This chilled me to the bone.
I was touring Steve’s Retro Room, and I leafed through his newly acquired collection of arcade cabinet marquees. I pulled this one out and felt a million guns of empathy shoot a million bullets of sadness and guilt right through my cerebro-arterial core.
Frogger was a regular guy on his way to work. Dear god. He was probably an aspiring art director at a small catalog-design shop. That tie was a gift from his fiancee, a nice little shovelnose he’d been thinking of having tadpoles with some day. I’m going to be sick.
He was on his way to work. He was probably late - note the wristwatch, the unbuttoned vest - which is why he got to the road at rush hour. Usually he’d beat it, no problem. Jesus christ, that poor frog.
The car is running over his fragile foot, the foot he needs not just to get to work, but to hop up to his third-leaf apartment. He can’t afford health insurance, not the way the sales have been lately.
You are playing for his life. His literal life. Heaven help him.
