The stuff you’re liable to see on the Black is often just too much for a sober mind. I lock my disk in, run my cracking daemon on it, then my computer screen turns black. Maybe my computer couldn’t handle it. Abandon All Hope . . . appears on-screen. I hate this stuff. I’m trying not to run the lights in the apartment to keep our electric bill down, and I know there’s no one in the room with me, but already I have a case of the willies. The pervasive sense of dread that accompanies the Black is already making its way into my mind. My old speakers begin to thud out the beat of ancient tribal drums as hammers strike anvils, nailing out high ringing notes. I look at the clock. 9:33 P.M. New York time. Across the world, weirdos with a taste for the twisted that can no longer be satiated by the SimDungeons they’ve constructed in secret are logging on to an illegal open source i.p.
