Not so long ago, clowN was a hero to every kid whose parents ever nagged that computer games were a waste of time.
He earned nearly $250,000 ($NZ450,000) over three years as a professional player of "Counter-Strike: Source"
-your ultimate 'run around and shoot everything in sight before someone blows you up' kind of game.
It's played by about 10 million people.
But these are tough times - cancelled tournaments, dwindling prizes, sponsorless players adrift like wandering samurai.
"Suddenly, I'm Yaz," says the 23-year-old college senior as commandos scramble across his computer monitor.
"Just Yaz."
Yazan Ammari is back in his old room with a neon-green gaming trophy doubling as a lamp and foam-board prize cheques leaning against the wall.
The fancy apartment he lived in rent-free while playing in a now-defunct DirecTV series on gaming is gone.
His family had to help him pay off $US6000 in credit card debt.
He is about to graduate from California State University, Northridge, in business marketing and says he has no idea what he is going to do.
"There's nothing to do but move on," he says.
The atmosphere at home is laden with a certain I-told-you-so kind of feeling.
While his parents - Roxy and Monty, both Jordanian immigrants - are proud of their only son, they're also worried.
In the living room, they watch CNN as headlines scrolled across the bottom of the screen - mass layoffs, squatters taking over foreclosed homes, people committing suicide over financial troubles.
Yaz is practicing in his bedroom.
Got to stay sharp.
"He has to finish school and start working," Monty says to Roxy, ignoring the occasional sound of explosions from their son's room.
"There is a time to move on."
Father and son have talked.
Yaz admits he's terrified to graduate. His father said he could always work at the family's tow-truck business.
Yaz stands up to stretch his legs and grab a snack.
He grimaces as he walks past his wardrobe.
Inside, shelves are crammed with software, hard drives and video graphics cards he had won over the years.
Somewhere, he thinks, are a pair of diamond earrings.
His BMW M3 with loads of extras is long gone.
He's embarrassed to say what he spent on the 19-inch deep-dish customised black rims.
"Stupidity," Yaz says.
"Sheer, utter stupidity."
Now, he's grateful to be driving the used Toyota Highlander his father bought him.
His father had warned him to be frugal.
"`Buy what you need, not what you want,' " Yaz recalls.
"Parents know everything."
So, he is spending less time playing and more studying and helping his father.
He's launched a website, Gamerworld.net, devoted to professional computer game players and fans.
Maybe he can make some money off it.
The past four years haven't been a waste, Yaz reasons.
He's travelled. He's negotiated contracts. He's figured out how to do his own laundry.
Sitting back down at his computer, his fingers blur across the keyboard as he leads a team through an abandoned train depot somewhere in the Middle East.
He threw a flash-bang grenade.
The sound of the explosion rattles the room's windows.
His mother peeks into the bedroom and closes the door.
Try as he might, the dream of making a comeback still haunts his thoughts.
He's tempted by a fundraiser offering a $50 prize and all the soda he can drink.
There's a tournament in Montreal where the cash prize would pay for his airfare and hotel . . . if he wins.
The sums are paltry, but the thought of being forgotten is worse.
"It's kind of like those one-hit wonders in a song," he says.
"Now people just look at them, laugh at them, they don't even think about them.
"Nobody even knows their names anymore."
He glances at his watch and sighs - 7.30pm.
He has classes the next day, starting at 8am.
"I should call it an early night," clowN tells his teammates via headset.
Groans and profanity fill his ears.
Outside, the moon is rising, bright and fat.
ClowN is restless, drumming the desk with his fingertips, eyes roaming the screen.
A crackly voice called through the computer speakers.
Lock and load ... lock and load ... lock and load . . . - P.J. Huffstutter.
