"It's not that we advocated violence. We weren't (most of us anyway), anti-government bunker-dwelling militia types, deluding ourselves that paintball was some way to train for the inevitable fascist takeover. Off the field you wouldn't know us to look at us, except for the odd bruise now and again behind the ear, or a bloody welt on a forearm... we went about our lives the same as anyone else and if anything, we were calmer and cooler about it, all that aggression burned off in a few epic moments every weekend. Those moments made it. The ones where your brain figured out what was happening in a millisecond. Could see the lanes, the moving parts, and literally feel Time ticking by... so slowly.... and then the body was moving, feinting, racing... and if your body moved well and your gun didn't jam and Lady Luck smiled on you just enough... then you'd have those few seconds for the rest of your life... you'd watch them in slow motion on the back of your eyelids when you fell asleep, or tell them again in grandiose fashion over a campfire and a beer, or hold them quietly to yourself... but you'd always see the pieces... like pawns and bishops... and the paintballs like angry darts, all crawling at a snail's pace through the endless wavering Timescape. No... no paintball was not about violence or pain or fear. It was about moments, hanging perfect and pure like a raindrop on a blade of grass after a storm. And for those who didn't understand... well, they could laugh at us and walk away....
or they could pay the registration... and take the ride." ~Fear & Loathing in the 518.
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