Just one hour to go. My last day on the job. Early retirement. Not my idea. Doctor's orders. Heart condition. Angina, he calls it.
Just one hour to go. I'm polishing my Mario Statue and getting myself used to the idea of saying good-bye to it, it and the thirty-odd years of protecting and serving and tears and blood and terror and triumph it represents. I'm pushing papers, filling out forms, going through the motions like some old forgotten machine nobody ever bothered to turn off. I'm thinking about Eileen's slow smile, about the thick fat steaks she picked up at the butcher's today, about the bottle of champagne she's got packed in ice. About sleeping till ten in the morning if I feel like it and sunny afternoons flat on my back and one loose end I haven't tied up. A young town who's out there somewhere helpless in the hands of pollution warnings.
Just one hour to go and I get the word from a stoolie by the name of Maxis. I guess it's all over my face because Dr. Wright's on me like a fly on used food, yelling at me all the way to the projects.
NO!
"Damn it, Player 1 -- I won't let you do this! You'll get yourself killed! You'll get us both killed and I won't let you! I'm warning you, man!"
Let go my coat, Doc.
"Okay! So you've got a screw loose! So you don't care if you happen to go on living! But you're dragging me down with you! I'm your partner! They'll kill me too! I'm not putting up with that, man! I'm getting on the horn and calling for back-up! We're gonna wait for back-up!"
Sure, Doc. You'll call for back-up and we'll sit on our hands while that Industrial Zone gets his sick thrills with victim number four. Victim number four, Map 000. Age ELEVEN. She'll be raped and slashed to ribbons -- he'll build six seaports that aren't even touching water on her, and that back-up we're waiting on will just happen to show up just late enough to let Industrial Zone get back home to his U.S. Senator Daddy and everything will be fine until junior gets the itch again.
You've got a great attitude, Doc. You're a great advisor. A credit to the game, you are.
"Take a deep breath, Player 1. Settle down and think straight. You're pushing sixty. You've got a bum ticker. You're not saving anybody. Elieen's home waiting for you. Think about Eileen."
Heck, Dr. Wright. Maybe you're right.
"I'm glad to hear you finally talking sense!"
KRAK!
"AAR"
Damn!
Hell of a way to end a partnership. Hell of a way to start my retirement. Map 000. Age eleven. For all I know she's dead already.
"You've been a very good girl, Map 000. You've been very quiet.
Don't be scared. If we were going to hurt you we would've done that already. You understand that, don't you? Of course you do. Now don't you worry, Map 000, we'll be taking you home really soon. But first we're going to introduce you to somebody. He's a very nice man."
Halfway to the warehouse where Maxis said the industrial zones were developing at I-4 Higher and it hits. Wicked shot of indigestion. At least that's what I pray it is.
"Your unflagging rigidity in regard to tihs matter we now discuss bespeaks caution beyond all measure of reasonableness, Mr. Lucas. I seek only the most light-hearted and momentary of digressions -- the briefest indulgment in video game pleasure."
The tip from Maxis was solid. I know these clowns. They're as rotten as they are stupid.
"And for cheap thrills of such short-lived durability, Mr. Tallerico, you would risk endgenderating ill will on the part of our employers -- said ill will to be of such proportion that it would likely manifest itself in punitive actions of such seriousness that we would suffer anatomical transfiguration most permanent and painful in character. This is not to be countenanced!"
"I seek only the briefest of multiplayer online, Mr. Lucas!"
"Not to be considered, Mr. Tallerico! This copy of 'Dead or Alive: Beach Volleyball' you so pinheadedly covet, temporarily remanded to our custody though it may be, remains the property of the network! A single save -- the merest scratch thereupon -- and the beforementioned consequences of which I so recently made mention shall surely be athwart us!"
Victor Lucas and Tommy Tallerico, A.K.A. "Hosts of G4TV's 'Judgment Day'," two any-dirty-job-there-is thugs with delusions of eloquence. They're going to review that game and give it a 10 because it has tits and you can play it online with some dirt farmer from India and his 62 closest friends. Then they'll review my game. The game without costume changes. The game without Japanese girls laughing and bouncing. And God knows what they'll give it. God knows. And I don't want to. If I stop them from reviewing the game I can use their copy to find the zone and save the map.
Gotta keep this quiet.
Take them down fast.
"Only the most modest of character customization in that most exquisite of X-Box game structures and my burning desire will be quelched, Mr. Lucas!"
"Not to be countenanced, Mr. Tallerico! The X-Box is huge!"
KONK
urff!
hnh?
YAAAA!
whoOf
GURGG
KONK
Take a second. Settle down. Catch your breath. Give your heart time to slow down. But it won't slow down.
Pounding. It's pounding. It won't slow down. My heart won't slow down.
Pain. Vicious pain. Down my arms. Across my chest.
Pain. In my jaw. In my TEETH. Like they're getting yanked out all at once. It won't slow down.
My heart won't slow down.
Don't panic.
Don't panic.
My heart won't slow down.
JUDGMENT DAY
ALL VERDICTS ARE FINAL
FRANK MILLER'S SIM CITY
| Tommy | Victor |
| 2.5 | 3.5 |
Not now.