Guys, let me just start by offering you all a massive apology. I have been distracted due to fighting for my life and I haven't been able to maintain my true duty as the giver of undeserved rewards who you all know and love. However, I am pleased to report that known assailants upon the Credit Garden of Eden have been slain and I, VIPGod's former left hand have cast him down.

I am the master of the Garden now, I hold the key to Credit Castle; Creditham has a new Sheriff and he's burning down Chateau Capone with a gleeful smile. You should see the flames catch on the timbers, almost like they weren't quite the #1 quality you could get, more like the #5 or #6 grade type. Whoosh.

Anyway, because I am such a nice person and something of a VIP black hole consuming 70% of all known credit mass at any given time, I've got even more treats to hand out. The Sheriff is generous and there is not a werewolf in sight. Enjoy, but enjoy responsibility and remember the rules of Grinwood Forest, dearest wretches, you must thank me here or return your pilfered pennies.

Vidic has just landed on these shores. He has heard of stories of a generous lad named Grin. It was a weird name, but perhaps it was common on these shores. Arriving from Serbia, he was full of energy to start on his new adventure. He had written down the places that he wants to visit, primarily the Grinwood Forest where a werewolf was heard to be lurking within its shadows. Armed with only a rusted pistol passed down from his father and a chicken pot pie, Vidic began asking around for directions to the forest, only to be met with frightened eyes and pale faces. Everyone was keen to avoid Vidic now - but this did not hamper his spirits. With a burning heart and a desire to meet his idol, Vidic picked a direction and went on his way. 

Aaaah, finally! The VIP vacuum cleaner that was now also his boss had found some time to offer new gifts to the community full of soon-to-be members of the Wiseatorium. We can only hope that considering the enormous amount of people that will join at the same time pretty soon, it is ready to welcome them all.

That being said, thanks Grin-07 for your generosity. I would have claimed more credits if there weren't that pesky 24h limit on codes. After all, as a raccoon, I am an expert at finding what's hidden in plain sight. If there are still there tomorrow, I shall grab a new one.

Zapata, still living out of a mud hovel deep in the VIP shantytown RoGrin Hood had once stood as champion for, was hard at work rationing his sole VIP credit into decimal parts, eager to pay for a quarter of a lockdown here, maybe a BG tip there. He was a mere #15, barely ranked, not even bourgeois, and was lucky to recieve so much as a morsel of attention from the VIP lottery gods. Grin, meanwhile, had risen to the distinction of Sheriff of Creditham, a once noble and prestigious rank, now sullied by the residency of an outlaw in the castle where Chateau Capone once stood. Zapata hoped they would rise out of this bleak VIP winter and perhaps one day hear the familiar howl of a werewolf in Grinwood Forest again. 

The forest is under siege. They have come with their axes and their fire and they try to chop us down. My rewards, once the envy of humanity and beyond, are now a tiny drip barely able to fill the sink in the half-finished bathroom of the guest wing of Chateau Capone. I hear the howling amongst the trees of Grinwood Forest, once a safe haven from these animals, and even the Merry Men must look over their shoulders at night. The Sheriff of Creditham no longer looks back at me in my room of mirrors in Credit Castle; another has claimed that crown now.

And still, here I am. I am no longer resident at the top table at VIPG's feasts and must eat the less choice cuts alongside the Zapata's of this world, but it is still a long chalk from the Elodin unranked filth, who eat nothing but apple cores and pizza crusts, so there is that to be grateful for. 

Despite the obvious disgust I feel toward these wretches, I was mandated with a duty and that task is one I cannot walk away from. This is the path I must walk and my feet shall not deviate or stray from it until my last credit has been prized from my generous fingers, likely by the raccoon claws of a certain credit-thief. So here you go, friends. My Merry Men. Give thanks to me and enjoy this bounty. Maybe one day it'll be looking for a handout from you as just another VIP wannabe. 

But not yet. Not yet. 

NobodyImportant snatches the credit out of Grin-07's short, fat fingers and continues on his way

As he walks away he comments to the people standing around:

"Grin-07 is ok. Be nice to him, to his face, at least".

You are way too obsessed with yourself. 

God, I know. I know, alright? #13. My days spent at the top table are so long passed they are a bitter memory which tortures me in the dead of night. My own credit table may as well be keeping the toilet door open; the kitchen staff sneer at me, VIP in name only, barely rewarded and evidently all but forgotten. Where did it all go wrong? One minute I was wondering whether I should Grinette-07 a werewolf pelt for her next birthday and the next I'm drowned out by Chalk and CommissarKuku's battle to offer an opinion on anything. Bad times. And not just for me, my merry men? All dead. I haven't had any credits to sustain them and now their all mulch on the Grinwood Forest floor. 

Still, here I am, the VoxNeruda of the VIP Credit business, cap in hand, trying to talk my way into a cheeky credit or two. Will I be rewarded? Will I ever rediscover former glories and dine again on the finest ham and swill the choicest wine in my bejeweled goblet? Or, will my fate be a darker one? The goblet, pawned. The ham, an off-cut of Fat Al Capone's thigh. The wine...better left unsaid. I'm at a crossroads, and only the truly wretched among you would take a credit off me right now. 

Wouldn't you, wretches? 

A very wretched looking man runs out the door of a nearby flat after having his way with Grinette-07. Seeing Grin-07 in the street, reciting a soliloquy as far as he could tell, he runs up and snatches some merchandise out of his hand...

"Forsooth, good sir! Weary is the night upon which I shag your damsel and steal your wares!  But none so much as my old bones, which I shall heretofore take unto my own, and with it your wealth!"

Grin shuddered at NobodyImportant's haggered back. 

A truly deplorable specimen. Even on my worst of days, would I ever sink as low as becoming that? No. Death first, I think. It would be a mercy, really. He can have the credit...little good it'll do. 

Imashe leaned against her car and gave a soft chuckle as she brushed her fingers through her hair. After a long hard day killing her enemy's bodyguards and gave a wink at Grin-07

Furious were at same mission lately as Imasche and also went by to give a wink to to who ever watching when he came by.

he thought of that generous man handing out good creds to so many, sad he was gone or were he, no, hes back in inco and not many knows that, Furious smiles when driving back to the city to se if he himself could dig up some creds anywhere in the back-allys.

Goldust's head was pounding, and for a change it wasn't the hangover from last nights festivities. It was that guy who worked for Farage. No matter where Goldust went, that guy was there, speaking in tongues, talking in a way that made Tarzan sound like Lord Byron. Reflexively Goldust put his hands to ears to make sure they weren't bleeding. Best to check for that shit, bleeding from the ears was only marginally less serious than clear fluid leaking from your ears, that could be a sign of spinal fluid, and that was some serious shit right there. Almost as serious as the fact that Grin had never once given him a VIP credit, not once. Not a 'here Goldust, take this and fuck off into town, find a freaky assed bar, get your shit on and get some asshole up the duff with a shit ton of little Goldusts.' It brought to mind the words of another slightly less well known Golden Person, Golden Rod his name possibly was. "We seem to be made to suffer. It's our lot in life." Well Thank the maker, Goldust was on the up, the tide was high, and his ship was getting ready to set sail, and Goldust would be travelling first fucking class, all the way... so long as he didn't have to listen to any more of that gobbledegook.

This whole topic SUCKS

That's a very strong opinion on this topic, Hacker. Would you like to explain what sucks about it? Why does it suck? What does it suck? Does it suck physically or metaphorically? Don't answer that last one, we all know topics can't actually suck. Although one time I did have a stick which suctioned itself onto my leg and left a small welt. No one believed me, not even my own mother. Why didn't you believe me, mother? Was I never good enough for you? Maybe that's why I turned to the life of crime in the first place.

Thank you, Hacker. You've really opened up my eyes to a personal issue of mine through this scathing review of this topic. In may ways I'll be changed forever because of this. Then again, probably not.

"This whole topic SUCKS" - Hacker

Zapata, a #4 on the tumultuous new-look VIP list following the death of street leader CommissarKuku, looked proudly upon the newly-hung plaque on the wall of his credit-built villa; a Tuscan-style country house overlooking Lake Destro on the outskirts of Grinwood Forest. He was no Al_Capone, lost in the cavernous credit vaults of some enormous chateau, but he was doing well now, having pulled himself out from the unranked shanty town of his frugal beginnings and into the upper echelon of VIP society.

Despite these comforts, he was still a man of the people, a bulwark against the tyranny of the #1's and #2's, and though his stature in society had risen, he had not forgotten the men who stood at his side during the great droughts in credit country, ringing out globs of mud for droplets of credits, panning the rivers for a half credit here, a tiny quarter of a credit nugget there. The unranked were the salt of the earth, the kind of men who bred pigs and goats (but not before invoking prima nocta), and though some like VoxNeruda begged and clawed their way into the #12 and #13 spots, the trickle-down economy was uninspiring at best. 

The state of it all was such that even his own boss, Grin-07, the former Sheriff of Creditham, had dropped into the hum-drum ranks where being heckled by web-toed frog-boys like Hacker, who normally would not be permitted to socialize with normal society lest they begin developing dreams of being 'real people', was an increasingly common sight. Perhaps it was time to take matters into his own hands, for Zapata to whip up his unranked peasant army and force some real change. 

But there was still a little bit of time to waste waiting for hand-outs. A few free credits from RobGrin Hood wouldn't hurt. 

Having tossed two guys off who were sitting on a nearby bench... no you dirty minded fuckers, not in that sense, he'd given them the bums rush... oh for fucks sake. There had previously been two homeless guys lying on the bench, using snoozepaper to help insulate them against the last vestiges of chill that spring still could bring to bear on the unsuspecting at this time of year. Needing to sit on the bench, Goldust had given them $5 a piece and told them to fuck off to VoxNeruda's homeless shelter. Now he was sitting, eating popcorn and watching events unfold. Some people, perhaps the poorly educated, may not know that far from being a modern invention, Popcorn was widely known throughout the world, even as long as 5 and a half thousand years ago, and the term 'Popped Corn' had entered common parlance as long ago as 1848 and was mentioned in John Russell Bartlett's Dictionary of Americanisms. Because of its relatively cheap price, popcorn had seen an incredible upsurge during the depression, and would no doubt go on to become a welcome source of income for many a struggling farmer. And so, that is why, with the scene now set, and the previous faux pas, Goldust was sitting on a bench eating Redenbacher's popcorn, lovingly coated in salted butter, with a sprinkling of refined sugar for good measure, the popcorn, not Goldust obviously, he'd just had his suit cleaned at Nipper's Dry Cleaners, and coating himself in butter and sugar would have made that a waste. Seriously though, he does a real good job of getting stains out, including bodily fluids, next time you are in Chicago, you should drop by.

There were two major thoughts on Goldust's mind this morning. The first was obviously Hacker's statement. How could a topic suck? What topic was it that sucked? And why did we need to know that the Topic in hand did indeed suck? He had thought that perhaps the Topic being discussed was in fact the chocolate confectionery produced in France and marketed by Mars confectionery Incorporated, but then he remembered that they wouldn't be invented for another 30 years, and Mars, whilst operating out of Bakersfield, California, were so far only famous for their Milky Way (A malted Milkshake in a candy bar) and Snickers bars. It really was to much to grasp. Perhaps Sisyphus would be successful in his line of questioning and finally shine a light on to the whole incident.

Secondly, was he'd recently heard that some muppet had been talking about him in the streets. A jumped up Irishman who couldn't deal with his life and had fled his homeland to France after abandoning his wife and children for the Canadian Journalist Robert Ross, and was so ashamed of his self imposed destitute existence that he even adopted the name Sebastian Melmoth. He'd went on to develop Cerebral Meningitis, that some suggested was caused by syphilis contracted from one of his many male lovers, although whether that was true was anyone's guess. Apparently this reprehensible young fellow had tried to insinuate that Goldust was some kind of street speaker, or wannabe oratory genius, at least he'd recognised him for the true creative genius that he was, a proper artist. Truth of the matter was that Goldust nor any of his ancestors had ever considered themselves street speakers. If he'd wanted to engage in public debate, he'd have gone into politics instead of Professional Wrestling and Organised Crime. All he did, was be himself, he walked the streets, and interacted with the people he met. Sometimes that interaction could become a bit vocal, but that was never the ultimate intention. However, the one thing that Goldust would never do, is offer an olive branch twice. He'd been willing to go out on a limb, and proffer the hand of friendship, give those fallen on hard times a chance to prove that they had changed. Truth be told, he doubted that they had, but he wanted to be certain. So when the hand of friendship had turned into disrespect, when he had requested that the disrespect stop, only to have it escalate to a spit in the eye, he knew he was done. Never again would he interact directly with a gibbering idiot like the one that he had been unfortunate enough to develop a crush on him. Thankfully, that idiot was gone, and replaced by his not so incognito Grandson, who was also a Gibbering Idiot... at least the father had the decency to not hang around long. And to make matters worse, it was now apparent that the Fruit didn't fall far from the bent and gnarled tree. The man couldn't even get a gimmick of his own, he had to steal Goldust's, twist it, warp it, and take it to the nth degree, where it was no longer funny, it was no longer engaging, it was just crass and disrespectful.

Still, perhaps it wasn't all bad, we still had the possibility of finding out which Topic sucked, why and how it sucked, and as Sisyphus had said, whether it sucked in a physical or metaphorical sense... maybe even in a metaphysical sense... now that would be something.

The once sprawling mass of Grinwood Forest is no more. Bulldozers came and laid the trees to ruin. Industry settled, turning those once mighty trunks where werewolves walked into paper for the law offices of Matt_Murdock and hemp ropes for Kirsty's next attempt to escape Admin Jail. The view from the balcony of the third floor of Credit Castle, looking out over the verdant pastures of the Credit Garden of Eden has been replaced with cold concrete and picket fences for the settlers that will follow. Grin-07, once dutiful servant at VIPG's right hand, now wallows in the bowels of the system, barely better than the Elodin's of the world and even forced to scoff the leftovers of #8 Zapata's breakfast burrito without even taking the time to remove the gnarled red peppers which had very likely spent some of their life on the floor. 

It has been difficult for Grin-07 to make a living of late, the abundance of terrible newspapers being crammed into the already journalism-saturated gullet of the populace has taken a slice out of his once lucrative business. His heady days at the Wise Guy Guild had long since passed, and his last street appearance had cost him $150m in hits. The Sheriff of Creditham, a vaunted position he dutifully stewarded during the Pollo hit, now wouldn't even taken him on as a deputy.

The only consolation for Grin-07 as he sat lost in his thoughts, deep in despair, was that he had found an old copy of The Gangster's Handbook which someone had tossed out with the trash, and he could at least use the tome as kindling for his fire. He might able to even be able to warm his can of beans, which he was intending to eat straight from the can. 

Nipples noticed his Boss sitting among the tree trunks looking to be in despair. Hoping to offer him some comfort, and also to mooch his can of beans, Nipples took a seat...

"You know, you could always replant the trees. Just a thought. But then where would you sit to enjoy a hobo's meal while feeling sad that nobody reads your paper?  I noticed the printing press has been down for quite some time.  Maybe this is the time to fire it back up and show those young whippersnappers how to really mock the profession of journalism?"

You just might onto something there, Nipples. Great oaks from little acorns grow and all that jazz, so perhaps Grinwood Forest can stand tallotall more and I can enjoy a veritable feast beneath the boughs...two cans of beans. Oh how jealous they will be then.

Alas, I feel my printing press has been retired. The public seem bored with newspapers and I'm certainly bored with writing them. No, it will have to be new ventures from now on; stop things going stale.