A Game Boy in the Cross Hairs

John Romero helped create the hard-core computer games Doom and Quake, and became a hero to 'first-person shooter' players everywhere. But after Littleton, he and his world are taking a hit. By PAUL KEEGAN  Photographs by WYATT MCSPADDEN

iro's on a rampage. He's a vaguely Asian crusader with giant muscles bursting through an armored torso, but since you're watching the world through his eyes, all you see is his Ion Blaster gun and dungeon floors and walls hurtling by so fast your stomach somersaults into your throat. Whoa, look out! It's Superfly Johnson -- Hiro's gargantuan bald and black nemesis -- streaking by, blasting away with his Sidewinder gun. Hiro leaps to avoid the rocket-powered missiles, then pivots and fires. Green laser beams ricochet off the fortress walls, exploding like fireworks. Superfly's fragged! Body parts drop from the sky like bloody rain, gibs splattering the walls -- and if you don't know that's short for giblets, slang for chunks of flesh, then you're a llama, a newbie loser, and shouldn't be hanging around Kyoto 2455 A.D. in the first place.

"Ha! Take that, dude!"

John Romero sits at his computer, chortling. A colleague curses from another room. It's early March, before anyone has ever heard of Littleton, Colo., and the co-creator of the computer games Doom and Quake is showing off his new gorefest, Daikatana. As Hiro, he has just fragged a co-worker playing Superfly Johnson in a "death match," a battle via linked computers. "That's cool, huh?" Romero says. "You can see how much more visceral this game is." Romero is 31, with long, silky black hair. He wears tight designer jeans and a black T-shirt, and has the slightly pudgy frame of someone who has spent a lifetime staring at computer screens while drinking Cokes and eating candy bars. Death match over, he gets up and walks through the spectacular, glass-encased penthouse office of his company, Ion Storm, glancing briefly at the panoramic view of downtown Dallas. Down in the garage, he climbs into his yellow 1991 Ferrari Testarossa, which looks like a rocket-powered capsule from a child's fantasy. "It's got a turbocharged engine," he yells over the roar, vaulting into traffic.

Does John Romero rule or what? Already a legend in the bizarro world of computer game fanatics, he has lately seemed on the cusp of the mainstream stardom he clearly craves, having been celebrated as "the Quentin Tarantino of computer-game megaviolence" by GQ and given rock-star treatment by the technology press. It was Romero, along with a programming genius, John Carmack, who revolutionized the computer-games industry in the mid-90's with the seminal shoot-'em-ups Doom and Quake, two of the biggest sellers of all time. The pair made millions, bought several Ferraris each and turned Dallas into the blood-and-guts capital of their industry. Though they have since broken up in a spat over precisely what makes a computer game cool, to hard-core fans they are still gods -- "the Paul McCartney and John Lennon of our business," says a Dallas game developer who insists on being identified only as Levelord.

Paul Keegan is a journalist based in New York.

Then the nation was suddenly confronted with the image of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, both avid Doom fans, rampaging through the halls of Columbine High with an arsenal of deadly weapons and laughing at the gibs. For the mass-market audience that developers like Romero have always coveted, the connection was hard to miss.

Video and computer games had been criticized for violent content before, but what happened at Columbine High instantly gave the industry term for this relatively small game genre -- "first-person shooter" -- ominous new resonance. The same qualities that made Doom and Quake so adrenaline-pumping, so unlike any other form of violent media, now made them a primary target of outrage. These games plunge you into a three-dimensional world where you must kill to survive, whether your opponents are controlled by the computer or by real-life rivals.

If computer games are all about blurring the line between fantasy and reality, so is the business that produces them -- and no one exemplifies this better than John Romero. A controversial figure even in gaming circles, he has so dominated his world that he's inclined to treat his critics with all the respect that Hiro Miyamoto affords the huge, slimy maggots and robotic frogs with venomous tongues that cross his path.

Romero refuses to talk now about the events in Littleton, but when he sat fragging Superfly Johnson into bloody chunks, it seemed that nothing could threaten this world he'd created. With a severed head rolling one way and a rib-sprouting torso bouncing another, he was perfectly candid when asked if he was concerned about criticism of game violence.

"I'm the one who made this stuff -- why would I care about that?" he said, not looking up from the screen. "I make games I want to play. If I want to see more gibs, I make it. If people don't like it, they don't need to play the game."

o ride in Romero's passenger seat as he swerves in and out of traffic at warp speeds offers the same delirious, stomach-churning feeling you get from watching him play Daikatana. Romero is relishing his pumped-up status. "When I drive this car," he says, "people know who I am." He chafes at waiting for a table for half an hour at a crowded Dallas lunch spot. ("If they knew I was here, we wouldn't have to wait."). He imagines his reception in Japan, where he's never been but where his games are huge. "I'd probably get mobbed by Japanese chicks," he says.

The motion-capture studio at Ion Storm's office in downtown Dallas. Below left, a moment's carnage from the game "Final Doom."

Shortly after Romero split up with Carmack and left their company, Id Software, he scored a $25 million advance in 1996 from Eidos Interactive, a London-based game publisher. Romero immediately plunged $2 million into renovating the glass-bubble penthouse floor of the Texas Commerce Tower, one of the most prestigious office addresses in Dallas. Today, oilmen who worked their whole lives to get into the Petroleum Club on the 40th floor find themselves sharing the elevators with the 90's version of Texas wildcatters -- techie 20-somethings wearing nose rings and cutoff shorts.

Ion Storm is an astonishing place, like something out of a "Jetsons" cartoon -- with walkways suspended above a maze of stainless-steel cubicles, wall lighting embedded in marble sconces, glass cases filled with models of one-eyed monsters, the whole enterprise wrapped in clouds and sky. It bustles with 88 employees, including screenwriters and producers, developing three games at once and making plans to branch into movies, action figures, comic books and clothes. There are leather couches and giant projection screens, a locker room with showers, Ping-Pong and pool tables, a million-dollar recording studio for making game soundtracks and a special area for death-matching that's linked to 16 television sets in a nearby spectators' lounge. And, of course, all the junk food you can eat.

It's a dream clubhouse for game freaks, the kind Romero could have only imagined as a kid drawing violent cartoons of superheroes, hanging out in the video arcades and flunking his classes. While growing up in Tucson, Ariz., and Rocklin, Calif., Romero was pretty much left to whatever engaged his imagination -- until, Romero says, his angry stepfather, a retired military officer named John Schuneman, crept up behind him while he was playing an arcade game and smashed his face into the glass. One of Romero's recurring cartoon characters was Melvin, a crew-cut kid who was always getting blown away by his dad.

Then Schuneman noticed his stepson's fascination with computers and bought him an Apple II+. Romero became a brilliant programmer, with no interest in anything besides making games, and eventually made his stepfather proud. After high school, he bounced around several game companies before landing a job at Softdisk in Shreveport, La. There he hooked up with Carmack, a teen-age prodigy from Kansas City. In 1991, the two split off to found Id Software and moved to Dallas to form a partnership with Apogee Software, a company pioneering the use of the Internet for distribution, instead of merely relying on floppy disks sold in stores or through the mail. Their first game, Wolfenstein 3-D, is considered the original first-person shooter, letting players shoot Nazis in dungeons adorned with swastikas and pictures of Adolf Hitler. It was an instant smash, bringing in about $120,000 a month in sales.

The boys were astounded. They were getting rich playing games! But something wasn't quite right about Wolfenstein. "Everybody thought it was awesome," Romero recalls. "But when we started playing, it was like, 'We have to have more blood, more violence in there.' It seemed real, but we needed to show the guys dying.' "

Their next game, Doom, had a seismic impact on the computer-game industry when it was released in 1993, just as the Internet was coming of age. Id's marketing was brilliant. You could download the first stages or "levels" of Doom free. But once addicted, you couldn't get the whole game unless you forked over a credit card number. So many people tried to download Doom that it crashed the computer system at the University of Wisconsin, on which it was posted.

Doom spawned an entire generation of computer-gamers, from geeky kids making a beeline to their PC's after school to office workers flipping back to their spreadsheets whenever the boss walked by. Doom and Doom II have sold about 2.7 million copies in the United States, over the Internet or through retail stores (as most software is distributed). Though it's impossible to know for sure how many free copies of the opening levels were downloaded worldwide, some estimates range as high as 20 million.

As the first three-dimensional game playable over a computer network, Doom created a subculture of hard-core gamers. By intentionally leaving cracks in his source code, Carmack encouraged Doomers to hack the game and create their own elaborate levels -- new battlegrounds upon which the carnage took place. "Nobody had ever seen anything as cool as Doom," says Romero. "The music, the sound effects, how scary it was, the attitude, weapons balance, everything was perfect about that game."

But even as Doom and its successor, Quake, became wildly successful, a fundamental disagreement erupted between their creators about what made a computer game great. Was it Carmack's specialty, the programming advances that allowed for increasingly fast and realistic play? Or the cooler stories, weapons and monsters that Romero dreamed up? "You don't watch a movie because it's 35 millimeters or 70 millimeters," Romero says. "It's the idea of the movie." That was when Romero started to succumb to what Carmack calls the "rock-star stuff" -- maneuvering for fame instead of working hard (a charge Romero denies).

'I make games I want to play,' says Romero, brushing aside concerns about violence. 'If I want to see more gibs' -- virtual chunks of blood -- I make it. If people don't like it, they don't need to play the game.'

As nerves frayed, there wasn't much question about which one would have to go. Doom was a huge hit not because of its "plot" -- something about a marine stationed on a moon base that was so lame that even people at Id can't recall how it goes -- or even the scary creatures and artsy backdrops. The key was Carmack's magnificent software, the "engines" -- the underlying operating systems that take full advantage of increasing computer power and made him a programming cult figure. ("If hard-core gaming ever had a god," gushes the Web site Gamespot, "John Carmack is it.") Romero was handed his resignation and asked to sign it in 1996 -- though with characteristic bravado he says he planned to leave anyway to start his own shop.

n nearly every way imaginable, the shy, 28-year-old Carmack is the anti-Romero. Id Software's offices are hushed and contain only a bare-bones staff of 15 producing one game -- Quake III, due out this summer. The phone number is not listed, and even if you happened to stumble upon the black cube building on L.B.J. Highway in the suburb of Mesquite, there's no mention of the company in the lobby's directory. This is not an oversight. "I wish the world would pretty much leave me alone," says Carmack. While Romero has yet to earn a penny through Ion Storm, Id's revenues in 1997, the year Quake II came out, were $28 million, a staggering $2 million per employee. With only small overhead -- mostly salaries and computers -- fully 80 percent of that is profit.

In early March, after much persuasion, Carmack agreed to a rare interview to help promote Quake III. Down a carpeted U-shaped corridor, he sat programming quietly in his office, a windowless room that he shares with two of Id's top artists. He has a scruffy half-beard and a blond ponytail, and wears sneakers, jeans and untucked T-shirt. He programs for hours on end, seven days a week, and is a self-proclaimed "technology idealist" for his ultimate faith in machines. Carmack is asked whether he feels parents make his games a scapegoat for their violent kids. "Yeah," he replies, "push your responsibility on somebody else."

"Our intent is not to make realistic violence," chimes in Kevin Cloud, one of the Id founders who shares Carmack's office. "We're trying to make it exciting."

"Yeah," says Carmack. "It's just playing Cowboys and Indians like little kids do, except with visual effects."

"With gibs," laughs Cloud. "And demonic symbols on the wall."

Once upon a time, Carmack is reminded, kids playing Cowboys and Indians weren't able to blow their brothers' heads off.

He laughs. "But you wished you could."

or Romero's next venture, Daikatana, he has actually had to license Carmack's technology. In fact, one of the things that held up the game, now scheduled to reach stores this winter, was the wait for Carmack to release his latest engine. Why that's important becomes clear when you sit down to play.

Top: John Carmack, programming whiz and creator, with Romero, of the seminal Doom. Bottom: toy guns in Carmack's office at Id Software.

Sitting at a computer at Ion Storm, Romero expertly leads a visitor through Doom, and at first it's hard to understand what all the fuss is about -- fuzzy figures attacking, a crude pistol firing, splotches of red appearing on falling bodies. Then he starts playing Quake I and II, the next stops in his historic tour of the first-person shooter. The "story" doesn't change much, but as Romero moves through 1996 and 1997 the games gradually enter new dimensions of realism. You can see Carmack's programs becoming more sophisticated and taking advantage of the soaring processing speed of computers and powerful 3-D graphics-accelerator cards. By the time Romero reaches Daikatana, the illusion is truly remarkable.

Physical reality suggests that you are sitting in a chair operating a mouse and keyboard. But with the computer screen replacing your field of vision, you believe you're actually creeping around a corner, causing your breath to shorten. Afraid an enemy is lying in wait, you feel your pulse quicken. When the monster jumps out, real adrenaline roars through your body. And few things in life are more exhilarating than spinning around and blowing the damn thing to kingdom come, the flying gibs so lifelike you can almost feel wet blood. Hurtling through the 3-D environment can give even serious gamers motion sickness.

The technology pioneered by Carmack's shooters has spread to other genres, and in recent years Doom and Quake have been passed on the all-time best-seller list by titles like Myst, which takes you on peaceful adventures to exotic places. Other games allow you to build cities, simulate flying and play a big-league sport. Still, it's telling that the first thing Americans wanted to do upon discovering this remarkable new virtual world was start shooting up the place.

Shortly after Littleton, a military expert appeared on "60 Minutes" calling shooter games "a how-to manual for killing without a conscience," politicians howled, and then came the lawyers: last month Id Software was among 24 entertainment companies named in a $130 million lawsuit by the families of three victims killed in last year's school shooting in West Paducah, Ky. It turns out that the 14-year-old gunman in that case, Michael Carneal, also loved Doom.

Before Littleton, such talk sounded ludicrous. How could clicking a mouse possibly help someone fire a real gun any more accurately? But shooter developers -- like the media that lionized them one minute and demonized their games the next -- want to have it both ways. Most refuse to address questions linking games to the real world, but even as he shows off his wares for a reporter, Romero himself points out that the Marines have used a version of Doom for training troops how to kill: "They made a special version, an add-on, so that soldiers played Doom to feel like they were in a war situation, where you have one-shot kills."

The "one-shot kills" argument is precisely the one made by Lieut. Col. David Grossman, the point man in the effort to blame computer games for Littleton. Grossman teaches courses on the psychology of killing to Green Berets and Federal agents and has been hired as an expert witness by the parents of the three girls killed in the West Paducah shooting. Not only do games like Doom and Quake help people overcome what he calls the natural human reticence to murder, Grossman maintains, they also counter the natural instinct for neophyte hunters and soldiers to shoot repeatedly until a target drops. The Kentucky teen-ager Carneal, he argues, followed the computer-game pattern of moving quickly from one target to another, with an emphasis on head shots. Though he'd never fired a gun before, the teen-ager hit eight people with eight bullets, five to the head and three to the upper torso.

Whether or not such a clear cause-and-effect relationship ultimately holds up, the outrage over these games should hardly come as a surprise to developers. If Romero makes idle boasts about the power of his games, he should be prepared when his critics actually believe him. And despite the soft-spoken Carmack's claim to have invented nothing more than a new way to play Cowboys and Indians, the demonic imagery of Id's marketing and packaging hardly puts him in a position to object when he's accused of selling evil. Make that "evil" in quotes, shooter developers say. But irony cuts both ways, making it hard to take them seriously when they tell you with straight faces that they're making these games for "mature" audiences.

n Greenville, Tex., about an hour outside Dallas, six young white faces poke out of the darkness, lighted only by the glow of a computer monitor. Here is a key segment of the market for Romero and other shooter developers.

A bloody crowbar sticks up from the lower part of the screen like the bow of a ship cruising through a ghetto wasteland. A hip-hop beat from Cypress Hill pulses through the speakers. Chips of peeling paint on the walls look so real that it feels like a gust of wind could blow them into your lap.

Coming into view is a trashy babe wearing a revealing halter top and tight pants. The guy at the controls presses a key, producing the deep, suave voice of a black man: "What's goin' on?"

The woman, bobbing and swaying to the beat, responds with an expletive.

Another key: another expletive.

"Hey," she says. "You. ..." Well, you can guess what she says.

One kid can't stand the suspense. "Kill her!"

Not yet. More taunts follow, every word coarser and more unpublishable, until, finally, up goes the crowbar. Then down it comes, ripping into the woman's throat. She crumples to the ground, her body covered with bloody holes. "Ooooooh!" cry the boys, laughing.

It's just another Saturday-night gaming party for 17-year-old Matthew Hemby and his friends. A chunky lad with a mop of brown hair and beard, Matthew is cocky but smart and likable enough to get away with it. He found high school so devoid of intellectual challenges that he left after a year and a half to study in an independent, accelerated program. He has been a computer whiz since the second grade but his parents kept him away from violent games until about three years ago.

Lieut. Col. David Grossman, the point man in the effort to blame computer games for Littleton, says players learn to move quickly from a single target to the next, making 'one- shot kills' as they go.

As they do from time to time, Matthew and his friends -- all between the ages of 17 and 21 -- have pitched in $15 apiece to rent this banquet room at a local hotel, dragging in their computers and wiring them together with local-area-network hardware. When they finish trying out this new game, Kingpin, they will move on to Quake, and compete for hours. The young men are fluent in the language of death-matching, in which gamers frag each other into gibs, go spamming with pills (grenades), brag about getting free beer (an easy kill) and rape llamas (kill off newbies) who dare take them on, especially high-ping types (with poor Internet connections) who try to camp out (hide). Their party started at 6 P.M. and will last until 4:30 the next morning.

Matthew has actually organized his buddies to start a company, Genius Envy Software, and someday hopes to dethrone Romero and Carmack. To him, Romero's long-awaited opus is the work of a guy who has lost touch with his audience. "Romero hasn't coded since the 80's," sputters Matthew. "He just sits around combing his hair all day."

There's nothing particularly menacing about Matthew and his crew, who are close to the extreme end of the spectrum of hard-core game playing. So it comes as something of a shock to hear how impressed they are by Kingpin. They consider it a clever parody on the gangster genre laced with cartoonish violence -- similar to a campy slasher movie like "Evil Dead II," which they'll watch later tonight. They say that Kingpin approaches, but doesn't exceed, the boundaries of good taste.

And where is that boundary, exactly?

It's a tough question, they admit. "Honestly, I could be running through Quake or something," offers Eric Bakutis, 21, "and I could see an enemy soldier, you know, and I hit him with a rocket and he's splattered and guts go everywhere, and it doesn't bother me at all."

Everybody laughs in agreement, recognizing the absurdity of the remark even as they endorse it. "Even though it's pretty graphic, it's not realistic," Matthew explains. "They, like, blow up and chunks of their body, right, but if I shot a guy and he was, like, holding in his intestines, that would be over the line. I wouldn't dig that."

What they are anxious to let an outsider know is that this is all in good fun. Doom and Quake fans are not a bunch of crazy killers. "I have Doom on my computer," says Eric, "and I can personally assure you there's nothing to improve one's skill with aiming actual firearms."

"I don't know how to load a gun," says Matthew.

But they're beginning to worry about the younger generation, which might not be as sophisticated in separating reality from fantasy. And as the technology improves, each new generation of shooters becomes increasingly convincing in its violence. "The first time I saw my little brother playing Blood II, I was kind of surprised to see it rewarded you for killing civilians," adds Eric. "I actually talked to him about it."

Still, not all shooters are all that violent, says Matthew, firing up his favorite game, Half-Life. A best seller last year, Half-Life was critically acclaimed for advancing the shooter genre by incorporating role-playing elements and creating a plot with characters.

In this game, you play a scientist, Gordon Freeman, working in a secret Government lab. When an accident suddenly destroys the premises, various monsters start attacking you. Maneuvering Dr. Freeman through the lab, Matthew comes across two fellow scientists who want to help him out -- "Shouldn't you be in the test chamber?" -- but Matthew quickly gets bored with all the chitchat and blows one guy's head off. Since the software program didn't anticipate the protagonist becoming a depraved lunatic, the remaining scientist continues conversing with his colleague, now sprawled on the ground with exit wounds in his back. In the moment, this subversion of the game seems not only harmless but also funny, as the software struggles with his impromptu revision of the plot. But it also shows how hard it is to change the essential nature of a story told over the barrel of a gun.

And that's what makes shooters unlike any other form of media violence we've ever seen before. You're not just watching a movie, you're in the movie. You're not just empathizing with Arnold Schwarzenegger as he blasts the bad guy to smithereens, you're actually pulling the trigger. Unlike a movie, this three-dimensional world has a peculiar logic and set of rules that can be entertaining for hours on end. Getting killed is a drag because suddenly the game stops, and the only way to remain master of this intoxicating new universe is to kill.

How that translates to the real world varies according to the individual playing the game -- or at least that's how Matthew's father sees it. "We're pumping a pretty bleak world at kids today," says Jack Hemby, who is 47 and admits to not sharing his son's taste for splatter games. "How are they going to react to it? What they see on the news they have no control over. But they can take this little piece of mirrored reality and can control it and beat it."

ittleton may fade into the background, but this business will surely continue to grow, and John Romero will want a bigger share of it. So he is pulling all-nighters to finish an Internet-only demo of Daikatana, the game that could confirm or destroy his legendary reputation. It was originally scheduled to compete against Carmack's Quake II during Christmas of 1997 but has been delayed so many times that Romero is becoming the subject of ridicule in the gaming press. Now the consensus is that he'll be lucky to get it out by this Christmas, two years behind schedule. Even his publicity agent, Heidi Davis, says: "The feeling out there is: 'O.K., we've been reading about John Romero. Where's the game?' "

Slurping a bowl of tortilla soup in a Dallas restaurant, Romero is fed up with the criticism. Daikatana will give fans an "awesome" ride through 4,485 years of human history, he says, armed with more weapons of annihilation that will destroy more monsters than ever before. "Nobody's made one like this before," he says, "and I doubt that anyone's ever going to try to make something this big again."

What's complicating things for Romero is that computer gaming, no less than music and film, is a ruthlessly hit-or-miss business. The more time and money he spends, the more games he must sell to earn back his advance. And the market has become far more competitive since his last hit three years ago, with Quake I. Romero's fantasy company has spent $30 million and produced but one game, a strategy-war game called Dominion that was an utter flop. His company has teetered on the verge of meltdown -- a power struggle resulted in the firing of two top executives, and scores of developers have jumped ship -- and if Romero doesn't deliver soon, speculation is rampant that Eidos, the company that has backed him, will pull the plug.

"They will not pull the plug," he cries, flatly predicting that Daikatana and two other Ion Storm titles will pull down total sales of between $70 million and $90 million this year. Now, of course, he can add to his list of woes a new marketing climate in which developers like him are perceived as being at least partly responsible for the killings at Columbine High.

After Littleton, when the antigame onslaught began, the close-knit shooter community in Dallas could have taken many steps, like mounting a publicity campaign of its own, pointing out that school killings have actually declined since Doom's debut (from 52 in 1993-94 to 42 last year). They could have trotted out experts to argue that computer games can improve a child's inductive reasoning, problem-solving skills and sense of spatial relations. Or argued that polls show that 50 percent of teen-agers have played shooters like Doom. They could have addressed the problem of retail outlets frequently ignoring a ratings system that has been in place for years.

Instead, nearly everybody in town retreated back to their fantasy worlds, like a kid plugging his ears to make the outside world go away. "There may be a debate," says Mike Breslin, Romero's marketing exec, "but we're not in it." Perhaps they're waiting for the tempest to blow over, hoping that today's ultraviolent fare will eventually lose its power to shock, just as Doom already has, paving the way for the next generation of games whose gore will be rendered even more realistic by rapidly advancing technology.

All that depends on how the market behaves, of course. One of the few developers to speak on the record after Littleton is Scott Miller, creator of the best-selling Duke Nukem series, who is more thoughtful than most. But in the end he makes it clear that there is only one imperative at work for his industry. "We're not going to start making games where you hand flowers to other people," he says. "That wouldn't sell. We make games that sell."

In other words, nothing in the Dallas shooter community has really changed since those innocent pre-Littleton days, when Romero felt free to sit at a restaurant table explaining the nuances of the weapons in his games: "Does it look better than every other weapon that's out there? Does it sound great? Does it recoil, kick you back? Where does it fit in the scheme of the other weapons? Will shells fly on the ground and make noises behind you? My job is to bring that to the forefront. People know it's right but they can't say why. All they can say, 'It shoots really good.' "

As the dinner crowd arrives, Romero gets up and heads out the door. His stardom depends on Daikatana, and he knows his time is running out. While he has been death-matching in his dream clubhouse, the real world keeps changing.

Hiro Miyamoto's back is against the wall. The world is swarming with giant robotic rats trying to get a piece of him. "People can say what they want," Romero says.

Lunch over, Hiro hops into his yellow spaceship and speeds off to his spectacular glass bubble in the sky, where he can still be lord of the universe, grab an Ion Blaster and blow Superfly Johnson into a million pieces.

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May 23, 1999