Twenty Eighty-four

The last few nights have found me trapped in the cruel arena of Robotron 2084, batting away lumbering machinations, brilliant psychic brainbots and the ricocheting gun blasts of the beep-bop-boop world’s most sinister denizens; all the while rescuing the hapless humans doomed to wander these hellish cages.

Let’s not sugar-coat the experience, though, Robotron is a game that was designed by huge assholes. The only thing it’s missing is a tinny, robotic laugh sound effect for whenever you die. Actually, forget it, that might end up being the insular metallic tubing that breaks the cargo-transport’s back.

What purpose does all of this will-shattering work serve? Who has ordered me into the very depths of our future’s cybernetic hades? The “score board” to which I am a slave leads me to believe in something much more sinister than the fate of the human race. It’s like Running Man mixed with 300, but you’re all alone; Gerard Butler in a really gay futuristic dance club outfit.

But even more sinister than this twisted world is the futility of mastering it. After all, this is the King of Robotron to which I must bow down and never usurp:

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