Source: ESPN.com

ST. CHARLES, ILL. -- Victory smells like Red Bull. Maybe it's body spray. The hall is alive with the sound of small arms fire: popping pistols, thumping shotguns, staccato assault rifles. The crack 'n' whistle of sniper rounds; the sudden, terrible boom of exploding frag grenades. There are breathless ooohs! and frustrated groans and the urgent, irritating bleeps of depleting deflector shields, squawking reminders that you are absolutely, positively about to die, or worse yet, get pwned -- that is, blasted and humiliated -- by some 14-year-old kid wearing a Pokemon Breeders T-shirt. And somewhere beneath the din, nestled deep in the dull gray furrows of the temporal lobes, between the fading lift of too much caffeine and the rising tide of an imminent migraine, a lone note registers, maddening and incessant.

Click-click. Click-click.