by Maura Kessler – Suburban Occult Editor / HOA Enemy #1
James is a man of precision.
No drama. No chaos. Nothing to ruin his shelf alignment.
In a Austin suburb, with a canine companion named Milo, in a converted dining nook that hasn’t seen a casserole since the Bush administration.
Instead, it hosts war.
Every Wednesday, it’s D&D. Most every other day, it’s crafting minifigs.
Hundreds—literally hundreds—of hand-painted miniatures line the shelves on the perimeter like tiny, battle hardened demigods.
Warhammer 40K. D&D. Pathfinder. Ral Partha oddities. Necromunda gangers. Reaper Bones miscasts. 3D printed monstrosities with more kitbashes than sense. Dioramas. Terrain. Foam-core temples. Resin moats. A Soviet dragon on a mech unicycle he insists was a limited run from a Moldovan Kickstarter.
Some are canon. Some are cursed. Some were soldered together in acts of creative heresy.
James has it all: airbrush rigs, Citadel paints, specialty flocking, sable 0000 brushes for eyes the size of pinholes. His magnifying glass is clamped like a surgical lamp. His workflow? Sacred.
Each night, he wipes the desk. Caps the paints. Turns off the task lamp. Whispers: “’Til tomorrow, fellas.” Then heads upstairs.
And that’s when it begins.
At exactly 12:03 a.m., the air shifts. The Skaven warlock stirs. The skeleton bard strums a power chord. A half-orc paladin flexes. Elven rangers drink paint thinner from thimbles and mutter racial slurs about dwarves.
“That smirking elf looked at me funny.”
“You impaled my war-beast, you twig-humping git.”
“Your faction has no lore basis for occupying the Stonekeep.”
“Says the plastic scum who drinks from resin skulls of children.”
The treaties collapse.
The die are cast.
The Battle of Dining Room Prime erupts.
Props are overturned. Dioramas looted. Foam-core castles fall under siege from bottlecap trebuchets. Someone lights a votive candle as a war crime. A Goblin King actually dies, his head now repurposed as a commander’s throne.
Factions form from the chaos:
- The Order of the Polyhedral
- The 7th Repainted Legion
- The Broken Blister Pack Syndicate
- The Cult of Glue
Rules? Unclear. Casualties? Catastrophic.
A rogue elf-lancer is found beheaded in a papier-mâché outhouse. Terrain tiles soaked in Vallejo “Bloody Flesh” #72.113. The Soviet dragon defects. Twice.
By 6:47 a.m., it’s over.
James pads downstairs in socks, in search of coffee.
The scene is carnage. Tiny heads, appendages and weapons scattered. Scorched felt. A still smoking mech chassis embedded in a foam wall.
He sighs. “Milo! What the hell, man?”
Milo looks up. Exhales deeply, wags once. Gazes solemnly toward the overturned dice tray.
James begins repairs. Again. He doesn’t know.
Or maybe… He knows enough not to ask questions.
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