And You Won’t Even Throw Your BACK Out!

These days you can’t throw a gaming console in a video game store without hitting a game about shooting aliens or racing cars or playing sports. Also, you can’t throw consoles in a video game store because it’s probably not allowed. Also, you should be staying at home anyway because of Corona. Also, its way easier to download games instead of buying them in stores.

That’s what I did- via Xbox Game Pass; I downloaded a game, and it wasn’t about shooting aliens in the face, or driving cars that cost more than my house, or playing sports (remember sports? Bunch of dudes getting paid stupid amounts of money to play with a ball and give each other Corona virus? Ah, memories). Nope, this was a game about throwing video game consoles.

And other pieces of furniture. In Moving Out, you run into houses, grab pieces of furniture, and pull them onto a truck. Or throw them, if they’re small enough. And if you break a few windows along the way, or vases, so what. This is a video game, for crying out loud (although I would not be surprised in the least to find out there’s an authentic furniture moving simulator out there, with different levels of difficulty, from helping-a-friend-and-drinking-beer all the way up to professional-international-transport engineering-and-drinking-beer).

It’s a race against the clock, of course. Jump through the living room window, grab the L-shaped couched, drag it through the back door, then go back and grab the video game console, head upstairs, throw it from the second floor bathroom, and then toss one of the beds off the balcony. Do it fast enough, and you get a gold star. A gold star for throwing a mattress off a balcony! This is, like, training for how to have fun at parties! (Remember parties? Bunch of people getting stupid wasted while listening to obnoxiously loud music and giving each other novel Corona virus?)

Houses are repeatable, so you can achieve extra, disparate goals, such as “Finish a move with no windows broken,” or “Finish a move with all windows broken,” or “Pack the pink flamingos too.” Also, there’s a gnome on every level, I think, although I don’t know what to do with those yet. I didn’t touch them on the few houses I played. Gnomes freak me out.

If you have Xbox Games Pass and nothing to do, go ahead and download Moving Out and play it for half an hour, see if you like it. Or, I don’t know, go make a Tik-Tok video and throw some real furniture. You’re probably not a doctor or work in a grocery store, so nothing you do really matters these days anyway.

And if you ARE a doctor or work in a grocery store, a sincere thanks.

Rico. Over Quya.

Helicopters aren’t what they used to be. Not a bad thing. Fuel injected, fewer parts, not reliable but more reliable. Rico has managed to secure one, or, more precisely, secure the services of a helicopter pilot who has one. A Spinoza Whirlyjet, fast, small on radar, and silent. Relatively speaking, as even the quietest ‘copter will still out-shout the loudest Ford Fiesta.

His manly man-breath, hot, spicy, redolent of tacos al pastor, cheap tequila, cheaper putanas. Caresses the microphone on his headset, bathes it in humidity, making it wet and shiny like a lover’s taut nipple. “There,” he says. 

Why am I shivering, the pilot, Forutna, thinks to herself. This is Solis, a tropical island nation. Mean temperature: 27 degrees. Celsius. I’m 27. I’ve been 27 for what feels like years now. And still not a woman. And yet this man. What did he say? She’s a little girl again, warm, safe in her papi’s arms, pretending to sleep as he carries her up to her room. His calloused, strong hands laying her gently in her bed, the kiss on her forehead, and the sweet, sweet succumbing to sleep. Papi always smelled of cerveza, sweat, she remembers, like every other man in the village. But something else, something more. Leather.

“A little lower, I think,” he says. A growl, but smooth, like a puma’s, seduces her. She’s shivering. She’s sweating. Her heart is pounding in rhythm to the Whirlyjet’s Turbo Mecca Ariel. She wants to abandon the controls, rip off her headset, leap over the seat, sink her teeth into this desperado’s neck, and as the chopper falls out of the sky, devour him whole, coming alive, finally, at 27, with the fiery crash setting the jungle ablaze and splashing the atmosphere with the stink of this man’s lambskin-soft leather jacket, her lust.

Rico belches. Lime, cilantro, onions. Opens the door, throws himself out without ceremony. Six hundred feet above the Bautista building. Trades the roar of the Whirlyjet for the roar of Galileo’s  nine point eight meters per second per second in his ears. Five hundred. Three hundred. One. Pops his ‘chute, conquers the din, floats. His contact waits below. Her name is Izzy. She’s a spy, gathering intelligence for the Army of Chaos, a rebel born. 

Later, Izzy and Fortuna will discuss Rico. Oh yes they will.

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