Punch-Out!! in the Attic

Punch-Out!! in the Attic
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In my street wondering, juggling and skipping. I have found myself involved with negotiations at a personal market this May, trying hard to obtain an entertainment box that is grey. A young mother in a pair of pants elastic tight, winks at me and says ‘the price is always right’. What is this rhombus piece of plastic? The cartridge is stuck and just shows me static.   She said to blow emphatic, but it still won’t work in this attic. The red lettering stickered over and worn through, it means nothing to me, this planet has a weird thing with branding. Many hours were spent investing in a skill set of timing.

I’m hidden away in the upper staircase of this place she let me stay. Part of the negotiations was to pleasure to remunerate. So I remain, rectangular controller, filled with disdain. This little Mac avoiding the attack of a singular digital athlete; limited in movement to a figurative couple of feet. Yet I compete, with a punch or two and a star to complete. It’s a knockout, the opponent is no longer on his feet. The mustached plumber from the other games struts in and raises his arm yells TKO and the fight ends

Moving through a world of a varying variety a showman from each vicinity, I make it to the final stage of ‘Mike Ty’, I believe. If you dodge and weave and start to achieve the TKO that you need. Game over! That was easy as can be.

Spayce Geezus