You stumble through the dark, winding corridors of the World Wide Web, searching for enlightenment. Or maybe entertainment, or good fanfiction, or neato image galleries, or possibly just the simple experience of something...different.

Or maybe you stumbled here in a misplaced search for porno sites. Who cares? The point is, you're here. Assuming you haven't clicked "back" by now. In which case you aren't reading this. In which case, the hell with you.

As you come forward (or down actually, since you're reading this, not actually here; but I digress) a flickering light catches your gaze. It is a cheap lamp, whose dim glow illuminates a hunched-over figure, sitting at a desk, scribbling furiously. There is a long pause, and then the figure looks back, cool blue eyes appraising you. Then he speaks, in that voice which has enthralled dozens, whose eloquence has earned him the undying hatred of everyone on Improfanfic, GRIT, Pencils, and probably several other forums we don't know about yet; the voice of a man whose charm and charisma are matched only by...vermin. Dead vermin. Three-weeks dead vermin, killed by a particularly noxious disease which causes them to ooze unidentifiable yellow liquids from their major orifaces. You get the picture.

The figure glares at the narrator, perhaps wishing he had the HTML skill to write his own introduction. Then his gaze returns to you, and he remembers that he was supposed to be speaking already.

"Oh geez, ANOTHER one?" Epsilon snorts in disgust. "Get lost! I'm trying to work here, and the last thing I need is..."

At that point he cuts off. Perhaps due to a sudden attack of manners. Perhaps due to choking. Perhaps simply to confuse you. But were you to have to make a guess, the most likely reason would seem to be the bokken which just impacted on his head, driving it (the head) into the desk with a loud crunch.

There is silence for a moment (again). Then your gaze travels up the length of the bokken - stylishly wrapped in black electrical tape to prevent wear and tear - to the black-garbed man holding it.

You gasp in fear and loathing, realising that this is none other than Blade, scourge of the rec.arts.anime newsgroups, world's biggest fan of Pantyhose Tarou (among other unsavoury characters), and the writer of...shudder...Ani-chan in Futureland. Or perhaps you gasp in shock, realising that this is none other than Blade, debater nonpareil, writer of fine fanfictions, and knowledgeable authority on Ranma 1/2. Possibly you gasp because the script tells you to, not realising who the hell Blade is. It doesn't really matter, because he's ignoring you anyway.

"Epsi," he growls to the figure embedded in the desk, "I've told you not to bug the people at the page! And you're not even working! You're a fictional representation of yourself on the introduction to the page! And if you were working, I'd like to see the latest chapter of the novel! Or the next CoD chapter! Or..."

There is a flurry of movement, and Blade too cuts off, more than likely due to the fact he's just been whapped in the face with a rubber chicken.

"Do not," Epsilon states grandly, waving the chicken at his dazed co-author, "call me EPSI!"

At which point the fight really begins. Bemused, you wonder if you should wait for them to stop arguing (fat chance), or try exploring the rest of the page on your own. A small voice in the back of your mind screams at you to get the hell away from here while the getting's good, but you ignore it, or at least I can only assume you plan to if you've read this far.

So what are you waiting for? Get going!