It's abuse - you, pulling an ailing old man - slowly nodding off to oblivion surrounded in his retirement home by friends and third party medical equipment, maintained by questionable but well meaning eastern Europeans - back into an uncaring reality without any real plan?
Sure, sometimes the old faded pictures of his parents and children still gave his heart a pain, after not having heard from them in more than a decade, but he was at peace. Playing the old maps, telling the new kids they didn’t understand the hardships of Baud modems and sometimes blubbering 1337$P34|< in between bouts of sleep apnoea.
Suddenly ripping this palliative case back into the cold hard streets of new operating systems, a world colourful and confusing, pulled out his catheter and IV and kicked him into a hot topic to get fitted for some skinny jeans and an outdated BTS T-Shirt.
He just wanted a new wheelchair, something with a motor so the anaemic Gen-X chain smoking nurse doesn’t have to get up from her stories to push him to the vending machine.
You took the wheelchair, told ‘em you were going to make it good and nice. Sat him down on a bench in front of the duckpond in the park until you were done.
Sadly, you got distracted by a slightly less dilapidated cougar at the local AA meeting who is into medieval role-play and her daughter is a little past her prime, but she used to be a 12 million subscriber franchise - who wouldn’t?
So the old man is stuck at the pond, now it's getting dark - and there are a lot of weird kids with blue hair showing up, mining all the benches to build inexplicable tree-houses. And he’s a kind old man, but if one of them asks about Progression or MTX again, someone’s getting punched in the damned mouth.
There is only one guy working on the chair, his name is Garry. Garry hasn’t been here too long, Garry doesn’t know too much either. I don’t think Garry actually works here, I think they put him here so the old folks would stop asking about their chairs. It’s working too.
Garry fixes things sometimes, mostly the shit he broke a few weeks ago. But it’s appreciated by some of the late stage dementia cases. I think his name was Bobby last week, or was it Bill?
No IV, No catheter, No chair. But they did give him a smartphone, so now he can see a live feed of all his friends dying, and can message the nurse to come lift him up before he shits himself in his wheel-less chair. There is a queue now too - so everyone gets a turn on the TV, which granted has reduced the amount of stabbings in the home but now only half the channels are available.
The reduced social interaction is a sign of the times, but the guise of toxic anonymity doesn’t work all that well when all the shitters you get matches with are all in the same room, breathing the same air scented of stale mashed potatoes and colostomy bag.
All of this is happening 20 feet away from a solid golden mansion, where hundreds of yuppies and middle managers drive up and down to pretend to give a shit - to laud themselves over the passion they feel and satisfaction of contributing to the legacy of these geriatric demented old fucks.
The time has come and gone. But this bastard is still clinging to life. And the fucker won’t die.
If you didn’t give a shit, why even start? To prove the concept and to get that last dime squeezed out before anyone who cares has painted their hair blue. Sure.
Doesn’t change the fact that it’s disgusting. And I don’t care if its petty or short sighted, sad or passionate. This entire charade has been an insult to what was and could still be the foundation of legitimacy in competitively viable gaming. But as the rest of the world descends into actual chaos, and the world is indeed burning. Forgive this 32 year old boomer for reaching for one of the few things I think to have control over.
Rage is all that remains. And with that, a lot of wasteful creativity. Even if it means screaming to an empty stage.