II.

The years rolled by. Games came and went
as clouds cross skies, to leave small trace.
But some stayed put—among them, one
of which we have the purpose to unfold.
The game's name? "Fix-it Felix Junior".

Here, there lay a green and pleasant land—
a wild wood, home to a wild man.
The story went a bit like this:
One "Wreck-it Ralph"—the wild man—
did dwell in quiet, in a stump.
And then, upon a dark, dark day
come builders 'pon that very spot
to sudd'nly build a tower block.
This Ralph, in truth, he takes it hard;
he's forthwith banished to a dump,
it's that—or go. No other choice.

Would you not think, dear reader, that
this hapless, wrongéd swain
might be the central hero of this game?
You might. But Fate (and TobiKomi)
both had other things in mind,
and our poor Ralph, alas, was not
the one the gamer did control.

The play proceeds—Ralph, angered by
this building, rudely placed upon
his land, strikes back: he climbs the walls
of "Niceland"—evil name to Ralph!—
and starts, with giant fists, to pound,
to bring this Niceland to the ground.

At this grave danger comes a shout
from those in Niceland—the cry goes out:
"Fix it, Felix!" And at a stroke
out leaps "our" Felix, tools in hand,
to answer prayers (and their command).
The stick and buttons at the reach
of gamers swift, control the scope
of Felix' lift, and with his magic
hammer put to right
the damage done by Ralph's attack.

And when a level is complete,
there comes a scene of deep disquiet—
if one is keeping firm in mind
th' original tableau. There stand
upon the building's roof the cast entire:
Ralph, Felix, and the residents.
From skies above down there descends
a shiny medal for the one
who, with a smile, fixed all the holes
made in the walls, so they would stand.
While looking on with downcast mien
stands Wreck-it Ralph, his work undone.

But, reader, there remains to tell
of one last slight—unkind, yes—hell!
The Nicelanders, in victory,
grab Ralph and hoist him high aloft.
Defenestrate, without a frame, the loser—who
comes hard to earth; lands in the mud…
and that's the game! Next quarter, please.

Now when our Litwak closes shop
and heads to bed, the gaming stops.
The world's a stage, but in the night,
the "players" rest—they too, repose.
Some go to bed, some go to think,
and, as with us, some go to drink.
Much hearty fellowship is had
by one and—ah, well—almost all.

You see, there is within this world,
an odd blind spot. It seems that—
of all among the gaming folk,
"Bad Guys" alone do comprehend
where life begins, and games do end.
In other words—"it's just a job!"—
say villains to their comrades blithe
at closing time, and offer hands
of friendship—which, alas, are never
met with any words but "No—
to fraternize goes 'gainst our grain,
as you're our en'my in our game."

Did this myop'ia issue from
the crime of Turbo? Do recall,
"Stick with the program", was the cry
they valued, highest of them all.
Oh, reader, we shall never know
what brought them here—but there it is.
And so, the off-hours private lives
of villains from games far and wide
were lonesome—yea, this much is sure.

For Ralph it was no different—at night,
he wandered lonely as a cloud,
'twixt pile of bricks made by his work
and watering hole off GCS
named Tapper's. This place
'twas by an humble barkeep run,
Tapper his name—tapping, his life.
Ralph and other Bad Guys, there
would frequent, and as frequently,
bemoan their lot; cry in their beer,
get into fights, call Good Guys stupid,
dream of some rights—All was in vain.

Now as we said, years came and went.
Things went like this, no end in sight;
if quarters came, things were all right.
And then, one night, upon the bricks
that were his bed, it came to Ralph—
a calendar. Soon would it be
a large-ish anniversary.
Full thirty years would he have toiled
to wreck things well, and keep from spoil
the game itself. And would there be
scant thanks for him? For what he brings
is what calls forth fair Felix' fixing things.
Sighing, lying on the bricks,
he answered, "No. There won't—
and this is what I can't abide—
another score and ten of years
living lonely, and outside."

He had a heart—bigger than most!—
and longed to help where such help lacked.
No wrecker he, in literal words—
he would have liked to cultivate
his pleasant land; be friend to man
and beast alike, and live in peace.
He often thought capricious Fate
proud of Itself, to have ensconced
a heart like his in such a lot.

Of Bad Guys, every seventh day—
met, to talk their cares away—
Ralph never joined. He felt it daft
to gather thus, and wallow in
the sting of wrongs they daily met—
and so, as said, he never went.
But on this night, something did move
within the soul upon those bricks.
"It's thirty years—I sudd'nly feel
a need to talk. I doubt 'twill heal
a doggone thing—but this is what
I want to do. Next week, I'll go."
And with those words, he fell to sleep.