Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,7

game together. He learned the trade back in a dark age when, god forbid, humans had to do the coding themselves. He constructed entire ecosystems from his imagination, dreamed up elaborate, sinister narratives for his characters. Bob saw this creation as pure beauty, on the same level as writing a sonata or chiseling a sculpture from a slab of marble. But at a certain point, technology ruined it for Coffen. Talent didn’t matter if any idiot could cut and paste stock images, drag them into a prefab world, and pass that schlock off as a game. His job, once ripe with art and self-expression, was spoiled. The sonatas were silent. The marble was safe.

Now Dumper says, “Let’s get our company back to being the big men on campus.”

“And one woman,” the only woman on our team says.

“Of course,” Dumper says. “Beaucoup apologies. Anybody have another idea?”

A normally quiet team member launches into his pitch: “What about this gem: a game called Hey, That’s My Meth Lab! You’ll be a rival speed dealer trying to blow up all of your competitors’ meth labs.”

“How would you win that game?” the mouth-breather says, no doubt feeling competitive since his suggestion also covered narcotics territory.

“Once everybody’s buying your crank, you are crowned the champion of meth. You are the sultan of amphetamines.”

“No more ideas that have to do with drugs, okay?” Dumper says. “Next time we brainstorm like this, there will be a moratorium on illicit substances. Anybody else?” Dumper looks more and more like he’s regretting asking this team to think in an impromptu way.

Another team member quickly seizes the moment to showcase his immense potential for design: “Everyone I know—and I’m right smack in the heart of the demo we’re discussing—loves conspiracy theories. So what if we built a game that’s like a puzzle to solve an ancient riddle about how extraterrestrials aren’t extra at all. They’re us; they’re terrestrials. We are all aliens, bro! Extraterrestrials are terrestrials and vice versa. Can you imagine? People would wig out!”

“Is that what ‘terrestrial’ means? It means human?” the mouth-breather says.

The showcaser continues: “Yeah, humans. Us. We are us, but we are also aliens. We’re all god’s terrestrials. It’s like a metaphor for racism.”

“And why would your demo want to play a metaphor for racism?” Dumper asks.

“Because racism metaphors don’t have to be boring. There will be kickass explosions and topless ladies, sir. Lasers. Flying, time-traveling Cadillacs. If it has the potential to be awesome, it will be a highlighted component of the game. No questions asked.”

“So what’s the conspiracy theory exactly?”

“We’re aliens! What’s more of a conspiracy than finding out you’re something other than what you thought you were?”

“It’s the best bad idea so far,” says Dumper.

“We’re all something other than what we thought we’d be,” Coffen says.

Everybody stares at him.

Dumper says, “So you like the terrestrial idea then, Coffen?”

“I hate the idea.”

“Me, too,” Dumper says. “Have you got anything that might impress the Great One? Can you astound me like you used to do back in the good old Disemboweler days?”

All of us in this room are imbeciles, Bob thinks, working for a man-boy in a Gretzky sweater. He’s our pimp. He profits on laying our imaginations on their backs or bending them over a barrel and banging them from behind or reverse-cowgirling our imaginations until he gets all he wants, leaving them spent and soiled, discarded like losing lottery tickets.

Coffen decides to defend his imagination’s honor by pointing out to all in attendance how vapid Dumper is: The Great One wants something to tickle the lowest common denominator? Bongs and meth labs be damned. This meeting is about to hit the basement. The denominator at the center of the earth.

“Bestiality,” Coffen says.

“What now?” Dumper asks.

“What’s edgier than bestiality? I could see this becoming a cult classic. Do you know how many drugged-up undergrads would love this?”

The team starts tittering.

After several seconds, Dumper says, “How would it work?”

“May I stand up to demonstrate?” Bob asks.

“Of course,” Malcolm Dumper says, and here comes his humungous tongue, slowly slithering out.

It takes Bob about ten seconds to jimmy his weight off of the beanbag. He’s still pretty woozy, only about twelve hours removed from the oleander incident. Jane had tried to talk him into taking the day off, but he’d insisted on coming to work. Why had he fought her to come here? For this? For beanbags? For bestiality?

Coffen is finally standing up. His imagination needs a neighborhood watch with Dumper around, a rape whistle.

“It would