The Game Shop

There could be no mistaking it. I was to enter the game shop once again.

I stood there in the street, hip flask in hand, alternately gulping mouthfuls of tender air and grain alcohol. I knew there was to be no pleasure in the black transaction that would take place. The high street game retailer is a petri dish of oily emotions; it is a time capsule containing nothing but the engorged, battle-scarred penis of a cossack.

Soon I felt my poison beverage beginning its work, signalling it was time for me to begin mine. With the decisive, leisurely gait of a grown man I crossed the road and entered the shop.

I was not drunk enough, perhaps could never have been drunk enough for what happened next. Before me stood a giant display of The Wheelman boxes and a pyramid of shit Wii peripherals. I raised my hand to smash them, but took pause with my fist in the air. The evil men who did this would only rebuild their totems.

“Can I help you?” spoke a voice.

“No,” I ventured, squinting down the length of the shop. It was already beginning; I was having trouble making my eyes focus. They were acting independantly, snapping to crime after crime, errors on the upcoming releases calendar, pre-owned games that never should have been bought in the first place, copies of Wet and the Saboteur fucking clumsily on a shelf. No, this couldn’t be happening! I had to overcome this reality. Without realising it I’d fallen to one knee. I looked at my hands. These could’t be my hands?

I stood back up, my body at once limp and taught as an unmanned fire hose. Swinging my heavy head left, then right, I caught sight of the PC games section. Perhaps I could end this quicker than I’d hoped. A few clumsy steps took me there, though I could feel old PSX memory cards gnawing at my boots the whole way. I looked up at the yawning shelves, reaching up with both hands and flipping through titles with practiced fingers. Stronghold. Diner Dash. The Orange Box. No, these would never do. I moved my fingers faster, forcing more energy into those bony extremities until the games before me were spinning and flipping like cards on a rolodex. And yet the one I needed was nowhere to be seen!

Then, disaster. In the haze of boxart I lost focus and failed to remove my left ring finger from the path of one of the boxes I’d set in motion. There was a crack, and I withdrew my hand to find the wounded finger curled backwards in the wrong direction as if beckoning at me.

My sad, anguished yelp must have alerted the man I feared to my presence, for suddenly he was by my side. He was more awful than I remembered, and I knew at once I could not run.

“Looking for something?” he asked. His staff t-shirt was too tight for him, and the fat on his neck bulged out of the collar. As he said the words I thought I saw something black and narrow in the dark of his mouth, where the tongue should be. An electrical cable?

“I’m looking for Armed Assault 2,” I said. My voice tasted of ozone and liquor.

“You mean Arma 2,” he said.

“I mean Arma 2,” I corrected myself, terrified.

The man simply gestured at the shelves I’d been searching through. Impossible. There were eight or nine copies of Arma 2 right there at eye level. I snatched at one of them with my uninjured hand and held it to my chest. I looked back down at the shop man with animal eyes, worrying what he’d demand for this boon.

“That’ll be £29.99,” he said. I was lost. There had to be sacrifice beyond this. I removed some crumpled money from my pocket and handed it over to him.

It began as his hand touched mine. Time lost interest in us, our arms remained outstretched, and all sound faded but the wet, machine beating of my taut heart. It was the noise of a kite being snapped back and forth by winds of purest terror. I saw a badness in the man’s eyes, and knew something was coming.

He spoke in a voice bloated with disdain.

“…you do have the PC to run this, yeah?”

It was too much! A powerful spasm snaked through me, vomit exploding from my mouth in stinking shouts. I remember some part of me welcomed the floor as it rushed up to hold my destroyed form, and it was as I lay there I saw an unbridgeable abyss open, seperating me from the rest of existence.

I had to leave the shop. If I fell into unconsciousness, I would be his. My vision began flickering like an old film. With the last of my strength I reached out to retrieve the copy of Arma 2 that lay maybe two feet from me, and then… nothing. That’s all I remember.

I don’t play games anymore. I don’t go into town, either.

Do you understand? You look like someone who might understand.



  1. That was an acurate depiction of most shopping experiences.
    I totally and utterly understand what that feeling is like. I never venture into game shops anymore, not if I can help it. I’ve been asked those exact questions many times before. It worrys me that the selection of PC games is so small in most, if not all of the shops I avidly avoid.

    I must say I still have high hopes for The Saboteur even if it was broken on release for ATI users and has terrible accents.

  2. I had to work there for 5 months, man. It’s worse than you can ever imagine. Those charts aren’t wrong, they’re just paid for. Everything there is like it is because of unashamed corporate prostitution, essentially. Not that you’d ever expect anything else.

    Do what I do now; go into HMV, because even if they might be more expensive (they’re not) at least they don’t pretend to give a shit about the games.

  3. Tom Kenny says:

    I kept catching myself about to laugh out loud before recalling my own experiences of local retailers and feeling suddenly, humiliatingly depressed.

  4. Strange,
    When I go to buy a game in a store,which I haven’t in over a year, I just go in, pick a copy (if they have it), pay and get out.
    None of these strange occurrences you speak of.

  5. I’m with zipdrive, I don’t think that I’ve ever suffered panic attacks or vomited and passed out whilst inside a games retailer. You should probably visit your GP as soon as.

    Although games shops are rather pants these days.

  6. It is the years of beaten down hope, soaked into the carpets, that sucks at your soul. An endless procession of people coming to offer up their money in the hope of receiving entertainment in return. But that hope is taken and dashed on the floor as they receive yet another crap piece of software. The dying hope soaks deep into every man-made fiber of the faded carpet tiles. It permeates everything and the one thing it can’t abide is fresh hope. This must be sucked from you and corrupted.

    Do you have a loyalty card?

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