Bo Channels walked into the office with his shoulders slumped.
Mr. Margarit: “Sit down, Bo. Wha–, you need coffee or something?”
Bo sat down, perked himself up. “No, no. I’m good, thanks.”
“OK, now, Bo, today is the day, the day you’ve been putting off and keep trying to reschedule for what, like six years now? You know why we kept rescheduling you at all? We had an office pool going. Frankly, man, I think your best days are over. That Pulitzer put a weight around your ankles, man. Now you can’t even come up with a good video game idea.” He chortled. “Oh man.”
Bo’s face was apoplectic. His chest was slowly rising like he was about to burst. His eyes widened. The sides of his mouth went down. He popped: “Slake Rake!”
“A whazza?”
Bo looked around, head beginning to shake. He stood up abruptly and Mr. Margarite leaned back, eyes squinting. Bo began using his hands, like a mime, pulling the air to keep going. “A . . . slake rake,” he mimicked the motion of using a rake. “You, uh, use the rake to uh, rake the slake.” He stopped, stood up, smiled. He scratched his head. “It’s ironic.”
“You want a video game in today’s market that is simple, stupid shit, call it ironic, and expect people to pay 60 bucks for dat?”
Bo was sweating now, not meeting Mr. Margarite’s eyes, instead searching the bottoms of the walls for clues, or looking for mice.
Mr. Margarit: “Let me ask you a question, Bo. Do you ever play video games?”
“No man, my world is pixelated enough, man.” Bo’s hands were sweaty so he wiped them on the sides of his jacket.
Mr. Margarit flipped a switch under his desk and several fans popped up on both sides of his desk. They both rotated to face the center: Bo. Bo’s eyelids fluttered in joy, the sweat being gently swept from his brow.
Mr. Margarit: “Are you on drugs?”
“No,” Bo said. “Ok, thanks for the fan. How about this: A story about a man in the future who, uh, has to escape something on earth, so signs up for a terrible mystery job on the last outpost.”
“Last outpost?”
“Yes, the last outpost between the manned universe and the unmanned universe. Of course I guess you would have several last outposts in several directions eventually, but for now there’s just one. The last outpost.”
“What happens there?”
“Well, there would be different stories, er, versions: the official government version, and folk tale versions: from one human to another.”
“The truth is bad?”
“Yes, if it was Disneyland there would be no drama, right?”
Mr. Margarit: “Disneyland is a lot richer than you are.”
“Nobody goes to Disneyland to read.”
“You’re proposing to read this video game?”
Bo: “Doesn’t a new age, a modern age video game need a great story? Zelda? Bioshock? Yes?”
“Zelda, Bioshock and Slake Rake?”
Bo sat back down. “Forget that. I have social problems.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Whew, thanks again for those fans. Those things are nifty.”
“So what happens in your story: bad things happen, like what? And how does he fight back? Is it like Half Life?”
“I don’t know yet. But it will be somewhat dark. Not as dark as the Blood Meridian, but dark.”
Mr. Margarit: “All drama is dark before the ending - it’s called act two.”
Bo: “You know what? Fuck you, man. I won a fucking Pulitzer. You peddle Pacman. Give me a fuckin’ break you fuckin’ bonehead. You wanna be the first developer to label your game as being written by a Pulitzer-prizewinning author or not? Because that’s what you’re paying for, finally. And we both know it. So let’s just cut the shit and agree on a concept, OK? Or I’m going to EA, you fucking bitch.”
Mr Margarit drummed his fingers together. “Yes, the Post it is, then. You flesh it out and I’ll put a team on it.”
“Thank you,” Bo said, then left. Once hitting the street he fished a J out of his pocket and lit it, took a long suck. He thought of something and had a good laugh. Slake Rake. He took out a phone and dialed, put it to his ear. “Hey baby,” he said. “Guess who’s going to be eating again?”