A Kotick Carol, Part Two

A Kotick Carol, Part One

Bright lights and loud noises accompanied Bobby Kotick on his journey through the very fabric of time and space itself, culminating in an ear-piercing, high-frequency yelp that he couldn’t place his finger upon. Realising that it was, in fact, the sound of him screaming like a girl, he rapidly ceased and took in the world.

All around him, young rosy-faced people flocked from place-to-place as snow descended from the skies above, decorating his surroundings with a glistening white cover. Some wore sports jackets, others kept to themselves behind thick-rimmed glasses; Bobby noticed nobody on a cellphone and very few with earphones.

Bobby’s attention was diverted by the sight of the deathly-white Tony Hawk kickflipping from the void, landing nigh-on beside him and scooping up his board.

“Do you know where you are dude? Man, check out those Walkmans, brings back memories.”

Something inside Bobby’s head clicked, and he knew: he was back on campus at the University of Michigan. The beginnings of his career would sprout here, when he would begin to program for the Apple II computer and quit education to make a life for himself as an entrepreneur.

“I know where I am! And, it must be – ”, he trailed off, darting off to find a college newspaper, “-the 24th! It’s Christmas Eve; Christmas Eve 1982! Men at Work were number one in the Billboard chart…Tootsie was number one in the box office! Think of all that money they were making!”

The Ghost of Extreme Christmas Past rolled his eyes and prodded Bobby in the back. “Let’s go see what you were doing this year, dude.”

“Oh! Just wait till you, uh, see, Mr Hawk!” winced Bobby as he shuffled along. “I was Mr Popular here! I had as many friends as Mark Zuckerberg has now! No, more!”

“Uh huh,” echoed the Hawkster’s reply. “Shall we go see?”

His face torn by the combination of the bitter cold and the tension of his obvious lies, Bobby Kotick gingerly shuffled through the snow-coated campus of UMich. Forever edged on by the ghost of a franchise of former glory, the journey came to an end at the window of a frat house, the frame bathed in warm light.

Squinting inside, he could pinpoint familiar faces of the past, rolling their names off one-by-one: “There’s that guy! And him! Oh boy, there’s that girl, she was nice…hey, is that Kevin O’Connor? He founded DoubleClick, should’ve been me y’know…”

“That’s nice and all dude,” came the concerned voice of Tony Hawk, “but where are you?”

Indeed, where was Bobby Kotick? After all, it was 1982, the pair were at the University of Michigan, and he was obviously the centre of social attention. Right?

With a wave of Tony’s pale hand, Bobby found himself in pastures anew – the darkest corner of the darkest computer lab. Apple IIs lined the walls and, lurking in the shadows, a fresh-faced Bobby Kotick sat tapping away, face bathed in artificial light. The only sound for seemingly miles around was the tap-tappity-tap of the keyboard, and the occasional snort from the little Kotick in the corner.

“Yep, there I am! Looking good!” noted Bobby edgily, taking care not to meet the glowing eyes of his spectral host. “And if I remember right, I get some nice company right about now!”

As if by magic, his words were heralded by a knock at the door, and the appearance of a gentle, rosy-cheeked face accompanied by sparkling eyes and a pale head of long, blonde hair.

“Bobby? Are you in here? Why aren’t you joining us at the party?”

“MMMrpfle!!” stammered the squeaky little programmer. “I have no time for parties! Can’t you see I’m developing a stock portfolio here? With this I’ll be printing my own money by 1986! I’ll be making E.T.’s profits look like loose change! Why would I want to do that?”

“Because it’s Christmas, Bobby! It’s a time for togetherness and generosity!”

“Humbug! I have no time for such frivolities when I have money to worry about! Get out of my sight!”
With a harsh, stifled whimper, the girl retreated, her eyes travelling down to the floor as the door closed shut behind her. The present-day Bobby Kotick turned to Tony Hawk and smiled his trademark grin. “See? Absolutely fine, and I was printing my own money by 1985, thank you very much.”

The Hawkster sighed, rolled his eyes to the ceiling and let them come to rest again on the short little man in front of him. “You got a lot to learn, little dude. It’s pretty obvious I’m not gonna be the one to help you, so back to the house you go.”

“Learn?!” came back the reply. “I have nothing to learn, I have money!”

Bobby had little time to say anything else, for he had been booted in the backside onto another glowing skateboard and into the great ether and beyond.

*

With a jerk, Bobby Kotick awoke to find himself in his living room. He had returned to his senses from that dastardly dream – the spilled glass of children’s tears confirmed his suspicious that he had merely fallen asleep. The clock had just struck one. Collecting himself, Bobby wandered to the kitchen to fix himself another drink.

As he delegated between a fine bottle of 2004 Indian Tsunami Tears and 2007 Virginia Tech Sobs, Bobby was painfully oblivious to the noise of water rushing up and out his kitchen tap, splashing across the tiles and creating a shiny, dangerous mess.

Up in the air soared Bobby Kotick as he turned around and slipped, taking his glass of immaculate paediatric sadness to the skies with him, both coming back down to earth with a crash.

“WATCH WHERE YOU’RE STANDING, SUCKA. GET OUTTA ME!”

Bobby scarpered backwards on his hands and knees with a start, scurrying away from the source of the noise – the pool of water recently freed from the kitchen tap. Blinking in obliviousness at the pool of water on the floor, he could only watch as the water began to collect itself and rise, eventually forming a tall body of muscular build, an impressive amount of watery bling and the strands of an aged Mohawk.

“BOBBY KOTICK. I AM THE NIGHT ELF MOHAWK OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT, SENT HERE TO SHOW YOU WHAT THE WORLD SEES YOU AS FROM THE OUTSIDE. HERE’S A CLUE, SUCKA: IT AIN’T PRETTY.”

“I have no need for you, spirit!” warned Bobby, pouting and folding his arms in defiance. “I have nothing to learn when I have my riches!”

“DO YOU DEFY THESE MUSCLES, PUNY WHITE MORTAL? YOU ARE COMING WITH ME WHETHER YOU WANT TO OR NOT,” spat the Ghost. “YOU WILL SEE JUST HOW MUCH YOU ARE PITIED, FOOL.”

Bobby stood conceited, determined not to leave with this watery, milk-loving 80s icon. “I am pitied by nobody! I have too much money.”

“SHUT UP, FOOL. COME WITH ME,” snorted the Mohawk of Christmas Present, taking Bobby by the arm and, with a shake of his bling, disappearing into nothingness.

*

“Oh no! Here comes the solo!”

It was a scene of merriment inside Freddy Kotick’s humble Long Beach abode as he a jolly few partook in festive games of Rock Band, united by a glowing television and a deluge of plastic instruments of various shapes and sizes. There was nary a frown to be seen, and Bobby Kotick could not believe what he was seeing in his nephew’s living room, the watery apparition of the Night Elf Mohawk by his side in the corner.

“This is crazy! What’s that thing they’re doing with their mouths? And that noise?”

“THAT’S A SMILE, FOOL. AND LAUGHTER; PURE, INNOCENT, JOYOUS, CRAZY-SUCKA LAUGHTER.”

Bobby could not help but look confounded by that concept. “I’ve never seen that when people play Band Hero. I always thought you were meant to look as pained as possible. To concentrate, and things.”

“YOU GOT SO MUCH TO LEARN ABOUT VIDEO GAMES, SUCKA – AND ABOUT YO-SELF. COME.”

With another jingle of the bling, Bobby and the Mohawk of Christmas Present vanished from the room, with barely any indication of having been there at all. In what appeared, to the tubby little executive, to be the blink of an eye the scene had changed. A new room lay before him, a little smaller and a little darker than the one that had come before and in the middle, gentle festivities were taking place amongst a small group of men.

Crackers and scratched glasses lined the table, accompanied by humble dishes of vegetables and, in the centre, a tiny plate hosting the feeblest turkey Bobby had ever seen in his life. This did not appear to bother the gathering of men, one of whom took to his feet, tapping his glass with his knife as if to signal for silence.

“My friends! I am glad some of you could make it, as I know for some it has been a perilous journey from across the seas. We are, of course, all united under one great umbrella and thus our companionship at this time of year is both a necessity and unrivalled. But allow me to go around the table one last time.

“We have here our friends from the company formerly known as RedOctane!” he bellowed, motioning towards two short, unassuming men with plastic guitars strapped across their backs like samurai swords. The man turned to the next man at the table.

“This gentleman, representing our equally hard-done gauntlet-bearers of Neversoft alongside myself, forever doomed to handle the cash-cow til they spin off the mortal coil! From Britain, the last survivor of the great Bizarre Creations cleansing,” he announced, nodding to a pale, shaky Englishman whose eyes remained fixed to the floor.

The standing man directed his attention towards one final guest at the table – a short, jolly man in an Iron Maiden t-shirt, with unkempt curly hair that reached down towards his equally shaggy beard. “And of course, our special guest tonight – Tiny Tim Schafer, never the same since the Brutal Legend lawsuit, couldn’t bring himself to produce a boxed retail game ever again. Some say he may not even survive in his career long enough to see next winter.”

Tiny Tim barely acknowledged the presence of his fellow tragic game developers, choosing to shuffle his feet absent mindedly and mumble incoherently. Realising he wouldn’t say a single word, the man at the head of the table returned his attention to everyone present. “Let us eat, drink and be merry with the humble offering I present to you, courtesy of the very last money I have. Such is the generosity of our friend, the great Bobby Kotick,” he drawled, letting the final two words slip out his mouth like a snake. “Cheers!”

He raised his glass, and the men around the table raised theirs and echoed his parting word: “Cheers, Bob Cratchit of Neversoft!” Tiny Tim mustered a cough of acknowledgement and gratitude, and they all began to eat.

“That can’t be Tim Schafer!” spluttered Bobby Kotick, choosing to open his mouth for the first time since entering the room. “He was so portly, so jolly, so happy yet bashful in 2008!”

“THEN YOU SUED HIS ASS TO HELL AND BACK, SUCKA. AND HE WROTE HALF OF BRUTAL LEGEND IN THAT TIME. THE SECOND HALF.”

Realisation spread across Bobby’s face. “That’ll be why it blew so hard then. And that’s all my fault! Tell me, Ghost, that the man Cratchit was wrong. Tell me Tim returns to retail!”

The Mohawk of Christmas Present looked vaguely startled at Bobby’s newfound concern for his former employee, and did nothing but grimly shake his head. For the first time in his life, Bobby Kotick felt a lump in his throat; a gentle admission of guilt that was, for a man of his temperament, something of a miracle.

From within the Night Elf Mohawk’s trousers, something was scurrying – a motion that Bobby could have done well to ignore. “Forgive me, Ghost, but what is that inside your pants?” he asked, taking care to look at the legs of the Ghost and never higher.

His question was answered as two humanoid cows darted out from the bottom of the Ghost’s legs and scrambled at its feet, looking at Bobby with slit-like eyes and pointed, shrivelled noses. One seemed to remind Bobby of every film he had ever seen, and the other held a wrecked guitar; both were deformed in both face and build, dragging shrivelled tails behind them, eyes never looking the same way. Bobby noted the musically-inclined cow was far thinner than the other.

“Are these your children, Ghost?” asked a startled Bobby, never taking his eyes off of the sprites out of a mixture of curiosity and fear. “They’re very, uh…special.”

“THEY ARE NOT MY SPAWN, BOBBY KOTICK, BUT YOUR CASH COW CHILDREN. ONE IS THE CHILD OF MOVIE LICENSES, CREATED AND WEAKENED BY JAMES BOND, TRANSFORMERS AND SPIDER-MAN ALIKE. AND THE OTHER IS THE CHILD OF MUSIC GAMES, MILKED MONTH-IN MONTH-OUT FOR MILK THAT WILL NEVER COME AGAIN.”

Bobby shifted uneasily as the slit-like eyes narrowed even more, almost appearing shut save for one giveaway glimmering reflection of light. “Moo,” one uttered, before they scrambled back inside the trouser legs of the Mohawk of Christmas Present.

“FEAR THESE CASH COW CHILDREN, BOBBY KOTICK. YOU DO NOT WANT TO SEE THEM AGAIN. SUCKA.”

With one final shake of his bling, the Night Elf Mohawk disappeared. Bobby was left alone to the darkness of the spectral void and the mercy of a dirty, hooded figure descending from the blackness above.

A Kotick Carol, Part Three