Happy Halloween! Oh boy has it been a while since I wrote a full-length stairwell review. I celebrated Stairwell Aficionado's 1-year anniversary by writing quick reviews "all day" and then finishing that day up by welching out on a promise to review a super secret stairwell a friend of mine gave me the idea to review. I just figured, "who actually reads this junk anyway?" So instead of spending my anniversary doing what I promised, I filled my backpack full of Capri Suns and animal crackers, "sheathed" my wooden katana through my pants belt loop, tipped my fedora to m'lady, and headed out into the wilderness to find myself.
My journey ran into its first obstacle when I was approached by a gang of wild dogs. I drew my weapon and prepared to engage them, but they didn't follow the number one rule of turn-based-combat: taking turns attacking. I was the first to strike because my speed is probably the highest in Western Washington. My hit landed, phasing the dog on the receiving end. There was no time to relish in my first strike, however, as the rest of the group swarmed me. I had to drop my backpack (basically weighted clothing I wear when I'm training) to make use of my aforementioned super speed. My retreat was not without damage taken; my right arm and both my ankles suffered biting attacks. I swore to the stairwell gods that when I next went shopping, I would purchase domestic animal crackers and EAT ONLY THE DOGS.
With my provisions gone, I had to procure nourishment using the skills of my forefathers. I found a neat pile of feces and smeared it into the grass with a stick until food didn't sound appetizing. We call this diet the "Reuse Refused Refuse." It has aided in staving off hunger on the majority of my adventures, as it seems like most of them begin with me being ambushed by a group of hungry roving hounds.
I walked for what seemed like hours, wishing I was back at home with my Winry Rockbell FMA anime body pillow. Just as I began a faint but audible whimper, a duo of drunk vagabonds threw a wrench in my direction. Pulling me out of a deep meditation is NOT ADVISED. I instantly went into a rage, unsheathed my katana, and rushed the man closest to me. I dropped my shoulder and rammed him in the chest. He slapped me with his "NEED FOOD 2 TRADE 4 POKEMON CARDS" cardboard sign, causing a paper cut on my ear, before I sent him flying through the window of Meconi's Subs. Glass rained down into the sidewalk, but then I heard a different glass shatter. I jerked my head left to see the other man holding the very tip of a beer bottle, its end completely broken off, now useless to fight with. I swung my katana at his face and landed a hit on his temple; he was knocked unconscious and fell sideways, defecating his trousers as he hit the pavement.
A hoagie then made contact and careened off my nose. Old man Meconi was cursing me out in bad Italian and throwing bread. I picked up the hoagie and left the scene.
A few blocks later I was standing in front of this magnificent stairwell. It was square and orderly and led up to a government building. The clouds departed while I took some pictures--I took that as a sign that the gods approved of my earlier hobo sacrifice.
The steps were cement, slightly damp from the rain. Lamp posts littered the surrounding area and towered over the neatly mowed green lawn. A chipmunk rushed into a bush but stopped at the entrance to stare directly into my soul. Our minds melded and we were now locked in a dead heat inside our collective subconscious. The creature's silly chatter was quickly replaced by a "Oooo wa-a-a-a!" and I then realized the boss battle to end my adventure was going to be fought against Disturbed vocalist David Draiman in chipmunk form.
I took out my wooden katana for a final time and lashed out at David. He let out an "Awk!" that blocked my attack. I tried to perform an uppercut, but he called out "Ten-Thousand Fists in the Air!" and I was struck multiple times by fists that appeared from nowhere. I threw lawn grass to block David's vision (if only for a couple seconds) and swung my sword twice more. He blocked both and screamed at me to "get down with the sickness." That's when I got an idea...
I etched a lightning bolt into the lawn with my sword and summoned the late Wayne Static. The two tussled in a pile and fought with all they had.
If two nu-metal vocalists die in the woods, does anyone care?
This stairwell gets 4 double labret piercings out of 5.