*rub rub*

You know how evil folks are said to rub their hands together in sheer malevolent joy? Well, those sad chumps have nothing on me. That's cuz I've added my feet to the fleshy mix of ill will. Why, you might ask, is my will ill? Because in two days Sean "I work for Glenn the Gargoyle now" Harrigan must deliver his "billion seller" game concept.

And, no, that's not the reason my appendages are currently conjoined in communal caresses.

Check out his parameters:

1) It must appeal equally to all age groups, genders, species, and magical qualities (including undead status--especially undead status).

2) It must be difficult enough to attract hardcore gamers but easy enough for my ninety-year-old grandma to pick up and play as her first game. And win.

3) It must look amazing and have high production values. Well beyond the cutting edge. All for the bargain basement cost of $10.97 (we're talking about the budget here, folks, not the price of the game itself--the game will naturally retail for $100 and sell a billion copies).

4) It should include lots of guns and shooting (Darla read an article on demographics and preferences) but avoid any such unpleasantness as people being shot or hurt. That's right, many guns and no deaths. Or hurts. Not even hurts!

I'm in such a delightfully devious mood I think I'll swipe his spaghetti from the fridge again and deny it. Since the vending machine is empty, he'll have to eat that years old package of Life Savers for lunch. He thinks he's so damned creative. Let's see him get creative about lunch. Hat? Foot? Words? That's not creative for him. That's business lunch as usual.

Paybacks are Hades in the blogosphere!