I sometimes amuse myself by thinking of adult game devs as chefs, of a sort. There's all different kinds of chefs, some create fast food, some make elaborate haute cuisine, some provide a simple, comfortable dining experience, others challenge your palate with exotic or extreme tastes.
I ask your indulgence, dear reader and/or moderator, as we explore this thought a bit, and see how this is actually relevant as a review.
Let's imagine there's a chef, that cooks a wonderful, comfortable, sweet and savory dish, that makes you feel warm inside, and loved. Let's call this imaginary chef ahm... let's call him Assassin 8. Of course, if you read the comments in this thread, you might find mentioned a
developer chef with a similar name, but I assure you, my chef is purely fictional. And so there is his wonderful dish, that is not called Your New Family (it's not, look it up in the thread).
Imagine now, a new chef arriving on the stage. Young, eager, full of ideas. Let's call him Le Vautour (see, no similarity to any actual person living or dead, who goes by "The" and not "Le").
Imagine, this new chef has just enjoyed the wonderful dish created by Assassin 8 for lunch. Le Vautour is sitting back, in the kitchen of his own, new restaurant, slowly digesting that wonderful dish, burping gently while picking at his teeth. Full and content, he dozes off, to be awoken a few hours later by the ring of the bell above the door to his own restaurant, as his first guest arrive.
He stretches and gets up. Oh wonderful day. Service has begun! He straightens his collar and walks into the dining room. With a wide gesture of his chubby arms, he approaches his guests. "Welcome, welcome, my friends. Follow me!", he bellows.
He leads them to their table. With a flourish, he pulls out the seats for the new arrivals, one at a time. Somewhat apprehensive, his guests sit down. "Today...!", he exclaims, startling his guest a little. "Today, I bring you magnificent wonders, inspired as I was by the greats that came before, like all true artists.” He looks around triumphantly. “Are you ready for a culinary experience of a lifetime?!", he demands.
Unsure, his guests nod timidly. "Good!", Le Vautour bellows, and walks back into the kitchen. Humming to himself, he rummages through the cupboards and pulls out a simple, tin foil tray. "This will do nicely", he says to himself. With the tray in one hand, and a small stepladder in the other, he walks back in.
With a mix of amusement and bewilderment, his guests look on as he theatrically places the tinfoil tray in the center of the table, sets down the stepladder, and climbs up. The amusement is quickly replaced with shock as his guest see Le Vautour unbuckle his belt, and drop his pantaloons. He bends his knees, positioning his flabby, pimply back side over the tinfoil tray.
His face screws up in a rictus as he strains. A thick, knobbly lump of excrement slowly emerges from between his spotty butt cheeks, before crashing down onto the tray with a heavy thud, rattling the cutlery. Some of the guests gasp, others murmur words of displeasure and shock.
A fresh new glob of faeces emerges from the rump of La Vautour, this one squishier than the first. It flops down into the tray, breaking in two over the hard, gently steaming lump already sitting there. One more heave produces even more nauseating matter, this time of a consistency both runny and lumpy. It gushes over the contents of the tinfoil tray, splattering over the table and onto the fine garments of the guests, who sit transfixed, wide-eyed and mortified.
With a dainty gesture, holding out his pinky fingers to add some finesse to the experience, Le Vautour raises his pantaloons, buckles his belt and climbs down from the ladder, before turning around.
“Voila, the specialty of the house!”, he exclaims. “Just mere hours ago, this was the dish not called Your New Family, by the great Assassin 8. But in my inspiration I have, through hard labor, digested its essence, and transformed it into this original entry you see before you!”
He looks around at his guest, who stare back, unable to move. That is, all but one, who turns to the side and heaves the contents of his stomach up, spilling it onto the worn, black-and-white tiled floor and adding an additional sour note to the horrid aromas already surrounding the table.
“Well?” says Le Vautour, the lower lid of his right eye spasming slightly. “What are you waiting for? Eat up! It would be a shame to let it go to waste, since I fully expect you to pay for this one of a kind experience!”
Renders 0/5
Story 0/5
Scripting 0/5
Choosing a handle 5/5
