Siddown, chumpwatch. Observe the glove in action.

Other peripherals simply allow you to control the game. But me? I become the game. Look at these fiber-optic sensors running from each knuckle. Check out the magnetic microfibre force-feedback mechanism, and the warning label that accompanies it. Yes ... oh yes. Some may throw down the gauntlet: I throw down by putting it on.

This sucker is an alpha alpha version that Saitek won't release to the public. It's another year or so before you'll see this puppy on store shelves, and even then it'll be prohibitively expensive. I only managed to get a hold of this one through a shipping error, then I had to lie to the Feds, who couldn't obtain a warrant to search my place for it. THAT'S how high tech this thing is!

Of course, I can see why they'd want to stop this from falling into the wrong hands (or, on the wrong hand, as it were.) You see, force feedback like this can be dangerous. I was playing Diablo the other night, and my hand became numb from the clashing of my sword again and again onto the collapsible skulls of the undead. Then, one of those spiny quill rodents shot me through the hand. It STUNG! I ripped the glove off and a crimson trickle of blood welled from a pencil-sized hole in the palm of my hand. My brother insisted it was a stigmata. I call it: Technology.

That night I was asleep and I heard a rustling down in the den. It occured to me that after the incident I had failed to turn off my PC. Wearing nothing but my boxers, I crept through the shadowy house, terririfed of what I might find. Then, in a pale square of moonlight seeping through the window, I was greeted with the horrifying visage of THE GLOVE crawling, of its own accord, through the twilight like a quivering spider with the tail of a USB rat. The fiber-optic sensors shimmered with a light of their own, tracing intricate contours like the nervous system of a visible man. After some fleeting moments of horror, I stepped on it, and it pinched me -- hard as a vice grip. I collapsed to the floor with a fleshy thump, and crawled frantically to the kitchen to get a butcher knife. When I found the glove again it had crawled half-way up the window drapes in an effort to escape. I was going to destroy it ... but cooler, more power-hungry heads prevailed. I simply unplugged it.

Me and the glove? We have an understanding, now. I suggest you respect it. This thing's tasted blood before, of that we can be certain, friend.