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Iām not a huge fan of Kevin Eastman and Peter Lairdās Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the black-and-white comic they drew in the 1980s. Iāve never felt ādark and grittyā was the right tone for the Ninja Turtles; I donāt want to see Raphael blind a mugger with street glass, or Michelangelo get hooked on the lumpy cocaine Karen Hill flushed down the toilet. It hits my brain in the exact same way that a dark and gritty Rainbow Brite would – I have no need for that interpretation, please take back your extremely sweaty brochure.
Like everyone my age, I was a fan of the TMNT cartoon show Playmates Toys developed in 1987 to support the action figure license theyād acquired from Eastman and Laird. Beyond it being right there in the title (the characters are canonically 15 years old), thereās something inherently childish about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and the property has objectively been its most successful when it maintains a certain level of innocence. Even the āgrittyā comics were never all that hard. But I did love the weirdness and self-parody in Eastman and Lairdās version, which are two elements the cartoon show preserved, along with the charactersā names and general appearance. Uh, except for April and Baxter, who were made white. For some reason the cartoon about mutant combat frogs decided Black people were too unbelievable. Thatās why they transmogrify Bebop in the second episode. Speaking of transmogrifying, tabletop gaming publishers / professional ink maniacs Palladium Press recently reprinted their beloved Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles roleplaying game in a special 2025 Redux Edition, and I bought it, because I am your champion:

Palladium acquired the rights to produce a TMNT roleplaying game in the mid-1980s, which is to say their game is firmly based on the Turtlesā edgier origin comics, and definitely NOT that lame cartoon that everyone loves and has made millions of dollars for forty years. The book constantly reminds you of this fact as you flip through its feverish prose, which is written as a single unbroken thought with occasional section headings, like it was laid out by John Doe the day he signed the lease for the Sloth apartment.

The layout has been tidied up for 2025, which is a phrase here meaning āthey put digital makeup on a run-on sentence.ā

Palladium is owned and operated by recurring 1-900-HOTDOG character Kevin Siembieda, who is also responsible for the RIFTS gaming system and its dozens of sourcebooks. He remains one of the most compelling pieces of physical evidence that Faustian bargains are both real and affordable. Heās so prolific it borders on harassment. Despite the massive success of TMNT as a property, Kevin Siembieda decided not to renew the game license, mostly out of spite for the cartoon. So, Palladiumās TMNT roleplaying books drifted out of print in the 1990s, and remained dormant ever since, floating endlessly in Mediocre Purgatory like a TV Guide stuck in the negative zone from Poltergeist 2. Improbably, Palladium Press reacquired the TMNT license from Nickelodeon in the year of his infernal dominion 2025 (see āMephistophe-lease,ā above), and re-released them with updated rules and artwork for the 21st century. And beyond! Thereās a whole book of rules about time travel, and I wonāt lie, it looks sick as shit.

I donāt have a joke, some things are just fucking rad.
The layout has been updated as well, to clean up some of the resolution lost to the grape juice stains on the Palladium copy machine. The whole 2025 Redux Edition package is extremely readable, which is a good quality for books to have. But Kevin Siembieda canāt hide from us, or indeed from himself, so he stuffed this special edition with thousands of words of ābonus materialā from his personal grievance diaries. He begins by stamping 100% of his crazy on the very first page:

Weāre greeted with an extended disclaimer about WITCHCRAFT and ILLEGAL DRUG USE, followed by a drawing of ritualistic animal abuse that looks like a haunted woodcut youād find in a specially marked box of Ninja Turtles cereal. This is a frenzied illustration of anthropomorphic creatures about to wishbone a terrified rodent for their cannibal orgy. Itās a pregnant Sonic meme drawn in blood and semen. It looks like Ring Cam footage from the Island of Dr. Moreau. Itās an illustration by TMNT co-creator Kevin Eastman from the bookās 1985 printing, and thereās no way he wasnāt rock hard while drawing it. But in 1985 they stuck it waaaay in the back of the book, long past where bored parents wouldāve stopped flipping. In the 2025 Redux Edition itās been moved to the first page and colorized, like Ted Turner revisiting his favorite cursed pornography. This is the image Kevin Siembieda selected to convince parents he isnāt a magical pervert. Let me say that again with more words – this remastered 2025 sourcebook reprinted the same 40-year-old disclaimer Palladium used in 1985 to assure parents and the CIA alike that they donāt endorse dark magic. Or heroin! Because theyāre nerds. The book also contains dozens of eulogies for the gameās original author and designer Erick Wujcik – some of which begin on the very next page – which drives home how much time has passed since this bookās last printing, and how much older we all are. So do all the rules about ninjas.

Grief is complicated, and like grief, some of these tributes are heartfelt and sweet, while others are a little strange and self-serving. For example, Wujcikās birth and death year are included after each of his reprinted dedications, like a bunch of headstones scattered throughout the book.

Itās archaic formatting for a quote, but not formatting that has ever been used for an authorās dedication page. Itās like adding Steve Irwinās death date to every copy of The Crocodile Hunter: Collision Course. Itās a bizarre tone to strike for your game of mutant ninja animals. I donāt want to stomp the Foot Clan any more, I want to go take photographs with my family. Well, both, ideally. Speaking of editorial choices, Kevin Siembiedaās original rants remain preserved in time, like insects frozen in amber, incubating the DNA of his crazy until it could be revived by 21st century science. His dedication for the Turtles Go Hollywood! adventure sourcebook is a 50-word manifesto about the scourge of illegal drugs, because Kevinās three greatest loves are ninjas, robots, and Death Wish 3.

Siembieda spends pages of boldly-titled ābonus materialā taking partial credit for creating the Ninja Turtles. He repeatedly congratulates himself for being the first person to license TMNT, like the guy who took the first picture of the Beatles. He credits one wifeās help and support in the gameās creation, then dedicates the book to a different (deceased) wife. He cannot be stopped. They did increase the suggested reader age from 12 to 14, so thatās one compromise Kevin Siembieda was willing to make. No he wasnāt, what am I saying? He 100% views it as a bold declaration his Turtle game isnāt for babies, or the baby-of-heart. Also, this book tells me to play Randy Newman to get players in the mood. Thatās the literary equivalent of backmasking. I might have to destroy it.

Erick Wujcikās fingerprints are still here too, from his clearly personal grudge with $50 katanas to his irritation over the existence of so many goddamn fucking birds.


The 1985 version was rigid, like Kevin-Eastman-drawing-a-blood-orgy rigid, and scolded the reader with several thrilling examples of ābad roleplayingā that seemed drawn from the authorās own life. It was like playing Ninja Turtles with Young Sheldon – one way or another, youāre going home early from the sleepover. Most of Wujcikās prickliness has been cleaned up for the 2025 Redux Edition in the interest of being welcoming to new players. But they definitely didnāt purge all of it.


āā¦*sigh*ā¦yeah Mom, can you come pick me up? Erickās doing it again.ā
Despite the obvious lunacy of its publisher, TMNT remains a beloved game thanks to its absurd character-creation system, and because the rules are dirt simple and perfectly designed to be played during lunch period. You can condescend to me all you want, as long as I get to be Donatello. To take this Redux Edition on a test drive, Iām going to create my own team of mutant ninja heroes and play through one of the bookās introductory adventures, Terror on Rural Route 5.
Apart from some character stats, this adventure is entirely unchanged from 1985, which is why it has you thwarting a school shooting perpetrated by the cast of Animal Farm. In the interest of my deadline, which I have already shattered like Chuck Yeager fearlessly helicoptering his dong at the sound barrier, Iāll have to play the whole thing myself rather than assemble a group of improv comedians and charming guest stars for a podcast miniseries, which is the way people normally play roleplaying games. Youāll have to trust me to run the game as impartially as possible, although I will occasionally bend the rules to save my characters from themselves. Iāll include that stuff in the Bonus Material, along with selections from my personal grievance diary. Now, I spent half of my single-digits inventing teams of mutants inspired by the heroes in a halfshell. I hardly need a bookās help. But today we are going to let Teenage Mutant Ninja Jesus take the wheel and use the 2025 Redux Edition sourcebook to randomly generate our animal heroes. Time to crack this big bastard open like Shredder splittinā some turtle backs for his soup. Uh, that kind of sounds like heās fucking them. Lemme try again – letās crack this big bastard open like Shredder impregnating Sonic the Hedgehog.

Image unrelated.
We start by rolling 3 six-sided dice to determine our attribute scores in 8 categories, because this game is already too friggin busy.

One of the attributes is PP, which rocks, but why arenāt any of these figures grading our tubularity? Not sure how that got missed when the rules were updated. Speaking of which, while the rules have indeed been polished, grammatical errors await you like a Foot Clan ambush on every page, and the casual racism remains untouched. For instance, there are constant references to the āmysticismā of the āFar East.ā Luckily Palladium Press released a sourcebook called Mystic China that is STILL IN PRINT, so we can bone up on all that stuff later. Next we roll to see what kind of animal we are, and as Erick Wujcik (1951-2008) once wrote, there are indeed too many fucking birds.

This is the most fun part of the game – trying to reverse engineer a ninja hero out of whatever bullshit animal you happen to roll. Sure, thereās cool stuff on there like sharks and horses, but youāre only ever going to roll some variation of a bird or rodent, because Erick Wujcik included dozens of them, and the table still has repeats. We got Otter, so thatās something. We get to pick which kind of Otter, so Iām going with River Otter, because you get more points to spend on your mutation, which is where you buy hands. And trust me – weāre gonna want hands. Next we figure out our heroesā origin – they were accidentally mutated by a chance encounter with the ooze, and were raised by a sensei, just like the Turtles. Youāve got a pretty solid chance of being just like the Turtles, because there are only three possible background options, and we have twenty-eight minutes until the bell rings. OK, now itās time to mutate our animal:

As you can see in the above example, if you were a dog mutant you could elect to have no human features whatsoever, or spend points to make yourself look vaguely like Jeff Fahey. Itās also how you grow or shrink your animal and give them the ability to thrash (ride skateboards and subscribe to Thrasher magazine). The rules are careful to mention that real-life mutations typically donāt give you special abilities, because Kevin Siembieda isnāt getting sued when some dumb kid drinks paint thinner and crocodile shit to try and grow scales.

Using his guidance, Iāve created the Secret Violent River Otters. They were raised by a weebed-out goof who also taught them ninjitsu and some light pickpocketing. I dunno, Iāll make him up later. Let me introduce you to the team:

Karate, the just and brainy leader. His mastery of the flail knows no equal;

BMX, the burly hothead. His twin katana will slice through any foe;

and Space Shuttle, the psionic warrior and wielder of the deadly kusarigama.
This game is big on psychic powers, for some reason. If you thought TMNT was about whirling nunchaku and cowings bunga, go home to your frigginā baby cartoon. THESE mutants need to shut peopleās brains off with their minds. My heroes are river otters, so theyāre natural swimmers, and can see in the dark. Except for Space Shuttle, he traded his night vision for Bio-Manipulating Paralysis after demonstrating his suitability for the MK ULTRA program. I was going to make a fourth brother called Nintendo but I ran out of time. Heās with them in spirit.

Our critters are hanging out in their skate dojo when they spy a news broadcast delivering them all the information we are going to receive for this adventure, which means we have to invent a skate dojo. Time for our imaginations to soar! What are the essentials of a rad sewer lair? Letās make a list:
⦿ A Television (this is particularly important for this adventure)
⦿ Sick half pipes
⦿ Microwaveable italian food
⦿ Turds (human, rat)
⦿ Attitude
Where can we find all of these things in abundance? Thatās right! The old abandoned Action Playset on the edge of town!

The Otters are shredding pipe with their reclaimed mobility devices when they hear an urgent news bulletin. A group of terrorists has taken over an elementary school and are holding 100 kids hostage. No demands have been made public, but local, state, and Federal law enforcement officials are on the scene. More details will follow at 5, because this adventure was written before 24-hour news networks existed.

Those kids need us, but we canāt just rush out to the school and ask the police for the skinny, weāre four-foot otters. And BMX hates cops. How can we find out more about whatās going on? In this game, your characters have a handful of skills you select based on your background, and beyond that, everything is based on a percentage roll. No matter what batshit thing you think of, you just roll and check the corresponding skill on your character sheet. Donāt you DARE look anything up. Combat barely requires you to check an enemyās stats, except to see whether theyāre still alive. This can make the game get irrevocably chaotic in short order, but it also keeps everything moving, which is great because we only have about ten more minutes until lunch ends. Letās hear some suggestions, my River Otters!

I could use my electronics and radio knowledge to build a police scanner out of scrap so we can listen in on their frequency!

*grinds teeth*

We should hang ten right through the front door and get our slice on! When the blood settles, weāll be heroes! Slice, Slice, A New York Slice!

Slice, Slice, A New York Slice!
Letās go with Karateās plan. I feel like BMXās suggestion, while bold, will doom our adventure to infamy. Karate is able to build a scanner pretty quickly out of all the junk here in the Action Playset, and we parkour down to the school to use it. Itās a single school building on a rural highway, with a police perimeter set up near the road. We have to sneak pretty close to use our homemade junk box, but weāre fugginā NINJA OTTERS so we did it. We just barely succeeded our Prowl check by the way, personally I blame BMX. Heās a bit too bulky for ninja work. Listening in on police chatter, we learn that the school has been taken over by a group of half-human, half-animal mutants led by āthe Liberator.ā The Liberator has made demands to the governor, but we donāt know what they are. Letās assume a helicopter will be involved; this is 1985, after all. The Liberator wants to give a press conference at 6pm, so the news media is gathering in preparation. Guns have been seen inside the building. The power and phone lines are still intact, and rations are going to be delivered to the front door shortly. Probably some baby food sandwiches, or whatever kids eat. What should we do, my Otters?

I see a number of possibilities, sensei. We can sneak in with the food delivery. We can wait for the press conference and use Space Shuttleās power to paralyze the Liberator, although the Liberatorās goons probably have instructions to harm the children if anything funny happens. We can sneak in during the press conference, while everyone is distracted. We can impersonate the police over the police scanner to try and trick the Liberator. Or, we can find another way inside the school.

Letās gut these barfbags!

Far out! *eye twitches*
Great input, team! We have some time until the press conference, so letās do some Ninja Reconnaissance. BMX and Space Shuttle sneak closer to the school, where BMX uses his Advanced Smell to detect what kinds of animal mutants weāre dealing with. He sighs heavily but picks up the scent of a bull, a dog, and several pigs. Space Shuttle uses his Tracking ability to spot multiple footprints leading off to a run-down farm about a mile distant. Karate tries using the radio to listen in on the Liberator, but is having trouble finding a frequency. BMX and Space Shuttle find a basement window while Karate keeps fussing with his smelly radio. I guess he wants to prove to BMX it wasnāt a waste of time.

I worked very hard on it, sensei, it was a nonviolent solution and you taught us to respect lifeā¦
Karateās big dumb egghead face finally gets the radio working but canāt find the Liberator on any channel. The basement window is unlocked and hanging open, but Space Shuttle canāt make anything out inside. Dropping all that government acid has affected his vision.

*massages brain in anticipation of unleashing psionic abilities*
Karate stealthily joins the others by the school, sneaking easily by the police. Weāve learned the Liberator and their group came from a nearby farm, and that we can sneak into the school through the basement. Itās 5pm, the food is arriving right now and we are one hour from the press conference.


We can ambush whoever gets the food. We can sneak in through the basement. We can check out that farm. Or we can wait for the press conference to start and either sneak inside or paralyze the LIberator with Space Shuttleās hideous thoughts.

Letās pop their skulls open like a buncha Mountain Dewskies!

Wicked! *urinates*
Excellent suggestions, my otters! Letās go check out the farm. Those kids can chill out for a minute, I trust the terrorists. We sprint the mile distance to the farm in 7.5 minutes exactly, because Erick Wujcik gave me all the tools I needed to calculate that. We find a small farm with a farmhouse, a barn, and a pig shack, and a foreclosure sign in the yard. Two mutant pigs are drag-racing tractors. Theyāre dressed like theyāre about to get blown up by Rambo. They have not noticed us and are unlikely to, because tractor races are loud and totally bitchinā.

Iāll sneak to the farmhouse and listen in!
Karate sneaks to the farmhouse and listens in. He detects 3 different voices arguing about āthe planā and whether āFerdā really is going to get them all a new home. It sounds like theyāre watching the news broadcast about the ongoing hostage situation at the school. We also hear a commercial for New Coke. Space Shuttle sneaks over to the window with Karate but canāt quite see inside.

You should consider LASEK, brother.

Can you see any burritos? *nose bleeds*
Karate and BMX sneak inside the farmhouse window but Space Shuttleās big ass cracks the glass and he gets spotted! Space Shuttle uses his Impersonation skill (heās a magnificent actor, he performed Henry V for my birthday) to bluff and say heās part of the revolution, but he gets lost in the specifics and the pigs donāt buy it.

*whispering* Iāll save you, Space Shuttle!
Karate sneak attacks the pigs. Itās really easy to do, you just have to roll a 5 or higher on a 20-sided die. Kevin Siembieda and Erick Wujcik donāt waste time worrying about hitting or missing when the only thing that matters is HOW MUCH DAMAGE YOU DO. We enter our first combat! Two of the pigs carry Uzis (itās 1985, thatās the law) and the third has a flamethrower.

Wh-

Space Shuttle uses his PSIONIC POWERS to paralyze another Pig, and the last one just gives up before BMX kills him.

Go Stream Machine! (Theyāre river otters.)
OK, as rad as that was, weāve hit my first major problem with the rules – theyāre extremely unclear on how to knock someone out. You either have to kill everyone you fight or pummel them into a coma. Combat assumes youāre applying lethal force in every fight, because weāre throttling the Shredder on notebook paper as fast as we can while the teacher goes on about chlorophyll or something. To Kevin Siembieda, ānuanceā is a word formed only by the lips of the fearful. You can try to Pull Your Punch, which lets you reduce the damage by quarters, down to a single point or no damage at all, but that only stops you from killing someone instantly. Itās also more difficult to do – you have to roll an 11 instead of a 5, because killing is second nature to a ninja. They put accidental Dim Maks on lightswitches and doughboys EVERY DAY. Consequently a lot of this game is beating your adversaries into savage comas and then immediately administering first aid, if you selected First Aid as a skill. If you didnāt, they just lie there and bleed to death. Or succumb to brain damage! If you decide to use the optional Serious Injury tables. Weāll just have to rescue these kids without knocking anyone out.

BMX interrogates the last pig and learns there are 12 fellow swine at the farmhouse, 6 pigs at the school, plus a dog man named Buck and a bull man named Ferd, AKA the Liberator. Ferd promised to get them a new home after their owner, Farmer George, choked to death on obvious literary references and the bank showed up to foreclose on the house. Theyāre supposed to sit here and watch the news, then call Ferd at the school and use coded phrases over the telephone to give him any updates. BMX cuts the phone cord. Space Shuttle looks out the window and activates his mind powers to paralyze one of the two Racing Pigs, who crashes his tractor into the barn.

Ha ha ha ha!
The commotion attracts the rest of the pigs; seven (7) of them come out of the pig shack, lord knows what they were all doing in there but you can smell it from here. They gather at the barn, extremely puzzled. Racing Pig 1 is telling them he canāt move. The pigs donāt seem to know what to do, and theyāre all arguing with each other.

Space Shuttle stretches his improv legs again and convinces the pigs that we, as fellow mutant animals, are also part of the plan to help Ferd get a new farm.

But the cops are here! Everyone get inside the barn!

*ignites nozzle* Yeah, and lock the door.
We convince the pigs to barricade themselves inside the barn. Then BMX sets the barn on fire. Remember, he hates pigs.

Ha ha yeah! Yeah! Thatās what I call a Hot Slice!

Slice, Slice, A New York Slice!


Radical!
We make haste back to the school in time for the 6pm press conference. Reporters are gathering at the front door. What shall we do?

Thank you for asking me first, sensei. BMX and I will climb inside the basement. Space Shuttle will keep watch for the news conference to start, and use his Psionic Abilites⢠on whomever comes out, which will likely be Ferd.

I donāt kick anything in this plan.

Michael Dukakis!
Letās do it, gang! The news conference starts a few minutes late, Ferd pokes his head out at 6:18 with six schoolchildren. Space Shuttle fires his paralyzing brain lasers but Ferd resists; he makes an extreme look like he shit in several pairs of pants, but doesnāt otherwise react. He continues with his press conference undaunted, and says heās going to start killing kids in the morning unless his demands are met. He wants two helicopters. Six million dollars. And transport to a remote northern location, maybe Canada. I guess heās going to ask the helicopter pilots for their opinion. Space Shuttle joins the others in the basement, relaying the shame of his failure.

Sorry bros, I couldnāt slice his brain. *ear burps*

(supportive) Slice, Slice, A New York Slice!
Thereās a furnace and a door at the top of the stairs. Karate listens at the door and hears nothing. Space Shuttle picks the lock, he saw how to do it on MacGuyver. We open the door a crack and scan the hall. BMX sniffs for danger, but he canāt smell anything over the flamethrower fuel. Space Shuttle straight up canāt see anything.

The cost of your powers is great, brother.


I saw a patrol of 3 figures walking by the windows earlier. We can wait here to ambush them, or we can go look for them. We can search for the kids and see if we can free them quietly. Or, we can try to find Ferd.

Whatever we decide, I would like to use the flamethrower again.

Huey Lewis!
Letās wait here to ambush the patrol. The patrol shows up. Itās Buck the dog-man and two pigs. Space Shuttle paralyzes Buck. The 2 pigs instantly drop their guns and run. I donāt blame them, thatās some freaky shit. Buck calls after them, āCome back! I meant to do that! Iām doing this on purpose to confuse our oppressors!ā BMX hops out into the hallway and rolls a natural 20 to set the fleeing pigs on fire with his new flamethrower. Karate jump kicks them. Space Shuttle tries to jump kick them too but he misses. We seriously need to get him some glasses. Buck, still paralyzed by Space Shuttleās mind shackles, shouts, āDonāt spill the beans, my hoggy brothers!ā BMX stabs one of the pigs so hard they die instantly, so I guess that means they exploded. Bacon bits, if you will. BMX knocks the other pig out with a punch. Heās so cool.

*smokes*
We interrogate Buck and he spills the beans easy because of everything he just witnessed. The kids are in the gym, guarded by 3 pigs. Ferd is in the office with 1 pig and 4 other kids. I guess those are the problem kids. We disarm Buck, tie him up with Space Shuttleās old Vuarnet sweatshirt, and stuff him in the basement. We teach him a song before we leave, so he doesnāt get bored. BMX gags him with a chunk of pig, so he doesnāt get lonely. BMX easily guides us to the office by picking up Ferdās scent with his advanced smell. Itās a very nice office but it doesnāt have a window, so we canāt see inside. We listen at the door and hear a voice ranting about destroying the system. It could be a meeting of the debate club, but it is probably Ferd. We check to see if we can climb into the ceiling, but it isnāt a drop ceiling, which are those cool crawlspace ceilings that aliens and John McClane use for travel.

Space Shuttle wishes to atone for his cursed eyes with more of his Groundlings teachings. He impersonates one of the pigs and says, āHey boss! Buck needs ya, he says Aerosmith is here! Theyāre pulling up out front!ā Ferd says, āOoh our luck is finally changing! Our message is being heard!ā He comes out into the hall, RIGHT INTO OUR NINJA AMBUSH.

One stuffed crust, COMING UP!

Slice, Slice, A New York Slice!
We beat Ferd into a coma while Melissa the pig barricades the office door and starts shooting through it with a submachine gun, demanding to know what Aerosmith is doing to the boss. BMX chops the door down and we stomp Melissa into the earth. Karate and Space Shuttle stabilize Ferd and Melissa respectively, because I had them both enroll in the same CPR course at the YMCA. BMX tells the kids in the office to āscrape up your sweaties and book it, dudes!ā

Itās how us kids talk, Gramps!
We direct the kids to sneak out of the basement window, and to ignore the dog man with the ragged pig arm in his mouth. We have no time to teach them the song. We make our way to the gym and peek through the door. There are three pigs in there – Hank, Roy, and Angie – standing guard over a hundred kids gathered around them on the gym floor. It must be the whole school. Except for those four turds in the office. Space Shuttle paralyzes Angie with his government brain. The other two pigs, Hank and Roy, tell the kids to stop crying, sheās breakdancing.

The liars! Let me burn āem, Karate!

No, Beams! Youāll burn the children!

*weeps*
Space Shuttle tries to impersonate Ferd and trick them, but he doesnāt get the voice right. I guess he didnāt hear Ferd speak enough. The pigs say, āNice try coppers! This is on you!ā As punishment, they loudly tell the children that Santa Claus isnāt real.

(grim) Well aināt that a real slice oā pie.

(determined) Slice, Slice, A New York Slice!
Hank the Pig throws a grenade that blows up the gym door and seriously injures Karate, like Kyle Reese at the end of The Terminator, the hit film from last summer. Karate is bleeding out, because there are rules for that, and not for knocking anyone out.

(enraged) WHEREāS THE BEEF?
Space Shuttle leaps over the sitting kids and instantly kills Hank and Roy with a flying critical strike from his KUSARIGAMA. Karate stabilizes himself. Heās so brave.
*cough*…papaā¦papa, tell me you liked my radioā¦
We have done it, my Otters! These children will never forget the heroism they witnessed here today. The city will worship us as sub-dieties, and feed us its cash. Letās return to the Action Playset and see if Karate survives the night!

*Play āI Love L.A.ā by Randy Newman (Trouble in Paradise album).

Tom Reimann is the co-founder of the podcast and streaming network Gamefully Unemployed, where he is busy designing the TIMECOP tabletop roleplaying experience. Check out their new show BADICAL, about the raddest fighting game (n)ever made.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Rhia, who keeps pouring radioactive waste on all of their pets but just keeps ending up with huge vet bills.


I need backup to make it to 2027. But my powers are too strong for flatscans, and other mages keep trying to sell me rocks. So I’m calling a lifeline: God.
Or rather, his secretaries.

Doreen Virtue helps you to talk to angels. Not pray, which every Christian does for free, intuitively, without middlemen. Doreen starts conversations, and they only cost $16.99.
That might not sound like my jam, given past oaths to give God the Job treatment. Forget that. Someone else said it. God’s always been my homeboy, from the plagues to the endless warfare. Angel Therapy can only make us closer.
Check out Doreen’s team:

Only archangels get name checks? If I was the fifth strongest angel, I’d be…oh. That’s how that went down, got it. See how much Doreen has to teach?
Anyway, even if you insist on untwisting my words, God and I are still buds. I said I want to talk. Like Kratos, I treasure dialogue. This isn’t a trap. The black Suburban down the street is full of masked pilgrims.
Besides, we go way back.

My photos look worse.
As for profits, Doreen’s saving you money. An hour of her time costs more than the couch you complain on. The therapy in the title isn’t abstract: Doreen has a normal masterās and unaccredited PhD in psychology, and purportedly practiced. She just prefers Jesus now.
But don’t take my word for it, or Doreen’s. Listen to the angels:

Stay calm. Alien forces drawn to fear can be nice. And grabbing weapons mid-introduction is always rude.

Thatās inspired jacket copy. I’ll admit: this terrified me the first ten times I read it. After changing my locks and renting a Roman spear, I’m willing to give it a shot. Therapy demands trust. I’d die before trusting Biblically accurate angels, but the cover’s all Baroque cherubs.
I know it’s odd that we’re still on the cover, given my love of brevity. But Doreen’s power is even less bound by sanity than unsaved wizards. Note her co-author:

Inspiring. I didn’t have questions, but Doreen explains trading useless therapy for helping patients hear angels. As a child, she embraced healthy speculative friendships with the Seraphim. Then she grew into an empty, angel-less doctor and mother:

Tragic, really. Until she almost died. A long-jilted angel sends Doreen a warning, despite decades on read:

Sadly, therapy makes Doreen ignore the voice. Only a near-miss with a carjacker unlocks Doreen’s halo chakra:

The point: Doreen started hearing voices after trauma. Now those symptoms can be ours. Instead of hoarding God’s voice notes like a Pope, Doreen brought them directly to the people. Whether they thought they were in for angels or not.

I’ve tried therapy, for reasons that escape me, and beat it pretty quickly. If my counselor had started rambling about angels, I’d never have left. I’d be ten years into My Therapist’s Angels, every loud apostateās favorite podcast. Material that pure transcends simple luck. It’s a gift from The Lord.
While Doreen’s angels returned around the age mental illness starts working overtime, Iām closer to an angel-whisperer than a therapist. I will note that “Doreen Virtue” makes “Silver Ravenwood” sound subtle. āMary Heavengoerā must be in the House somewhere.

Channeling returns! With a new flavor: whereas Fox Taylor defined it as making shit up, Doreen means an angel told her. And while Fox was a delusional apostate, Doreen has 366k followers. Hopefully that clears everything up.
Though I prefer miracles that I don’t have to outline, draft, edit, submit, revise, and promote myself. Perhaps that’s why the angels haven’t chosen me. Yet.

Touche, Gabriel. Forget everything after “draft.”

How’s Doreen know these weren’t demons? If I were a demon (I’m not, I tried), Plans A through Y would be “imitate angel.” And you can’t always trust your human senses. Despite Doreen’s holy knowledge, my mortal body won’t stop laughing. It thinks Doreen sounds bugshit. Nuttier than a therapist telling patients first draft poems by Michael. No, wait: nuttier than the author of an unedited Christian spellbook. No, wait: nuttier than the co-author to over seven books with “The Angelic Realm.”
Then again, Demons would try to distract us with sexual tension.

Hmm. One second.

While I suspect Doreen prays with multiple windows playing, there’s potential here. For one, “Want to channel Abdiel, Defier of The Deceiver?” is already my new opening line. I’m a half-employed non-nazi, so it should land.
We’ll exploit Doreen’s untreated prophecies. Anything less would be malpractice. God might have trouble with his own children and career, but I’m sure he’s qualified to advise. Or even try helping.

Ready for cosmic behavioral therapy? Unlike heathen spells, angel therapy gets dictated to clerics. The Angelic Realmās a bit more controlling than Hecate, and could give two shits about your candle collection. You can take their advice, or fuck off.
Still, what the Healing Messages lack in flexibility, they make up for in variety. Sessions start small, with fixing addiction.

Angels write like my students on the football team. While the Lions bring fewer wins home, they take D1 blows to the head. Mostly from the NYPD.

“Your God-substitute of addiction” is my favorite new phrase. The host skips stock lines about bootstraps: they get in the way of gentle shame.
Strong start. If this takes, the average fentanyl addict is two Hail Marys away from walking it off. More of them should get on that. Angelmancy might rule: it replaces all that hippie hand-wringing with insults.

Quite near.
The collective “we” stands out. It inspires raw terror rich in biblical authenticity. Opening night jitters are the last thing on my mind. The angels in my walls/windows/wallpaper/blood demand attention. We’ll need therapy for this therapy.

Forgiving readers might see a call for general confidence, or a broad sense that God is with you. No. Literal angels are on your shoulder at call time, and they’re ready to feed you lines. By mortal therapy standards, Doreen is out to Lent. Cuckoo for Creation Puffs. Insane in the refrain.
Iād pay extra for it.

Again, wonderful word choice. If any human said this, I’d never leave home again. Maybe Doreen’s really tapped a swarm intelligence with demands for lesser life. Yudowsky can finally, happily, shut the fuck up.

You heard heaven, sadsacks. Turn those dopamine receptors upside-down.

Are you cured yet? I’m new to light magick, so it may take time to kick in. I’ll try again tomorrow, in case fixing you needs a little extra chanting. Don’t worry, it’s on the house.

Now thatās dedication! I didnāt ask for it, and I truly donāt want it. But The Angelic Realm really puts in impressive hours.
Does Uriel watch?

Yeah, Uriel watches. His spiritās rigid. Maybe weāre losing track of therapy here.

No help, got it. Spend our empty afternoons in the pews. The Angelic Realm saves job leads for friends and relatives. Instead of wailing about it, we should try grace.

I was wrong, that’s an immense overpromise. Is God love bombing us? Waiting for angels to sort out your next job is like waiting for angels to sort out your next insulin shot.

Handy, I’ll need some cantrips to defend my fort when the economy turns.

āThe riotās fine. Go away, Uncle Michaelās sneaking in a nap before the rapture.ā
The angels botched this one. Half the clerics casting Crime want relief for a stabbing that’s unfolding or finished. The mugging is fait accompli, and DorāThe Angelic Host says the situationās in hand. I’m glad Gabriel reached Doreen in time to say “lock your fucking doors,” but the news ticker crawls on.

Ah, so it’s mortalsā fault for thinking about stabbing. Heard. Nice of the angelic host to admit it, instead of oscillating between Godās unnamed plan and the price of free will. The law of attraction simply applies to bullets, like Magneto in reverse.

What kind of therapy is this? The Borg prose is one thing, but the base advice sucks. Does the angelic host have a certificate? Internship experience? Have they watched a therapist on mortal tv? “Stop thinking about that” is somewhere between leeches and a cheese-based food pyramid.

The heavenly host sounds like Delta. I’m writing from a city I don’t live, work, or play in, waiting for a new transfer and/or death. The angels’ position seems to unify people that have, in fact, wasted vast amounts of your time.

Fucking what? How can cosmic beings contain so much earthly nothing? How can mortal eyes read divine sloth? If angels can glass cities for kicks, they can get my train moving faster than tectonic drift. My job interview is real, while heaven remains an unconfirmed rumor from a known layabout.
At least Delta gave me a coupon when they dumped me in Alabama. For another Delta flight, to Doreen-knows-where. I think I like God better than Delta.

Never alone.
Jesus fucking Christ, Doreen. Wait, sorry. Upper fucking management, Angelic Realm. Do you want me to have two heart attacks? Or just spend my whole life in constant fear of MOTHERFUCKER. I should have known. The church loves sprinkling shame on fun derangements. Why would wytchcraft be different?

Time to snitch: the preface isn’t Doreen’s whole backstory. Instead of print Doreen’s half-truths, have web Doreen’s compulsive truths:

Doreenās a reformed wytch, aside from all the magick. After years as a fun New Age hack, she graduated to born-again influencer in 2017. Unlocking new, tax-exempt income streams. Before studying The Craft, Iād compare some tendencies of congregations and circles here. Now, I know that my inbox attracts the energy I put out. Whether or not piss-jar curses work, the pictures ruin your day. And Christians shoot you.
Iām less interested in Doreen finding Jesus, and more transfixed by Doreen sprinting away from manifesting. She fled the coven like it was on fire. Likely one she set.

Like many late converts, Doreen has admirable zeal for purging herself. Becoming a daycaster. An Ur-wytch. A Log Tower Archmage. The greatest conversion oracle alive.

And sheās still doing the same shit. Take her advice on cranking up the voices in your head:

I could hear Doreen from space.
This means everything to me. I’ve written a bit about self-help, glanced at magick, and considered writing about Christians. Doreen Virtue’s a Jesus Wytch that disavows the word wytch. No one’s hated the word more without taking up bonfires.
I’ve found The One. My true mentor. The UnWytch.

Doreen would, of course, disagree. Instead of arguing in good faith, I’ll skim her crash-course on summoning angels yourself. E.g., melting votive candles and incense together.

Weāre back to Doreen writing as Doreen, by the way. While Doreenās a fundamentalist of The Angelic Realm, The Angelic Realm are fundamentalists of the empty inbox. We play around with art school games, and they show up if they feel like it.
Hereās Doreenās first, non-magickal technique:

Familiar. Though wytches didnāt invent stenography or bullshitting, so weāll give this a pass.

Two thousand percent wytch. Doreen couldn’t cast harder beneath a boulder.
And I appreciate the warning to never sleep unarmed again. I’m napping with all of Bayonettaās guns from now on, including the heels.

My worst fucking subject. And thus, the heart of the enterprise. Doreenās preaching from a floating broomstick, asking why the pews smell like sage. I hope she never learns.
Continuing is bullying. Good, since I dig bullying.

Beyond wytches in denial, oracle cards are great for keeping publishers alive after the board game boom. Every noun is a prompt for 70 cards that mean nothing and cost more than Doreenās old medication.

Hmm. I seem to live in Ohio.
Doreenās overlap with Fox Taylor could fill a book. And earn me a cherub-shaped nail bomb. My pendulum says to go for it anyway, but my hands drift towards comic self-harm.

One point Doreenāthis oneās just prayer. Only worse, since the suggestion box is rigidly, firmly closed. Youāll take whatever Gabriel has in clearance, and thank him for it.

Wytches do this one a little less. Obvious, violent, public insanity can treat them poorly. āMore weightā may be out of fashion, but the American Psychological Association will shred your certification in front of you.
Still, a medium will do this for three bucks in most public parks. If youāre as worried about angelic stalkers as I am, Iād delegate. I donāt want anyone stalking me but every company and government on Earth.
My powers have leaped forward, along with my mental health. All they needed to grow was a violently self-hating tutor. In time, the gospel paparazzi will catch Doreen at a Vegas tarot party, making the star charts and piss bombs of her people. Until then, we study at her feet.


This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Good Satan and His Hot Witches, who you can totally trust as they whisper affirmations and commands into your ears. Burning this Burger King down really would help you get a job! It’s called being proactive.