannot buy anything more than twelve-- no, Air Heads are thirty. You can't afford anything on that side of the count-- If you can't afford something that costs thirty tickets, why would you think that you can afford something that costs one-hundred fifty?
You can get four different items. Pick one or some of those. No, now that you've spent seven of your twelve tickets, the five remaining are not able to cover a purchase of twenty-five hundred tickets. Get a piece of fucking gum.
Yes, you're welcome. Don't come back.
Good, you're back. Good thing you won two tickets then ran back here screaming.
Two tickets will get you stickers. Out of these two jars. No, Blow Pops are not stickers. No, neither are Nerds Ropes. Two tickets does not mean you can get two of anything.
So you have one ticket. Why are you asking for two of anything?
Oh good, you're back again. With a whopping three tickets this time.
No, Blow Pops were twenty-five before. The prices have not been lowered. You still cannot afford them. Perhaps if you saved them instead of spending them every time you got them.
Oh, good. It's your... Guardian. Person. If he reeked any more of pot, I suspect the emergency sprinklers would be going off.
Oh, wow. I actually like this kid. He may be taking a while to decide things, but at least he isn't a fucking retard about it.
Jesus Christ, don't you ever stop? It's seven tickets. You should know what you cannot afford by now. I'll give you a hint: It's everything you ask for.
Oh, good. You've got twenty-seven tickets. Here's a goddamn Blow Pop.
YOU HAVE TWO TICKETS. WHY ARE YOU ASKING FOR ANOTHER ONE? I'm glad I gave you watermelon flavor.
Oh, my favorite demographic. Teenaged emo girls. Hmm, I wonder what that pause before you say the word "pickle" implies. You're so delightfully witty.
Actually, it isn't my fault you didn't win at a game dictated purely by chance. Please don't get mad at me.
Actually, I'll go ahead and take care of your prizes after I count the seven hundred and forty two pennies you gave me in addition to your ticket slip.
Why do these pickles either never sell at all or huge mobs rush in demanding them? Anyway, ma'am, I'll make your change in a moment, you needn't glare at me like that. There are so many other places you can go.
For the love of god, you're back again. You... Are you trying to sell me a bag of confett-- This confetti is worth five-hundred dollars? You are actually trying to sell me a bag of confetti for five-hundred dollars. You should be so thankful this counter is between us.
Hi, Captain Pothead! Here to usher your five kids out of the arcade?
Oh, those two machines didn't give you your tickets? Here are two more tokens, you probably should not play those machi-- You're playing those exact two machines again.
As you can see, it's midnight, the machines are off, and the arcade is closed. Please come back for two Jolly Ranchers tomorrow.
That one, about the twelve tickets...? You'd think that was a little kid, wouldn't you?
Old enough to be my mother.
At this point, I'd also like to share Pyon's delightful evaluation of the cult-classic, Cyberbu//y:
Pyon's a hilarious, snarky guy. He's got more snark than I can care to enumerate. You've seen his artwork - it's all pretty great. You've seen his writing - it's all pretty great. And if you'd like? You can see his short-lived blog in my subscriptions.
The Plat du Jour is Dandelion Wine. I'll tell you about it later. For now, enjoy some Hat.
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