I arrive at the mansion, ready for the upcoming festivities, but with butterflies in my tummy. Two girlfriends are with me, not to partake, but to support, because goodness knows how I'll fare after the dust settle. I walk to the door, and hand Stormbolt a note with cell numbers of who to call when the carnage is over: I might not be able to walk out on my own after all. I make my way inside, returning looks, stares and glares from those who've already arrived. You can cut the tension in main room with a knife, and the cacophony of soft and not so soft hisses, snarls and growls bounce off the walls. I head for the punch bowl, desperately needing a drink, passing by costumed potential oppoenents. I try to map out strategy, who to avoid, at least until they get worn down a bit, who to attack, hoping for a quick victory. The tension rises as the moment approaches.
