This Game Is Dangerous I Tells Ya My friend J- and I have a problem. An addiction really, the kind of thing that we don't like to talk about much but is an undeniable part of our lives. We are sadly stricken by the desperate need to play air hockey. I can, even now, hear your derisive laughter over the digital strings of the internet. That's ok though, I expect nobody to understand the this strange compulsion. The thrill of breezy combat. The sense of victory at the execution of a well placed bank shot. The agony of a heartbreakingly close loss (or white hot rage induced by a miserable failure, though we won't speak of that). It's just one of the many reasons we're kind of freaky and you'll just have to accept it. So it was that J- and I were recently avoiding our supposed task of discussing some business matters via a heated game of the air hockey. It was a particularly heated game. Perhaps it was the sickly sweet smell of brine and bitter long-shore men blowing off the bay, or maybe it was that the eye-patched legless pirate that had been sitting a few stools down from us had slipped us a mickey in a failed attempt to shanghigh us. Either way we were playing with a gusto that often resulted in the puck flying willy nilly from the playing surface. The puck ejected off the side rails and into the walls. Off hands and arms in a less than pleasant display. Often times it simply gained lift and flew half way across the bar in a seeming attempt to escape its abusers. The game had seemingly gone on for an eternity as J- lined up a shot. Sweat collecting on his brow he meant business; and he was in the market for kicking my ass. He swept a powerful side arm shot and almost immediately the puck once again lifted off the table, and in the blink of an eye had flown past my side. I heard a tinkling pop that screamed of broken glass and turned around to find that the pint of beer I had on the table behind me had been struck down by the puck. Shattered in almost two perfect pieces, beer everywhere creating a scene of boozy, murderous mayhem. J- and I paused for a moment considering the absurdity of a sturdy glass vessel being completely wrecked by such an innocuous object before sheepishly explaining to the bartender what we had done. Then he kicked my ass.
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