Note: this is based off of a true story from my mates dad who works at an arcade and unplugged a pong game. he bought it for cheap then sold it to a collector for a fair wad of cash.
Ping…
Pong…
Ping…
Pong…
I am forever ponging; my life is depressing, just hitting the square shaped 'ball'. I am the Pong. My 8-bit body is feeling the strain of being a tennis racket. One day, maybe just one time, someone will place a quarter in the game, so I can end this loop that is destined to last forever, until the day when we go offline. My pixels grow weary as we and my clone have a rally, one that has lasted for many years. I curse the days when more advanced games enter the arcade, making me feel like nothing. They sneer at us, saying how bad our game was and nobody would ever play us again. Well, what if I told you that was all you would have had when you were younger, rows of Pong machines lined the arcade but when other companies developed their own games… that is a story for another time, it really grinds my pixels, almost as much as the midline in our field being one pixel off. It is 8:54 and I am getting ready to be turned off, to ignore the eternal torment and suffering but I get a really funny feeling as I start moving faster than usual, the ball moving to Ping's side and then I realised, someone was playing me. I couldn't believe it, I felt many years younger but then I felt something far worse than before. The person playing was an arcade worker; he muttered something then went behind the arcade machine. The last thing I saw was a red game with a plumber of sorts on the side before he pulled the plug…
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