A scoop to die for! While being an awesome game, Arcanum has a number of glaring flaws. The most problematic of them all is the fact that newspapers can't be rolled up and used as melee weapons to swat certain disturbing elements. One such disturbing element is the dwarf we know as Magnus. You haven't truly played Arcanum if you haven't felt the urge to kill him in the most humilating way possible. That's what this LP is all about. The title screen. Not much to say about it really. Sure, it's got a cool skull in it with a spider sitting on top of it. But let's move on. There is just something about gnomes that makes me laugh, so let's make our hero one of the wee people. I also give him a fitting name. Unfortunately for us, gnomes in Arcanum do not look like monkeys, neither are they blue, but it will have to do. I want to be able to lug shit around, so let's make our hero a runaway circus performer. Perhaps he shaved off the blue fur that made him the main attraction in the circus? We'll never know for sure. Throwing, that's our focus. Let's dedicate everything we get to the fine art of disarming oneself in the most creative ways. The Australians in the audience will be pleased to know that we aided their economy when we bought ourselves a nice little boomerang from the gift shop. Too bad they were out of didgeridoos. LOOK! IT'S VIRGIL! Better read that line of dialogue carefully. Can't say I've ever head him say that before. Our gnome quickly goes to work, exterminating local wildlife as is the calling of any responsible garden adornment. This is what happens to Dark Elves who bother a gnome packing an incendiary grenade. Notes to self: always kill gnomes from a safe distance. Having cleared warehouses of rats, handed back gold rings to fumbling drunkards and introduced steam engines to some aptly placed explosives, our hero has become a force to be reckoned with! We buy newspapers. Lots of newspapers. An ungodly bunch of newspapers. Clearly, Arcanum takes place in a setting where nobody gives a fuck about how many acres of woodlands need to be cleared to produce that goddamn piece of paper you stare at blankly every morning while having breakfast and secretly wishing all your colleagues at work to die an excruciating death. Apart from imparting mass hysteria in a poorly educated segments of the population, newspapers do have a secondary use. You'll soon see. We have ourselves a little chat with Magnus. Things quickly go down south. I R BUTTHURT!!!! Bitch is asking for it. We produce one of our newspapers from our impressive stash. Perhaps reading about important world events, such as Jennifer Aniston's cleavage, will calm him down? Fuck all that, let's kill him instead. TAKE AIM! The sports section hits him in the groin, inflicting grievous pain. BAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!! We keep on throwing, hoping that the paper cuts will reach a critical mass and have him implode. We quickly run out of ammunition however... Fuck, we're spent! Magnus stares at us smugly, smelling printer's ink all over. We run circles around the runt, picking up newspapers as we go. Might be fined for littering otherwise. Standing on a pile of newspapers fifteen feet high, we enjoy the view. Mwoahahaha! The ammo clip is full again. Take that, you manicured city dwarf! Our inventory restocked, we fight on valiantly. However, we are promptly reminded of the lack of stamina possessed by the gnomish race. Magnus kicks us senseless. We didn't read our Art of War and entered the battlefield unprepared. Just you wait Magnus, revenge will come! We reload, and cunningly fill our inventory with fatigue potions. Magnus is as butthurt and smug as ever. He thinks he'll win this time around too. We'll see about that. Blablablabla. I only buy newspapers printed with armour piercing ink. Something is wrong. Magnus just refused to go down, despite our valiant efforts. We pick up all the newspapers again and check what's wrong. Apparently, I've been attacking a newspaper instead of Magnus. Poor thing. Friendly fire is such a n00by thing to do. We try to keep ourselves more mobile, making it easier to aim at Magnus instead of innocent editorials. Magnus has suffered a whole barrage of paper cuts, and will soon join up with Alberich in the great sauna club in heaven, or wherever dwarves go when they die. The Grim Reaper approaches, Magnus! Coward dodges the killing blow. Way to postpone the inevitable. I have other things to do, damnit! Enraged, we throw an obituary in his face. Fucker finally goes down. Triumphant, we stand on the mutilated corpse of our nemesis. Never underestimate the power of the free press!