I’m dragging myself out of bed and downing enough Robotussin to stun Rush Limbaugh for five seconds for an important update; We have ourselves a brand spanking new store. Mike and I took the midnight train and plied our business partner with Pabst Blue Ribbon until he couldn’t quite remember how to sign his name. Mike had to hold him steady while I guided his pen hand across the paper.

Why does this matter? For one thing, we don’t have to rely on this website for a living, which means we don’t have to sell out and start writing glowing praise for games that suck or truly boring shit that appeals largely to cocksuckers looking to get in some pseudo-celebrity’s good graces. Hell, I still have to get most of that bullshit second-hand through Mike because I just can’t bring myself to regularly look at most gaming sites.

Secondly, we’re going to be rich. I’m talking mega-rich. We’ve been stuck in the corner of a crappy mall that’s in a corner of Little Tokyo, right next to crappy Skid Row. Now we’re moving over to the heart of the neighborhood. More foot traffic. More games. More chicks dancing around dressed like some kimono-wearing Pyramid Head while traditional Japanese music that sounds like an elongated, strangled woman’s orgasm plays.

If you’re in Los Angeles and you see somebody dressed in a fur cloak and at least twenty gold chains step out of his carriage and down onto his servant’s back, that’s me. Unless he’s also wearing rocket boots and screaming for Luke Plunkett’s head, in which case it’s Mike.

We’re both relieved that we’ll soon be knee deep in cash and the Los Angeles women who gravitate toward it, because it also means we no longer have to work our many extra jobs. We thought we’d take a fond look back:

BORDER HOPPERS

“How many Mexicans can you fit in a van?” is no longer a shortcut to a cheap laugh for us. It is a question of fiscal responsibility and risks that can act as a metaphor for life. Most of the time customs agents won’t blink an eye at two white guys in a non-descript van and a roof rack full of Mexican soda used as a decoy. Just pay the tariffs and off you go. Sometimes you get those eagle-eyed bastards who spot the dozen or so naked people huddling in the back. Trial and error got us to this surefire exchange: “Are you aiding illegal immigrants in getting across the border?” they’d ask Mike, riding shotgun, mirrored shades working their intimidation magic. “No sir, officer. We bought those legally and intend to sell them on the black market! Ha ha!” and then they’d wave us through.

MYSPACE ADVISORY BOARD

You think Tom gives a shit about you? You think he’s your friend? You think he writes those updates that get sent directly to you even if you blocked him? No sir, that was US. We directed updates, wrote the mail, determined seasonal trends in crappy Flash backgrounds designed to mismatch text with links (Mike is the reason you wind up texting stock market rates to Beirut every time you try messaging a friend.) In addition, we had to keep Tom in a steady supply of underage Asian girls and arrange the silencing of any user that Microsoft Word’s spellcheck deemed too intelligent. My Death Space? An elaborate series of tailored ruses.

LUCHADORES

We were pretty much the least competent wrestlers ever to wear the colorful masks evoking the image of Mexican folk hero Richard Nixon, but Central Americans pay really good money to take out their frustrations on the white man so we were always in demand in the high profile Lucha Libre circles. Between stops to load the van in shanty border towns, we were kept in pesos and all the free medical care we needed to go out and take another vicious beating.

Mike was known as El Judio and I was El Gringo Loco, if you’re looking through Youtube for the sexy footage.