The Failing Game (standard:Satire, 1991 words)
Author: FlutterWrites	Added: Dec 08 2013	Views/Reads: 8741/2739	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A unnamed witty protagonist recounts the ordeal of a job interview, comparing it to playing a boss in a video game.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

fearlessness. At least until the adrenaline wears off. 

Staring at the elevator numbers that gradually get larger, you fidget in
your shoes, counting the remaining ammo that are your resumés left in 
the satchel. All of a sudden, bing! The doors swoosh open and another 
level is complete. Now begins the interview floor level, the quest to 
find the big, bad boss himself. After all, since when do 
self-respecting top dogs of any game genre announce their location so 
forthrightly? 

Scanning the wide sweeps of a posh waiting room, you take your seat,
awaiting your turn from among the other players . Survivors from 
earlier appointments straggle in from the wide glass doors, looking 
utterly dejected at their defeat. Hunched with shame they return to 
their shanty apartment fortresses , forced to restart their game play. 
Perfect credentials are no match for the prowess of this big cheese. 

Chatter from other potential candidates mix with the curious whispers of
the established employees. Speculation abounds as to who will be hired. 
It plays as ominous music in your mind, the kind played when a pack of 
bloodthirsty genetically altered monsters are about to swarm a 
corridor. 

Your name is called. A moment of silence is given by your compatriots as
you walk into what may as well be death row. But, scared as you are, 
you are not a cowardly conquistador! The night before was spent 
thoroughly practicing your interview behavior. Crafting the well-worded 
speech to make you sound intelligent but, willing to grow. Confident, 
but a team-player. Sophisticated, but down to earth. Were you a tree 
falling in the forest, you'd only make a sound if it was approved by 
your superiors. 

Walking the fine line between the  go-getter and a brown-noser is a
blood sport. 

At last, you meet Mr. Bigshot. Or Ms. Bigshot, you're not biased. Your
fear of unemployment is open-minded that way. 

However, in this case the ruling top dog is definitely a he-man.
Although, due to the over application of hair gel, a set of precisely 
waxed brows, and the especially overpowering designer aftershave 
drenching his visage, one could understand the confusion. 

After pronouncing your name wrong, an error you don't dare correct, you
are ushered into his office. A private one- on- one battle. Exercising 
your muscles in politeness judo, you answer small talk questions and 
ask a few banal ones yourself. 

Wasting no time, you launch into your classic one, two punch. Education
and relevant experience. Touting your accomplishments, making sure to 
use big words, you carefully guide your sentences into calm waters of 
competence and responsibility. 

And then, wham! 

“Why do you feel that you are qualified for this position?” 

With one question he lays siege to your navy formation, sinking all of
your battleships in one swooping motion. It's an aquatic suckerpunch 
that would make King Neptune proud. 

A perfectly reasonable question, that just so happens to double as a
test in your reflexes. 

Answer too confidently and be labeled an overcompensating fool with no
decorum, that no high- falutin' company would dare hire. Answer too 
modestly and be labeled a weakling, unable to partake in the time 
honored tradition of squeezing blood out of wide-eyed interns. 

“I like to let my reputation speak for myself.” 

You sidestepped that frontal assault with a shuffle and a z-snap.
Thinkin' that you be a big balla' rollin' dirty, you hand over the 
sacred scroll. Your resumé. All that is left of this battle, is the 
waiting. 

His brows furrow,his eyes scrutinize every last detail. Generating
cryptic sighs every few seconds, his palm alternates from resting from 
on top his hand carved mahogany desk, to underneath a generously 
moisturized chin. It is impossible to determine the meaning behind this 
breathy symphony. 

To steady yourself, you eye the various wall decorations. A detailed oil
painting of what seems to be a contorting, bleeding geisha catches your 
eye. Politeness dictates that you should not gawk at such a macabre 
subject. As well as keep your jaw closed, which chooses to ignore you 
and falls halfway down to the floor. As Murphy's law would have it, it 
is the exact moment that your potential employer decides to have a look 
in your direction. 

“Do you enjoy European opera?” he asks, in interest. “ I myself am
partial to Puccini's work.” Beaming, he then yaks about the dead 
playwright's genius. 

Ah yes, it all makes sense now, it's a scene from some opera you've
never cared to see. 

Hmm, was it a Madame Butterfly or a Madame Dragonfly who commits suicide
in the name of unrequited love all to the tune of clanging symbols? 
Maybe it's another bug species entirely. 

Just as you're about to chime in with your love of the Les Misérables
film adaption, belting out a few mangled lines of “ I  Dreamed a 
Dream”, the subject, along with his method of attack changes entirely. 
“Oh yes, I also love European sport cars.. it's just something about 
the style...” 

Blah blah blah goes his pretentious speech about how much moolah he's
laid on his new Lambourghini. 

Or was it a linguini? Linguini is a car brand right? 

“Ahh yes.. My car is pure poetry...”he rambles  on about his Lambo like
a machine gun with endless bullets. 

It's the perfect time fire off a round of relevant poems that will add
sizzle to your suave combat. If only your brain would get it together 
and approve the order for a haiku air strike. Banished to obscurity 
after passing that Lit.101 class you were forced to take in college, 
you frantically reinstate those Goethe poems back to memory. 

Too late, target is now out of range. 

“...Blah Blah But, I guess I'm just a good ol' boy at heart, with old
Americana tastes.” He ruggedly chuffs like a tiger, who lived his 
entire life in a zoo, but struts around the enclosure as if he 
single-handedly mauled an entire Bengali village. 

Old –fashioned Americana. Images of jukeboxes , muscle cars and pizza
delivery boys who arrive at your house faster than ambulances come to 
mind. It's an arsenal that you ought know well. Fight badly here, and 
in addition to unemployment, you could earn the consternation of Uncle 
Sam himself upon your sorry shoulders. 

Discussing football is out, you can't remember how many innings are in a
game. 

Ignoring the stuffed animal head mounted over his sprawling office
lounge, and knowing nothing of the finer points of taxidermy, you 
contemplate your last plan of attack. You're down to one weapon and a 
single cannonball. Violin strings of epic fight music are starting to 
warm up....Fire!! 

“I know what you mean, I myself am more of an old Ford Mustang
person...” On and on you go on about the grand pappy of all pony cars. 

Direct Hit! Clearly shocked at your knowledge of classic car history,
his perfectly square jaw droops to a rectangle. Paralyzed completely, 
shrapnel engulfs him while you yammer on the power of the first 
generations and how they whip the sissy remakes silly. 

Could it be? Is the beast slain!? The trumpets of victory are blaring,
and your hope is soaring at the prospect of being able to afford more 
than ramen this month. 

He stands, straight as a spear, extends his palm forward and is about to
congratulate the victor by awarding him his very own cubicle. Holding 
your breath, you wait to hear those coveted words, ‘You're hired.' 

“Thank you for your time.” And with that record needle scratch, the kiss
of death is bestowed. Limping out of his office, you restrain the 
whimpers clawing their way out of your throat as best you can. Stock 
options may have gone up in smoke, but your dignity shall remain 
intact. At least until you're in the privacy of your shoebox apartment, 
wailing all over a pint of Rocky Road. 

As you exit the building, an 8bit sound melody plays in your head, not
unlike those heard at retro arcade joints. A pixilated screen forms 
inside your mind, a sad-faced character disappointed at your failure, 
counts down the seconds to your next decision. 

Game Over, Loser. Would you like to play again? 10.. 9...8..7... 


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