Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,62

blank of legible expression, tongue stowed away.

Coffen braces himself for the worst: security being called, roughing him up a bit on the walk from the building. Dumper refusing to honor his three-hundred-plus hours of paid time off. Dumper slandering his name with every contact he’s ever made in the business, making it almost impossible for Bob to get another gig. It’s a risk but one Coffen has to take; he sees no other way. He has to get fired. He needs permission to never come back here, as sick as that sounds. He won’t do it on his own.

Finally, Dumper says, “I doubt I’m alone in wanting to heap congratulations on top of you like syrup on pancakes. I asked for edgy and you gave me edgy. It’s extreme, but I think the targeted demo will froth for it.”

“You like it?” Bob asks.

“It’s exactly what I hoped for.”

“Really? What about the avatar? Do you like his look?”

“What a dope! I love how he’s dressed like your average Tom, Dick, or Harry. It’s actually funnier that you didn’t make him some creep. He looks like any working stiff.” Dumper starts laughing. “A working stiff who likes to boink dogs.”

“I’m surprised you like it,” Bob says.

“You are a genius,” Dumper says. “Isn’t he a genius, gang?”

“Yes, yes,” the teammates say, still howling. “He is indeed a genius!”

Coffen panics. Getting fired is the only way to get out of this job. He’s not strong enough to do it on his own. He’ll never make the change without being shoved, like a baby bird being heaved from the nest, a fledgling forced to fly under its own power.

Everything Bob once loved about building games is gone. It’s been tarnished, denigrated. It’s digressed from art to the ultimate farce, and it’s his own fault. Nobody made him stay at DG. Nobody made him earn that fucking plock. He acted through his inaction. He chose a path by default. Scroo Dat Pooch and these kinds of imbecilic games are futile. He can get back to his art—he can build new ones, he will build new ones—games that are fun and smart at the same time. The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Escapism doesn’t require the inane. Yes, his next title will be about simply preserving your sense of self—or re-establishing a sense of self you’ve let rust. A sense of self that hasn’t gotten the necessary attention. The game doesn’t need an antagonist hopped up on mutated genetics. It doesn’t need lasers. Or cannibals. It doesn’t need Navy SEALs infected with a flesh-eating virus or vampires hunting you down or werewolves capturing you in a corner, licking their chops, eyeballing you as their next square meal. It doesn’t need to take place on another planet. Doesn’t need terrorists or dinosaurs or nuclear weapons or mutated crocodiles. Psychopaths aren’t a necessary ingredient. Rogue pooch-screwers aren’t foundational elements. No, the peril is right here. Peril covers more of the earth than the oceans. Peril is around us with every gasp, each lap around the sun, every whirl on the axis. Every sunup, sundown. Every eclipse. Every greenhouse gas. Every oil spill. Every endangered species. Every unfounded fear. Every founded fear. Every nightmare. Every diagnosis. Every time an alcoholic takes that next sip. Every gambler losing the mortgage money. Every affair. Every backhand. Every abandonment. Every deception. Every time a family falls apart. Every divorce. Every life. Each life. Bob’s life. Your life. The peril is simple. The peril is us. It’s the plight of the people of now.

“You guys got my green light,” Dumper says. “Build this bad boy. Make it a masterpiece.”

“You can keep the plock,” says Bob. “Robert’s days are done.”

“You’re taking a personal day?” Dumper asks.

“You’ve seen the last of Robert Coffen.”

“What?”

“Robert’s officially stepping down.”

“What about the new game?”

“Have him do it,” Coffen says and points at the mouth-breather.

“You’re quitting?”

And that’s that. There’s no screaming scene. He doesn’t demean Dumper with a melody of profanity. No need to go down in any kind of spectacle—he already tried that by building the damn game and it didn’t work. Seems the only way for him to leave this place is of his own accord. Under his own power. And there’s no time like the present. Might as well march out. So he struts from the conference room, past his teammates and the beanbags. Past Dumper and LapLand and its lifeguards. Past the whole preschool of his coworkers. He sees their young faces. He sees their