Forced into hiding by the Online vs Offline gamers War, Game Kid is hunkered down in a filthy motel. His challenge to the warlords, however, has been taken up...

Having kicked the television in during a fit of Pink Gin and cheap novocaine, the Kid was waiting anxiously for the midnight arrival of the factional leaders. Toying with a PlayStation2 memory card - or chocolate teapot, as he now knew it - he checked the room. The only escape was through the door, the window having long been boarded up following a Bristol City FC brainstorming session that turned putrid and vile.

The clock struck its twelfth "ping" and the door swung open to reveal the pallid form of a young man, wearing combat fatigues and carrying a Sony Vaio, with several cans of Red Bull strapped to him, grenade style. His eyes were covered in a pair of 1986 Rayban Wayfarers, gutted and ugly looking.

"PR Guy!" yelled GK in stunned dribbliness.

"Game Kid," oozed the very figure of the Kidster's former drinking buddy.

"So, you didn't drop out and go to the University of Brighton to study advanced Psychodynamics and Chicks after all. Quick man, get out. Take yourself off to the nearest bar and ingest some of the good stuff. I'll catch you later." For all his bravado, the Kidmeister didn't want to see a potentially decent contact involved in the events that were about to unfold.

"Rainbow Islands sux, man." Guy moved across the room with difficulty; his arse, flattened by nearly a decade of sitting, causing his legs to frog about in all kinds of amusing directions. Finally he settled on the raffia-weave chair in a darkened part of the room. "Quake is for girls". He opened a can of Red Bull and sucked it down like a vampire infant breast-feeding from a blood-filled mother-boob in The Gap on a Saturday afternoon.