During that time, I loved playing D&D with my friends. Doing poorly in school, bouncing around movie stores for jobs, and without much meaningful contact with people, I devoted myself to these games. They were the only thing I really looked forward to, and I'd spend more time thinking about my D&D character than I did about my own goals and future.

He was spectacular. A pure and true Mary sue, he was everything I wanted to be. The thread that had been long since deleted just asked some question about what characters we all played, and I couldn't help but write an ode to him, detailing everything about him from his abilities to his exploits to his appearance, running a good four or five posts. The thread seemed to die for a minute or so, despite my eagerness to see the reactions to the greatness of my character.

Finally, someone decided to say something. It wasn't very long, short enough for me to retain it since then. I read it, reread it, and made a mad dash to reply. I wrote, infuriated and angered and enraged and quite simply pissed off, and hit the submit button with a flourish of pure malice. I wanted whoever had replied to me to understand how wrong and foolish they were, and to never make that mistake again.

The field was too long.

Going back one page, I read my reply, noticing how dumb I sounded, and then read the anonymous message once again. It was only then that I realized what it meant.

I had lived at home for my entire life. I had a fist full of college credits that were in bullshit courses I took out of whim, and only work experience as a clerk. I had never had a girlfriend, my only friends were the few I had since grade school, and when you look at all that, it was too easy to see where I had gone wrong. Looking at the message, a message that neither I nor the original writer thought would be important at all, I just let everything snowball until I came up with a decision.

I left home three days later. I left a note saying nothing specific but to not worry, and with nothing more than $500 began my journey south. My older brother had done a similar thing, living for six months in Puerto Rico, just for the hell of it, but ended up coming back just skinnier and with hints of great debt to people that made him want to run back home. I didn't want to see how long I could last on $500 away from my zone of comfort. I didn't want to go on a "soul-searching" trip, or try to reach enlightenment. I had nothing to prove to anyone, and at the end of it all, I might end up simply forgotten.

I just wanted to get my hands on something worth something.

..........

huh?

The first few days were hard. At first, I had planned to reserve myself to spending no more than $10 a day, and it took four days for me to realize just how naive I was. By that time, I had only $100 remaining, but I now had all the items I ignored for my character and never drew in his pictures. Duffel bag, sleeping bag, frypan, and all sorts of other camping gear. Since I had no real direction to go, taking a bus there would be a waste. I walked with an unfamiliar load simply "south", hoping to put some distance between myself and my home, as well as the town I was so familiar with.

The best sleeping spots always seemed to have been claimed by the local homeless, leaving me to either try negotiating with them or finding my own place. I slowly learned how to find great sleeping spots, which usually involved trespassing. My favorites so far have been places like boat houses and playgrounds.

For the first two months, I would find a great sleeping spot, make some money, and then move on. I did all sorts of work, getting paid under the table for jobs I almost got by accident. There's a surprising amount of people who are willing to hire a young white male for $30 a day, and usually I ended up getting tipped a fair amount, leaving me with saving up about a grand after the two months and at the border of the United States and Mexico.

At this point, things became fairly hard. I didn't understand a word of Spanish, and I still haven't bothered to learn. Of course, the price of everything dropped to a laughable amount, and the further South I went, the further my money carried. I worked rarely, since I could basically live fairly well on about $3 a day, and spent most of my time just asking people about things they thought were interesting.

About four months ago, I found myself in Honduras. I had met a priest named Elvin who spoke broken English about as well as I spoke broken Spanish. He made no show of pretending to care about me more than the money I carried, but after renting one of his pews to sleep on ($3 for the week), he seemed to warm up at least to the point in which he liked me more than the scarce members of his congregation. Near the end of that week, he finally told me something worth listening to.

Inside the Río Plátano reserve, which holds hundreds of ruins going all the way back to the Mayans, there was a 300+ year old church. Or, that is to say, there was supposed to be, but the priest himself had never found it in his younger days of exploring the huge forest. He had always had a particular interest in this church, mostly due to the local legend that granted it the name of the Black Church.

Welcome back, intrepid fatbrother.

Around 200 years ago, the Vatican was supposed to give a large amount of money to renovate the back then century old church, but with the more pressing matters of Europe and the dissolution of Spanish control of the region, the church lost priority and received nothing. The residing priest cursed the entirety of the Roman Catholic Church, and proceeded to take his followers and try to create a malformed satanic cult. It was from here that he literally and figuratively poisoned the area for over ten years, committing acts such as arson and well contamination while gathering unknown numbers of followers.

The Black Church simply disappeared afterwards, with no explanation given in the tale. The priest of the church, simply called Father Black, served as a boogey man for the local children, a man who would take a naughty child, and lead them using a bell made of bones to his dark church where he would feed them to his human pets.

Recalling the words from the post I had read some 8 months back, I realized that I had to pursue this. I had found several pointless paths that had led nowhere in the earlier months of travels, but this one felt like it had more substance.

Paying Elvin for another week of renting his pew, I began to gather as much as I could about the Black Church and the reserve itself. The story was a dying tradition, with older men recalling being told as children but not bothering to tell their own. The reserve, some 5,000 square km, was fairly explored, but many of the archeological sites remained unassessed due to the sheer amount of them in the area. Gathering as much information as I could, I would venture into the reserve for days at a time, checking out potential sites, and after a month since I had heard of the Black Church, I hadn't found anything like the legend.

Of course, even despite being relatively recent, finding any documents pertaining to an abandoned church from 200 years ago in a country that seems to not care too much for paperwork wasn't going to be easy. I had heard from Elvin that it took him nearly a decade of research simply to be sure that the church had existed at some point. It wasn't until I managed to get a hold of some fairly old banking documents that I got myself some clear proof of the church, however, they came at a bit of a high price.

A young woman who I call Xiomara, a rich, bored daughter of some most likely illicit businessman who was simply waiting to get married, thought finding the Black Church was a pleasant way to alleviate her boredom. We managed to discover each other thanks to our shared goal, and wanted to cooperate towards its discovery. After looking through the documents she herself found nothing in, I found something worth investigating.

The mountains of the reserve had been mined in the past, mostly for the few veins of silver thought to run through the area. However, what caught my attention was a large salt mine some 300 years old, nestled inside of a mountain. It was an enormous one, especially for its time, and possibly one of the biggest mines in the area. It was a bit of a stretch, but I couldn't help remembering my trip to the Wieliczka Salt Mine in Poland as a child. It was a practically an underground town, even having it's own church. With the size of this salt mine nearly a quarter of that of Wieliczka, there was a possibility. Having found nothing on the surface, I was willing to take my chances on what was basically a whim.

Xiomara was amused by my thoughts, and felt it was a nice way to spend a weekend. At the time, I would have preferred to have gone alone, but it turns out her ample amount of equipment proved fairly useful. Her personality and attitude, a manner of acting that suggested she had been through this hundred's of times before, made most of the journey feel like I was somehow boring her, and that I should add a song and a dance to everything I did.

Finding the mine was easier than I expected. The initial decent, however, was something else. The principle shaft descended to what seemed the heart of the mountain, and must have been several hundreds of feet deep. When we reached the bottom, I felt a coldness that went beyond just the enormous temperature drop. Xiomara must have felt something like that as well, as her attitude changed completely. Faced with a number of passages, I scanned the ground, looking for any sign of where to go.

It was then that I noticed it.

The floor had a slight muddy slick to it, just enough for me to notice footprints. Without thinking, I flicked off my light and motioned to Xiomara to do the same. I regretted that the moment we became enveloped in the cold darkness, as I reported what I saw and then gave voice to my fears. Few people would know of this mine, and even fewer would care enough to explore it. I almost expected her to make a joke about some remnants of the Black Church cult, but even she knew that this was not the time.

Armed with nothing more than my utility knife, I flicked on my light, and began to move down the passage the footprints went. They were soon joined by more sets of footprints, until the slick disappeared and gave way to bare stone. Xiomara seemed to regret coming down here, and I told her to go back. I would explore the place first, and come back for her if it was safe. She quickly agreed.

Proceeding forward alone, I came upon an electric light system attached to the walls. Moving carefully and quietly, I followed them, up until I saw in the distance the dim glow of one of these lights turned on. I killed my own light and crouched down, moving forward at a snail's pace, my ears scanning for the slightest sound.

This should be amusing

When I finally heard voices from ahead, I rapid and careless tongue of the "new youth" of the area. These kids, no older than I was, formed the worst gangs, using social revolution as an excuse for personal profit. I had run into them in a few of the towns, nearly getting killed because I hadn't shed all of my Americaness, and it now became obvious that something illicit was occurring.

Listening in on the voices, I barely understood their slang-laden talk, but cocaine seemed a frequent mention. In time, it became clear that this place was serving as a storage house of some sort.

Moving away, I tried to find another passage. Exploring for about an hour, I found small tunnels leading in the same direction, and finally found one that didn't end in a dead end. Moving through it carefully, I once again saw dim light coming from around a bend, along with a faint sound. However, as the passage turned, it became a bright light and an echoing cacophony.

Are we being Bel-Aired?

I was in some elevated tunnel, looking down on an enormous chamber, an underground cathedral. Along the walls were religious reliefs, carved into the stone itself, with hundreds of fluorescent lights dangled from the ceiling. More impressive than all this were the thousands of boxes carefully stacked inside the room, being moved by hand and by forklift. There were dozens of men, working to get thousands of bags into these crates.

My mind tried to think. At first, I thought it must be cocaine salts. But, that was just a naive first guess. To be using this place to store cocaine would be a waste, since cocaine was bought and sold freely around here. This mine was in a difficult region, someplace that if you wanted to store something, that meant you wanted to make sure that no one would discover it.

It was then that I noticed the altar. Rather than a hanging crucifix, a goat skull statue overlooked the entire operation. Carved out of black stone, I first thought the devil himself stood there. I had discovered the Black Church, but I had no clue as to what the hell was going on inside.

Hours passed, and I simply watched. I might have fallen asleep at some point, but I immediately became focused as soon as I heard shouts. The commotion was caused by the group having discovered Xiomara, who foolishly had ventured in after I had not returned.

With several of the men armed with guns, I knew that all I'd be able to do is watch and pray. The men first questioned her, and she quickly told them everything, sending a few men back into the passages to look for me. After that, they went ahead and answered all of my questions.

Taking one of the small bags from the pile, they carried her over to the altar, holding her to it with four men. They stripped her roughly, tearing open her shirt and pants. She struggled as the oldest of the men, probably no older than thirty, carefully poured the contents of the bag into a bowl of water. As he did, he held some sort of white bell, that rang a sound that felt hollow and uneasy. He then held the bowl over her, as the other men quieted down. With a ceremonious shout, he began to slowly pour the liquid over her.

The second it touched her, she jerked upwards, requiring all four men to keep her down. She continued to convulse as the thick liquid poured over her. This continued for five or so minutes, before the oldest man doused her with a pale of water.

The men backed away, leaving her exposed and shuddering upon the altar. The oldest man, once again gave a shout, however this time it was a command. "Sit!"

Her head jerked. Xiomara moved awkwardly, causing many of the men to laugh. After the initial strangeness, she slowly seemed to gain control of herself, and then sat on the edge of the altar. Another shouted command. "Dance! Dance for the Devil!"

As if she were in a night club, she began to move her body to some phantom music. The men lost control of themselves, and what followed could be described as rape. However, Xiomara seemed only more than willing, incoherently screaming in unmasked pleasure while performing whatever was suggested to her.

I watched, muffling myself with both hands to contain the sound of my shock. Whatever that chemical was, it had reduced the young woman to some sort of hedonistic, obedient shell of a person. After the men had finished with her, the carried her off somewhere. A few hours later, they all stopped working, leaving two guards in the room.

Just before morning, I took my chance. With utmost care, I slowly scaled down from my passageway, using the reliefs. I moved slowly, and there were several times that I was sure that one of the guards saw me. But I simply froze, hoping that I could blend in with the now dimly lit saints and angels.

After reaching the ground, I moved quickly, using the stacks of crates for cover. With a mad dash, I found myself behind the altar, staring at what I had journeyed thousands of miles to obtain.

The bell was simple in its design. Nothing like the skull of a giant suspended from a belfry that had popped into my head on occasion. A simple handbell, but carved with care and embellished with cruel designs. It was carved out of most likely some sort of animal's bone, possibly a cow's leg. It was delicate, the clapper made from some heavier bone and suspended by the thinnest of silver chains.

Hiding behind the altar, I couldn't resist. I had to hear it ring. I was compelled, not only by the strange beauty of the bell itself, but from the words of that post I could not willingly forget.

The sound was both beautiful and sickening. A clear, yet dull and unpleasant sound, that was immediately followed by the approach of guards. I dashed out, which made them start yelling, and I dove behind the crates. Inside the maze of crates, I was glad I had spent hours looking down upon it. Listening carefully, I avoided the guards as they loudly tried to find me. It wasn't long until I heard additional shouts, as it became clear that there were now over a dozen men searching for me.

Waiting patiently, I helped myself to a few of the small bags, squeezing them through the crates. Positioned at a corner, I decided that if I was going to survive, I was going to have to do it with the only knowledge that I had that had any relation to this situation. Relying on pure D&D logic, I tossed a small stone down the facing aisle.

The man only gave a slight shout before coming down. As he turned away from the lonely rock in the wrong aisle, I threw two bags of the powder at him, having slit them with my knife. They hit him with bright white puffs of smoke, and he coughed for a second before dropping to the ground, convulsing. Taking his gun, I suddenly realized where exactly I was. I was standing in a nearly infinite supply of inhalant poison.

The next guard was taken out with almost too much ease. I'm a miserable shot with a gun, but hitting crates with an automatic weapon was within my ability. Creating a thick cloud of the powder next to the man, he screamed as a far amount must have hit his eyes, before coughing and then falling to the ground.

The rest of the men decided to make things easy for me, by grouping together and heading towards the sound of the gun shots. Climbing up the crates, I unloaded the clip, creating a great deal of deadly cover a fair distance between me and them, with the clouds hanging in the still air. I then ran my way to wall, where I scaled up the relief without hesitation. Once in the passageway, I simply continued out, the men probably still searching for me among the crates.

Oh boy I hope there's going to be some Space Marines soon!

After that, I told Elvin what had happened. He thanked me for finding the Black Church, and said he would speak to his Bishop about it, and maybe the government. I gave him all the bags of powder, knowing I'd be a fool to try and sneak them back into America, telling him that it was up to him what he did with them. After giving him $10, probably for no real reason, I began my journey home, carrying the bell in as protective of a carrier as I could build for 100 lempiras.

After about three months, I made it back home. My parents were shocked, and my siblings were fairly apathetic. I didn't bother to tell them where I went, and was rather glad that they didn't press any questions.

My room had not changed. That was nice. When I booted up my computer, /tg/ was still in my bookmarks, and I thought, it might be nice to return, and thank whoever wrote that post so long ago. The simple post, that carried me over these twelve months.

"cool story bro."

classy stuff.

cool story bro

Went from "Could be interesting" to "PEW PEW GUN FIGHTS AND DRUG BUSTS WOOWOO".

Interesting...

Also, for anyone who cares, the Wieliczka Salt Mine is a real place, and it is fucking awesome. I've got family in Krakow, so I've been there a couple of times, but it never fails to utterly amaze me with its size and majesty. Anyone in Poland, or even the vicinity of eastern Europe, should give it a visit.

XIOMARA IS AMUSED....
XOM FUCKERS!

cool bro story

I'm imagining a fat dude with glasses "scaling a relief" with a gun in hand.

Haha, wow, awesome.

>>4788570
I'm guessing months-long-trek-to-the-jungle = much more fit than before, honestly.

>>4788570
Why carry an empty gun?

Nice, you left the drugged-up chick to die.

Fascinating story, brother!

This reminds of a certain film based on a true story I watched one time - but only the origin.

It was about a young man who just left college, looking for his life to mean something. He went around the U.S.A. and Mexico, preparing for a trip to Alaska where he would try and survive in the wilderness, without any aid. He made all sorts of friends, and almost made it with a fifteen year-old. In the end, though, he left it all behind for Alaska and after surviving for over a hundred days, he died of ingesting wild potato seeds.

>>4788660

yeah, that guy's a dumbass. He refused advise from a local ranger or something, did not get a map, did not even at least fucking read up on how to survive in alaska, and died of starvation

gg hippie moron

>>4788633
You would have swung down on a chandelier and whisked her to safety, I'm sure.

>>4788513
>unloaded the clip
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Ok, i believe it's time to archive

Even if this is complete and utter bullshit, and I'm gonna say 80% on that one...

Cool story, bro. That'd get you a beer.

Ok, archived here

http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/4788447/

>>4788447
The entire thing felt more believable to me when it was 'Im a fatguy going camping and surviving on my own'

Calling BS unless you post the bell, OP. You flee the cave without helping the chick, somehow making it out of the country safe and sound ( and apparently quickly, at that. )

But I think I can sum it up easily- Cool story bro.

>>4788700

Back to /k/ with ye'!

>>4788700

Go back to /k/.

>>4788660

Into the Wild.

Now, it's time to run an adventure called Return to Black Church Mountain.

>>4788724
D:

Fucking epic, even if it isn't true.

Even though I retain the hope that it is true.

Hey guys, I'm from Honduras, and I met this fa/tg/uy. He was running down the street, ringing a bell for no goddamn reason like he won the goddamn lottery.

Now I know why.

Sub-temperate tale, brethren.

Did this get archived on suptg?

>>4789971
How do you know it was him?

>>4788724
>Calling BS unless you post the bell, OP

It's a cool story, bro. You know it's fiction, right?