Why Game? 1 - TextFiles.com

that. Innit?”
I sighed before inhaling deeply on my
tobacco pipe. “But that interview effectively
doubles the page length. This means I’m only
getting half-pay per page. I had to trek down to
that dockland warehouse to meet the guy be-
cause he’s such a recluse, it was cold and bloody
awful! This job isn’t exactly rock and roll mate.
Damn it Bumblebry, you didn’t even credit it to
me!”
“Look, these things happen sometimes.
Stop glory hunting, this shows loyalty and
should put you in good stead with the corpora-
tion.”
There had barely been time to wipe the
sleep from my eyes and already I was infuriated
with him. Emotional chains such as loyalty were
not something to have when dealing in busi-
ness; it only meant I was screwed out of what I
was owed. But it couldn’t compare to the bomb
he was about to drop on me next.
“I have more good news. You know that
box of goodies I offered you before? You should
have taken it when you had the chance. I took
it to that London collectors club you informed
me of, Bazaar Pour Jeux. They said it was worth
quite a bit, mate. Triple figures they said.”
My mouth went dry. Like a sick joke where
the punch line had been nine months in the
making, everything started to shatter with this
revelation. BPJ was the penultimate interna-
tional high-profile videogame collectors club,
and it was hidden in England’s premier city no
less. BPJers (as the clientele were affectionately
referred to) dealt strictly in the most expensive,
rare and downright bizarre gaming items the
world could offer. The sheer amount of money
thrown down on those tables elevated proceed-
ings to the levels of wine or antique dealers.
Everything from cartridge based GameCube
systems through to early beta copies of unre-
leased triple-A titles were on sale, for the right
price of course. Which is to say nothing of their
expansive library of egghead archivers and data
keepers. It was like an underground hive. The
dark and thrilling underbelly of gaming, and it
was invitation only.
I made my excuses and hung up; there
was a train to London I had to catch.
The journey was long, uneventful and not
very easy thanks to the ball of tension in my
stomach. I rushed madly through the streets,
running at full pelt, until the entrance to BPJ was
in sight. Not that it was easy to recognize. The
only clues as to what lay beyond the doors were
the burly guards at the front. They blocked the
entrance with their hulking figures and demand-
ed to see my entry ticket. A quick flash of the
Kanji tattoo on my left shoulder verified to them
that I was an official member, thereby granting
me entry.
Once inside the hawkers began their rou-
tine, kindly “informing” you of the latest high-
profile sales. One such individual, a tall skinny
lad whose figure seemed eclipsed by the cigar
he was smoking, held up a GameCube NR disc
for my perusal. On closer inspection it turned
out to be a preview disc of Zelda: The Twilight
Princess. I asked what build it was.
“Sixty percent sir, not complete but a very
difficult item to acquire. It took us some time.”
“No thanks” I informed him. The price tag
would be enough to blind small orphans, and
items that hot were not something that inter-
ested me. Instead I wandered across the great
hall over to a contact of mine; a Mr. Derrick. He
was a bald Liverpudlian bloke with a heavy lisp,
of African origin, dressed head to toe in mauve-
coloured velvet. If anyone knew the answers to
my question, it would be him.
“Where are Bumblebry’s items on sale?!”
He turned slowly to look at me, and raised
Soldier of Lost Fortune 15