I.
Of one man's first transgression,
and the evils that thence flowed,
we treat of here. For name the tale to me
that does not either spring from crime,
or else unknowing missteps made.
And so, in the beginning, was this arcade.
The honest Litwak saved his dough,
a pleasure-palace filled with video,
would he purvey. At last the day
arrived—doors opened wide! In came
the throngs of young and older, there
to test their strength in games of skill—
Four plays for just one dollar bill.
Since stories spring from sins original
the games of Litwak posed ancient riddles:
here is the villain, there the rot—
can you now, hero, show what you've got?
The gamers shot, the gamers jumped,
they raced in cars—consoles were thumped.
Hooray, said Litwak, success is mine,
these games shall last long into time.
This did not end it, reader—else
why write an epic poem, quires long,
with only this to fill the song?
What Litwak did not know—nor gamers blithe—
was that the denizens of games had life!
As in far Flatland, what to us
seemed two dimensions, was for these folk
a world of light and sound and space.
Not only this—they thought and felt
all that we do, both good and bad;
had dreams and hopes and plans—alas,
some blocked by others' hands.
Among the many folk within,
there was a racer, dressed in white,
whom gamers liked to race to wins
when driving was their chosen thing.
The racer, too, enjoyed acclaim,
his name festooned upon the game—
"Turbo Time". Nameless drivers
clad in blue would suffer loss,
to this one's glee—a poorer sport
could not be found. Things continued
in this way for years, and many
cups did Turbo win—and then—
as things went, in the wider world—
a new track came upon the scene.
"Road Blasters" was a brand-new game,
and made debut with great acclaim.
The gamers flocked around its screen,
to play, race, and wipe out (with screams).
Its fame was sure—the quarter-box
filled every day, to evident
delight of honest Litwak. But one
among the folk this did not please;
as his world became quite still—
this Turbo looked upon the scene
and was beset by feelings ill.
"I am the best, and I must win!";
thus felt this base and selfish man—
and so journeyed forth in darkness.
Travel for the gaming folk
was easily done. Since they themselves
were bits of power, to travel wires
was small matter. The power strip
which linked the games was known to all
as "GCS"—Game Central
Station, meeting spot for tout le monde,
a place to see, be seen, relax,
and visit.
Turbo snuck through GCS
along with race car—no mean feat—
to get himself onto the track
to race, and prove himself still best.
But he had not worked out aright
the actual platform of the game,
and since it did not match his own,
he stuck out—in this game, quite wrong.
The gamers beefed to good Litwak, who
sadly pulled the plug—on both.
There it sat.
These racers all did disappear
into thin air—with this came fear
to all the others, left behind,
that leaving games in daylight hours
was quite off-piste, the worst thing that
in gaming world, a one could do.
It quickly gained a name: this
"going Turbo" was the sin
beyond all others, and the folk
did warn each other of the harm
that came from wanton exercise
of ego—said in other words:
"Do not go messing with the program—
it's our life!" Of course, of Turbo,
no further thing was heard.
Of course.