Everyone was down, bleeding to death. The Mage, the Cleric, the Thief, and the Bard. Since my sword was broken because I fumbled earlier, I switched to my Elven Long Bow +1. However, the Dungeon Master told me that my quiver was empty and I couldn’t shoot the remaining troll without any arrows. Running out of options, I announced I was going wield my magical bow as a club and attack the ambushing bastard.
The DM said he didn’t know what kind of damage that would inflict. He sank below his divider and analyzed his charts. We all waited patiently, until he made his official ruling by utilizing a mixture of calculus, intuition, and weapons lore. He decided that the damage would be 1 to 3 points plus magical and strength bonuses. My strength was 18/80(+4 to damage), which is the equivalent of Hulk Hogan from late eighties, so the minimum amount of damage would be 6 points and max would be 8 points.
Fuck, this didn’t look good.
The troll had 63 hit points left, and I had only had 6 left. Meaning—I would have to make eight or nine successful hits, while managing to evade all of his attacks. Fucking impossible! I rubbed my face with both of my hands, took a sip of Dr. Pepper, scooped some bean dip with a Frito-Lay corn chip, and savored the salty, crunchy goo for encouragement. I then clasped my hands together rubbed them together also, and then cracked my knuckles, rotated my head from side to side to loosen up. I shook my hands vigorously and let out a deep breath of air.
Let the battle begin, mother fucker.
I slowly picked up my battered, 20-sided die, but the Bard (Tom) stopped me and produced a Merlot-colored velvet bag. He carefully poured out a blue, iridescent, 20-sided die. I took the die and nodded with understanding, and placed my left palm on the table to brace myself. I cupped my right hand upwards and rotated Tom’s die in a circle on my palm. I closed my eyes and cleared it of everything, and clenched my right hand into a loose fist. My fist transformed into a muted maraca, and I became a fierce mariachi, a Desperado, waiting for battle. I could feel the die rattle around, building up energy.
At last, I unleashed the die. And by the glory of Odin’s Shaft, I rolled a twenty, the maximum amount. Double damage(×2)! The DM allowed me to roll again. Another twenty appeared on the twenty-sided die. Quadruple damage(×4). The odds of rolling two twenties in a row were supernatural. I felt like I was in Vegas at the craps table on a good run. All eyes were on me. Everyone wanted me to roll another twenty, even the DM. Time stopped for a moment, I could hear my heartbeat, my mouth was dry, I couldn’t hear anyone—I could only see their mouths moving. My vision was clouded and sweat dripped from my forehead.
We entered into uncharted territories. What happens when you roll consecutively three twenties? The DM said if I did roll another twenty that I would inflict eight times the normal damage (octuple?? damage)(×8). I couldn’t feel my legs.
I closed my eyes again, and envisioned every form of twenty I knew:
The Roman numeral, “XX”.
The word, “Twenty”.
The Spanish word, “Veinte”.
10+10, 4×5, 10×2, etc…
I felt like Luke flying in his X-Wing through the final corridor after Red Five went down, his weapons system were malfunctioning, and the entire Rebel Alliance depended on him to fire his two Proton Torpedoes® into the exhaust shaft of the Death Star creating the chain reaction to destroy it.
I rolled the potent, plastic polyhedron and let fate take over. It felt like hurling a grenade. I didn’t know if it would explode or be a dud. Once the die stopped, our actions were suspended in slow animation. Everyone leaned in to see if we lived or died. I will always remember that moment for the rest of my life. Everyone started to yell, “Holy fucking Christ, you rolled another twenty!” The DM brought the frenzy to halt, when he instructed me to roll for damage.
Remember that the troll still had 63 hit points left, so if I rolled a one or a two the troll would still live and kick the living shit out of me. I still needed to roll a three. I thought I was going to throw up. It felt like getting the checkered flag at the Daytona 500, pulling into Victory Lane, getting champagne poured you’re your head, and then everyone starts shouting that you need to get back in your car and finish the last 50 laps or Jeff Gordon, the Rainbow Warrior is going to beat you.
I was empty, drained, confused. My body was on autopilot. Feebly, the die came of my hand. I did it. 64 points of damage. Miraculously, my pathetic, slender, make-shift bludgeon tore threw the neck of my hairy assailant, decapitating him with a strike aided by Zeus, Henry XIII, “Hacksaw” Jim Duggin, and Jeffrey Dahmer.
“Take that, you sweat from Osiris’s balls! I am the Trollslayer!”
I must add that this “moment” was trumped by the post-virgin time I was blown by an aerobic instructor on the train in Tomorrowland at Disney World five years later.
