III.
The week went by, and on the night,
Ralph found himself in "Pac-Man's" rec room.
Upon the wall, he saw festooned
"Bad-Anon: One Game At A Time"—
the words to him meant little. He had
heard them said, but what could they
do either way, for those so sad?
Ralph drew a coffee, found a chair,
and joined the ring of Bad Guys there.
They spoke of life, the feelings that
their lives of isolation brought.
At last came time for Ralph to speak—
he'd been quite ready, all the week.
The lake undammed, the tale poured out:
the building, wrecking, fixing, and—
the landing in the mud, face down.
He said the hardest cut of all
was ostracism—by one, by all.
To be the Good Guy just for once
seemed pleasure sweet, he did confess.
"Good share," said Clyde, the "Pac-Man" ghost,
who held these meetings. "We all know
this very feeling you describe—
when all and sundry run and hide
at sight of you. But so it goes:
We must accept things as they are.
That is our word, our bond, our life."
"What sense makes this?" asked Ralph. "Can you
not think of other strategy?"
Another spoke. The undead, Zombie,
said to Ralph: "No good! No bad!
Love you for you!" Ralph scratched his head.
Said Clyde, "Now Ralph, we know it's hard.
You'll have to work. But tell us why,
for all these years, you've never come—
and then tonight?" Ralph cleared his throat:
"Of late it has occurred to me
that our game's anniversary
falls now. Tonight is thirty years."
The ring of Bad Guys joined as one
to wish Ralph well, this milestone,
a badge of pride not oft achieved.
But Ralph went on: "Well, here's the deal—
I cannot for years longer feel
this torment, that will never cease."
He paused for breath; he knew what next
he said would scare them half to death—
"I don't want to be the Bad Guy anymore."
They reeled in shock; such words as these
were treason, a direct insult
to health, to order—to life itself.
M. Bison spoke: "You going Turbo
on us, friend?" Ralph, angrily, said:
"For goodness' sake! That's not my aim.
But is it 'Turbo', just to want,
a friend, some pie, more out of life?"
All spoke at once—the voice of Clyde rang out:
"We get it, Ralph—but do not mess
with how things are. The sooner that
you understand, the better that
your game—and life—will be! Now
let's join hands and end our time
today with oúr usual prayer."
All spoke as one:
"I'm Bad, and that's good.
I will never be Good, and that's not bad.
There's no one I'd rather be—than me."
The meet broke up; Ralph shook his head
at all the things he'd heard there said.
"It makes no sense, to just cave thus;
I don't know what I might have hoped
I'd get from this—this was not it.
I'm as confused as when I came.
Let's get some cherries for a snack—
who knows if I will here be back?"
Quietly he made his way
Cross GCS towards "home"—but
first he saw a sight that oft
did make his heart quite sad: Outside
his home game wretched figures sat
begging for alms—their game unplugged.
He brightened, thinking, "Finally
I've got something that I can share!"
Here you go", he spoke. "It's fresh."
And placed before the sad orange ball
a cherry. "Straight from 'Pac-Man'.
Hang in there, guys", he said with hope,
that fresh food might their spirits lift.
And so here's Ralph—his gen'rous heart
hedged all about by pinpricks sharp
from idiots who don't seem to see
the goodness there, but only that
his job's to wreck—and so conclude
that such a one must have no heart
worth speaking of. (A sigh. Alas.)