From Worms Knowledge Base
IcePacks is a brilliant thinker born somewhere in a dark allyway in Michigan. It has been gleaned from bumper stickers that his mother chose life and that you should smile. On second thought, maybe your mother chose life. She was an exotic dancer, right? I could have sworn she talked about what a wonderful boy you are while we were thrashing around in the VIP beds. Oh well.
IcePacks was born in Michigan. His fathers named him "Dick" because it was their favourite word. At a young age he ran out of content for this section and gave up, unable to think of anything humorous, humourous, or humorous, eh?
IcePacks, upon reaching his eighteenth birthday, swiftly fled his house, taking nothing with him. The reason for this lack of preparation is debated. Some experts say the reason is because the only thing in the house was lingeries. Other experts say the only source of food was soy milk and milk from his father's breasts. Those experts have been hung, quartered, shot, eigthed, halved, bisected, and burned.
After a month of starvation and dehydration, IcePacks was down to 10 HP. He was struck in the head by a sandwich dropped by a construction worker on lunch break some forty stories upwards. And thus began his second childhood.
Second Early Life
Fortunately, IcePacks remembered to bring a bottled fairy with him. He was quickly taken to a nearby hospital, had the sandwich surgically removed, and deemed inferior by Barack Obama. When he was released, he was hardly capable of speech, walking, and was incapable of looking left.
IcePacks was giving a speech to several gangs in Detroit in 2007. As he reached this portion of his speech:
I know where he lies. Where has God gone? I shall tell you. We have killed him — you and I. We are his murderers. But how have we done this? How were we able to drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What did we do when we unchained the earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving now? Away from all suns? Are we not perpetually falling? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there any up or down left? Are we not straying as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is it not more and more night coming on all the time? Must not lanterns be lit in the morning? Do we not hear anything yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we not smell anything yet of God's decomposition? Gods too decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we, murderers of all murderers, console ourselves? That which was the holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet possessed has bled to death under our knives. Who will wipe this blood off us? With what water could we purify ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we need to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we not ourselves become gods simply to be worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whosoever shall be born after us — for the sake of this deed he shall be part of a higher history than all history hitherto.
A man stood up in the crowd, and shouted "Peto abyssus retard!" before swiftly tossing a box of teddy bears at IcePacks and shooting him three times in the right knee before stabbing him in the throat several times. IcePacks was declared dead as soon as somebody realized he had been injured.
So now you know
Go away, asshole. I've had enough of this third-person crap.