VI.
Reader, have you noticed that
if Ralph was truly bad in heart,
he'd've wrecked the building, then and there?
None at the party made the link,
their lazy minds too stupefied
by years of habit.—Such is life.
Ralph left the party in a huff,
and went to Tapper's—as his wont.
So barkeeps down the years have done,
good Tapper had a second job—
as therapist for all who sat,
poured out their woes, and then—"one more".
"I just gotta win a medal, Tap'—
I gotta show them that I can
win medals good as any one.
Now you know games—please tell me, do—
where can I get one, publican?
I'm desp'rate, I just can't abide
the thought of going back without
a shiny medal in my hand;
such currency is all they know—
without one, I'll to madness go."
Sadly, Tapper did reply:
"I don't think there is such a game—
but tell you what: there, in the back's my
'lost and found'. Go have a look:
perhaps you'll find a medal there."
And so from dreams of derring-do,
descending from expedience
to find a medal in the trash,
Ralph found himself. "Oh well. Let's see—"
In Tapper's back room lay a box
of random things, and bits of stuff.
He rummaged through this box with care
in hopes a medal might be there;
but all he found was lots of junk—ugh!
A pair of Zangief's wrestling shorts!
A tiny roach did venture out
upon Ralph's shirt—he flicked it off—
no different than his life at home,
his search, it seemed, would be in vain.
A foot nudged Ralph—"'Scuse you!", he growled.
The owner of the foot, it seemed,
was walking blindly, in a dream.
"Our mission—we are earth's last hope—
destroy all Cy-Bugs—else despair—
our mission—" did roll from the lips
of this sleepwalker, clad in black.
His outfit did bespeak a life
in outer space, bereft of air;
it bristled with acoutrements
of war, of fighting, and of death.
"Are you okay there, Space Cadet?"
asked Ralph of this quite troubled one.
"We've only been plugged in a week
and every day: climb up, fight bugs;
climb up, fight bugs; climb up! Fight bugs!
I'm going crazy, can't you see?!
And all for what? You may well ask—
a lousy medal is the prize."
Ralph caught his breath. "A medal, say?
Oh, is it shiny?" "Fairly so."
"And it's awarded for the feat
of climbing buildings?" "And fighting bugs!"
"Yeah, fighting bugs. Look, can you say
if I could come with you and win
one of these lousy medals? Hmm?"
"That's negatory!" "Huh?" "No way!
Just best and bravest serve with us—
humanity's last hope—A BUG!"
On Ralph's wide shoulders there had dropped
the previous roach. 'Twas this the soldier
seemed to fear—in fact, passed out,
slumped to the floor. "Well, thanks, Friend Roach—
it seems we have a soldier down.
Good work! At ease! Dismissed! Hats off!"
Straightaway Ralph set to work,
he'd don the suit; join the Space Force;
climb the building; claim the prize;
give Nicelanders a huge surprise.
He kept his clothes, and did put on
the "Hero's Duty" uniform
(for that's what this somnambulist
had called his game). Ralph knew the perfect
thing to clothe the soldier in:
the used, discarded wrestling trunks
of Zangief. "What a big, huge laugh!"
A voice came on the intercom
of GCS: "Five minutes 'til our
opening—go to your games
and there prepare you for your day of
combat, racing, chasing—now!"
Ralph left the bar in his space suit—
he found it hard to get around
and see—it was too new to him.
He crossed the way to his new game
but tripped upon an obstacle
unseen by him in any way.
'Twas Q*Bert: the sad orange ball
whom Ralph had lately given alms.
"Now—soft, friend Q*Bert, it's just me:
old Wreck-it Ralph, adventuring."
He stumbled on towárds the gate
of Hero's Duty—what there'd await?
(While Q*Bert scratched his head and thought,
"What is Ralph up to? Mighty odd.")