From the Diary of Gamon

85th Entry (extra amounts of booze and blood spilled on this page)

Woke up this Tuesday with a bad hangover. That's the story of every day actually, since I pissed off some Troll here in Orgrimmar and was cursed with immortality, and later given an open, free tab here at this bar as long as I live (hah - suck it barkeep). Still, I miss being able to kill things instead of being killed. The coyotes, the birds of the old plains ... the most nowadays is some chuckling initiate or peon that comes in thinking I have Thunderfury or the Warglaives of Azzinoth on me. (Who spread that rumor?)

Well, before he took off to fight the elements or whatever he does, Thrall the Warchief came into the place last night. The Warchief! He sought me out. Great, Orgrimmar's No. 1 hombre wants to kick my behind around too. I think everyone in this town has, including him. Some Alliance troops managed to get me pissed and brought me to the Warchief's hall the other night, either he or Garrosh slew me in the chaos -- "Omigod," Eitrigg screamed, "they killed Gamon!" "You bastards!" Vol'jin shouted -- and I woke up back in this bar. I finished my drink and turned to him. He didn't have his fists or blade out.

"You didn't give Eitrigg a coin for me to toss in Dalaran," he said. "Few in the Horde rebuke the offer of the Warchief."

"Well, a fountain wish is kinda stupid. I could use a lot more than tossing my copper in a well I'll never see," I replied.

"Point taken, even if the spirits object," Thrall said, taking the stool next to me. "Gamon, what is best in life?"

I really wanted to say another beer and some peace and quiet so GET THE FRAK OUT OF MY FACE YOU TWO-FACED HUMAN LOVING GREENSKIN, but my still somewhat sober brain said hey, it's his city, his thugs behind me and hell he could give me a favor. For a second, I thought he read my mind, as he smiled, but he let me speak with my mouth.

"To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their spirits as you udderbag them," I said, figuring he'd like that warrior schtick. I may be a loser, but I'm not stupid. Don't tell me Cairne doesn't say pretty much the same drivel to impress these hotheaded green savages.

The Warchief laughed and slapped me hard on the back! "That is good! That is good!"

Buying cred from a orc made me bristle. He was six-foot-four and full of muscles. I said in Taur-ahe, "Do you speaka my language?" He just smiled and gave me a Kaja'mite sandwich. And then he said, "I go for the land down under. Where fear does flow and tauren chunder. Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder? You better run, you better take cover."

He then offered to buy me a drink - a cola, though I had the barkeep pour some Rumsey Rum Black Label in it -- and gave me some pebbles to mix in it.

"Don't pop rocks and cola make a volatile poison?" I asked, holding the shiny stones above the drink.

"Bro'ham, just shut up and drink the stuff," Warchief Thrall said with a smile. Even though it was a comforting smile and hey, the Warchief was buying me a drink (and staring down some rogue who wanted to gank me), I couldn't help but think it was a trick. I'd pee my leggings, puke all over the bar or have my head pop with foam coming from my snout, all to the laughter of the Horde within the bar. Or worse, I would die like my uncle Rahmoan, busting out the loudest body thunder Kalimdor has ever heard. He died straining over the squat latrine we dug on the mesa many moons ago, the pitiful war cry he screamed and the death thunder that rumbled from his tightened sphincter I will never forget (plus it made us sleep on another hill that night, it was that rank).

I dropped the rocks and watched them fizzle in the cola, and a very ominous looking cloud of smoke came bubbling forth from the froth. "What do these pebbles do?" I said, figuring I might need the knowledge.

"Can see things no one else can see, do things no one else can do!" Thrall said with a shout.

"Real things?"

"As real as Lo'Gosh!"

"Hey what more can a Tauren ask for," I replied.

"The Six Demon Bag!" Thrall added.

"Terrific, a Six Demon Bag. Sensational. What's in it, Warchief?"

"Wind, fire, all that kind of thing. Now drink the medicine!"

I made a toast. "May the wings of liberty never lose a marauder."

The room cheered as I drank. Thrall again said something to me, saying I wouldn't have to worry about being embarassed or whatever for a while. Whatever mate. I was busy trying not to puke the stuff as I felt it bubbling through my chest. If I was a bit more drunk I would've screamed I was having a heart attack, but I knew I'd live through that. I've lived through enough already.

I woke up, Thrall was gone, but he left a note. "Enjoy the new you." Bastard didn't even say goodbye.

I heard a noise. Another rogue, an undead by the smell. Maybe a few dozen seasons in his profession. He was shocked he was heard. More shocked as he looked at me harder. I slugged him once. He sailed across the room and cracked his head on the wall. He died. One shot.

Dayum.

I kinda like the new me.

But now there's several veterans of the Northrend campaign taking a look in the bar, glaring at me. Guess I'll be taking on multiple comers now.

Barkeep, another round!

///To read the rest of Gamon's diary, go to http://wow.joystiq.com/2010/10/06/around-azeroth-beta-edition-the-more-things-change/2#comments

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