The Camper
This person stakes out the center of the ever-closing BR ring and heads to it right out of the gate, determined to get comfy like the people who wait outside of 30 Rock for Saturday Night Live tickets when Harry Styles is both the host and the musical guest. But unlike the very nice alphabet army members wrapped in duvets sitting on beach chairs and sharing cocktails out of hand-carved flasks, these campers are meanies. They know exactly where to get the best sniper rifle in the game to go along with their bird’s eye perch, and they’re going to sit there and take potshots at anyone running around at ground level. You are mere ants to them.
These guys love to make you angry, to mentally terrorize you until you’ve run out of hope, to make you think there’s no point in trying to move between cover or huck grenades at their hideout or sneak up behind them, because they’ve got their sights trained on you and a claymore waiting with your name on it. No matter what you do, they’ll take you out faster than you can say “fuck that camper.”
