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About The Battalion. (College Station, Tex.) 1893-current | View Entire Issue (Oct. 10, 1984)
■ 9$ f QS6 ional s «faJ| ’ s<,u ght|)i [) -told t(it 11 * tiesdai denied % "igs arej|. i. :, ding'isn II line is ili f 1 tlie com. sstevens, a • (; ti'it coop. II I perfot- embarrass. 'd to issoea is i () n exam, that tin $7 mjfc ruesdajj)) I Geoff® >allas-bajej te increase, he commis- itiiely inap ly to be re said Gav, residential ryers. led tiienit m nation of ■ets, incluii- ak nuclear coal-fired s declinim esmansaid, s sellingbe- ie decrease <) problems anche Peal Rose, whick st overruns s sh udnick said nd. Histori s to expart le.s his claiiii liars, said li s don’t tat .it he think ■n correct, can histon f erson's |ii onisiana« •ilderness.' ude an astfl- u piter calls I PEOPLE IT IN talion at somclNino ,: I get you' iS | And ourt« ,hip gooronlK' ts of pfoiptf 1 '- .5-2611 R! S ■ 777 j 22^ Dr. Death is my name, survival is my game By CAMILLE BROWN Staff Writer They always wear camouflage. During the week they dress in suits, blending in with their office envi ronment. On weekends they wear fatigues to blend in with the greens, browns and blacks of the forest. During the week they sit behind desks, on Sunday they crouch be hind trees. On the weekdays their game of survival begins with an alarm clock. Weekends the survival game begins with the blast of an airhorn. As Houstonians go about their da ily routines, adventurers are sup plied with the equipment to let their imaginations run wild. Because on Sundays they play the Survival Game. Armed with James Bond-style pis- tolsloaded with plastic pellets of yel low paint, two teams of camouflaged men move off into the woods toward their home base. Home base is where the team hangs the flag that the defensive team will protect, and the enemy at tack squad will try to steal. The horn sounds and the first game takes off. Rush. Tension. T hen quiet. The defense waits, the offense sneaks in. The penalty for being loud, care less or obvious is a pelting with speeding paint bullets. When you’re hit, you’re “dead.” The idea of such a sticky death is incentive enough to play the game with genuine ef fort. Especially when the player is Dr. Death. Then the game becomes more than a Sunday jaunt through the woods. His collegues in the field of psy chotherapy know him as Dr. James D. Kristian, a Houston hypnothe rapist and psychotherapist. His bud dies in the Survival Game call him Dr. Death. He’s an expert at team strategies, stealing flags and applying camou flage, but his biggest boast is the aim of his “007” paint gun. He’s got “89 kills” and every player knows it. And he’s out to get No. 90. Dr. Death shows no mercy when the paint starts flying. On defense, Dr. Death lurks be hind trees waiting to pounce on un- Photo by CAMILLE BROWN Dr. James D. Kristian, alias Dr. Death still can smile after re- a Houston hypnotherapist and psychotherapist. Kristian re ceiving a direct hit in the face with a paint pellet. Kristian is ceived his “wound” during a mock duel. suspecting enemies. The red rag (their flag) he is protecting hangs on a wire about 20 yards away. The blue offense gallops toward red territory for the first few min utes, but as they get closer to red ground they grow cautious. They hide behind trees, crouch along creek banks and slither along under the brush. . . waiting, listening for any movement. A judge walks by, his bright orange shirt blaring, “DON’T SHOOT THE JUDGE.” If you shoot the judge, you’re out. It’s like spitting on a policeman. The judge plays God. They de cide questions of death — was it a di rect hit or was it a mere splatter? They send the dead to neutral grounds, the purgatory of the Survi val Game, to wait until the winning team has been decided. Blue offense spots the red flag, they charge knowing full well that they are sitting ducks. Somehow they make it back to their home base with the prize. They win. Game over. The “dead” people wait for the lucky ones to emerge from the battle ground so they can start the next game. “Did you get anybody?” “Naa — wounded Dr. Death, though.” “1 knew ya’ll were gonna charge in like that for the flag, but it was four of ya’ll against three of us.” “Blue’s defense was tough — we couldn’t get near their flag.” “I got two kills before I got hit. My damn gun got clogged though.” The rest of the two teams wander in, exchanging pats on the back and examining each others wounds. Some players return with yellow paint dripping from their ears and coating their hair. It looks like an ep idemic of jaundice has broken out;, this strain of the disease is cured with a little soap and water. Dr. Death complains that in spite of his attempts he still lacks one kill to reach his goal of 90. The next best thing — a challenge. Dr. Death calls for some brave soul to duel with him. Death is confident, if not cocky about his anticipated victory. His op ponent is puny, no threat at all. Back-to-back, the two march 15 j>teps away, turn and fire. The chal lenger coolly smacks Death right in the mustache, without even flinch ing. You almost expected the victor to blow the smoke from the end of his gun. Another legend is born. rs. Schick _ Super]! Specially Fashioned in our school colors Get a Free Schick Super II Razor with two Schick Super II twin blade cartridges and a coupon good for 25c off your next Super II purchase plus... A chance to win a Schick Super II Athletic Bag in your school bookstore’s sweepstakes. Every bookstore has at least 25 or more winners! Just fill out the coupon below and bring it to the bookstore to receive your special razor. The Super II twin blade shaving system features Super II twin blades that are custom honed for close, comfortable shaves. Quantities are limited and will be distributed on a first come first served basis. Act now and experience great shaves courtesy of Schick Super II. 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