Pinball Wizard
Lena Ng
Lena Ng shambles around Toronto, Canada, and is a zombie member of the Horror Writers Association. She has curiosities published in weighty tomes including Amazing Stories and Flame Tree’s Asian Ghost Stories and Weird Horror Stories. Under an Autumn Moon is her short story collection.
This one held much promise. He came into the arcade with little swagger at first, but I can smell a hustler a mile away. A pack of smokes outlined the back pocket of his dirty, elephant-bell jeans, his mullet brushing the top of his grey muscle t-shirt. He had a thin moustache and steel-blue, very round eyes that looked like they belonged on a baby. He watched the play in the beginning, slouching against the window sill close to the entrance. Lights flashed, the flippers clacked, and sweat dripped down the long-haired player’s red face as the counter on the board ticked upwards and the silver ball zoomed from bumper to bumper, bouncing off gravestones and skeletons and other markers on the horror-themed game, the newest hit called Grave Robber. Finally, the pinball hit the gutter and GAME OVER flashed in blazing red on the score counter as his friends let out a roar.
The newcomer glanced around the arcade, sizing up the crowd, before he asked, “When can I get a turn?”
“Later,” the long-haired player replied, dropping another quarter into the machine.
They were addicted to this game. It was designed to be this way. I should know. I designed it. Each rush of points released a hit of dopamine. Sayings like “From beyond the grave” and “The midnight crows are circling” played when the medieval cross bumper was hit; these sayings only activated when the obstacles were struck in a particular order. It made the players want to get the pinball to strike the markers in different combinations and permutations. Players dropped quarter after quarter until their pockets ran dry.
The newcomer hip-checked the cabinet, a hard enough bump that the ball rolled into the drain, shaped like a scythe.
The long-haired player hit the glass with the heel of his palm. “Look if you want to play, you gotta pay. Five bucks for a turn.”
The newcomer crossed his arms, showing off a little muscle. “Come on.” He tapped the side of the pinball cabinet. “Look. How ‘bout I make you a deal. I’ll have a go. If I get a higher score than you, I don’t pay you anything. If I don’t, then I’ll pay you ten.”
Before the long-hair player could argue, the newcomer already took his position in front of the machine. He put in a quarter and pulled back the plunger. The lights started up again and the counter quickly ticked upward. The pinball zoomed across the playfield, spinning, striking, bumping. Easy win for the new guy. A small crowd formed, new challengers lining up to test their skill and luck. I watched the hustler as he made bank, switching up his technique depending on the mark. Sometimes acting the fool, sometimes the blusterer, cajoling, bullying, insulting male pride, he extracted dollar after dollar, going after kids for their quarters and grown men for their cash.
After the afternoon’s work wound down, I went up to him. “Not bad. Not bad at all. You really know this game.”
He gave me a yellow-stained grin under that thin moustache. “You want a go?”
“Nah,” I said. “No point going against me. I know this game inside and out.”
He sized me up. I looked like an easy mark, a grey-haired old hippie fool who looked like he wouldn’t have the reflexes or know-how to use a payphone let alone stand up to a pinball wizard. “Wanna make it interesting? I’ll give you all my winnings if you win. And you can give me…” He raised a thick brow.
“I have all the money I need.” At the eager gleam in his eye, I pretended to think about it. “How ‘bout…you win, I’ll double your money. I win though…you come back to my place.”
As it was his turn to be the skeptic, I said, “Easy money. You won’t have to do anything you wouldn’t do anyway. We’ve got a deal?”
He furrowed his brow, grunted, then reached into his back pocket to slip another quarter into the machine. After his play, I cracked my knuckles and stepped up to the machine. I pulled back the plunger, releasing it when it reached approximately ninety percent of its tension. The ball sped over the first ramp, bouncing off the figure of the praying angel, spinning it around. Then I pressed the right flipper, catching the pinball at an angle, causing it to slide into the tombstone of Bridget Bishop. Then a clack of the left flipper spun the pinball to hit the Devil flipper, ricocheting it to the tap-dancing skeleton bumper which triggered a hidden ramp to get a ten times score. I racked up some extra balls and hit a multiplier as the pinball careened to each letter of the playfield spelling out GRAVE ROBBER. The hustler’s eyes flickered as I gained point after point. When GAME OVER finally rolled around, RECORD SCORE flashed on the backbox. I inputted my initials.
“What does that stand for?” he asked as I put in the letters WJB.
“William John Barker. The third to be exact. And you are?”
“Darryl. Darryl from around. How did you get so good?
“I confess I have an advantage.” As he assessed me with those steel-blue eyes, I said, “I’m the game designer.” I put out a hand to usher him out of the arcade. “I need someone with skill to test out my games,” I told him as we walked to my car, a big-boat white Chrysler, him walking with hunched shoulders at a cowboy’s pace. “You’re pretty good.” At his curled-mouth expression, I added, “More than good. Great. I want to see if my new games would challenge someone like you.” I opened the driver-side door, but he stood unconvinced on the curb. “I’ve got games that I want tested, to see if they’re worth releasing. Try them out for a couple of hours and I’ll pay you a hundred bucks.” I threw in a sweetener. “Plus all-you-can-drink beer.”
He opened the passenger-side door and got in.
***
I pressed a button embedded in the stone wall for the iron gates to slide open. As I rolled into the driveway, Darryl tried to hide his unease as he saw my estate, keeping the cool guy façade anchored in place. The house has been described as strange, gothic, or colourful by the few people I’ve let near my home. I like to think it’s as eccentric as its owner. Based on my whims, I’ve added a turret, and additional rooms for tinkering and inventing. The storeys don’t necessarily connect to one another and the staircases don’t necessarily go anywhere. I don’t want an easy escape for anything I want kept in the house. Nor do I want it to be too easy for snoopers or curiosity-seekers either. The ‘No Trespassing’ signs don’t seem to work, but at least I’m shielded from lawsuits. Like rats from a field, the determined seem to be able to burrow their way in.
I held my eye to the black box beside the solid mahogany door and I heard the clicks of the locks unlatching. I caught Darryl tracing the runes carved into the door with a nicotine-stained finger.
“For protection,” I said, as he traced the central symbol. “I admire the ancient ways.”
Darryl smirked as he stepped over the threshold, humouring an old man. He glanced around the living room with stained glass windows and jars of pickled oddities placed everywhere, sniffed at the musty books. His eyes flickered at the gold-gilded artifacts.
He asked me with unsurprising bluntness, “So these games made you rich?” He wandered the room, picking up and examining anything of interest, tapping an ostrich egg chalice, eyeing a megalodon tooth, running a hand over a feather-adorned mallet.
I tried to hide my annoyance. “Be careful with those, please. They were not easy to collect.”
Darryl looked at me as he tossed a jar back on the shelf. It tilted but didn’t drop. I breathed in relief that it didn’t break. He circled the room like a trapped jaguar.
“Put that down,” I said as he held up a sacrificial knife, a cobra with an emerald eye winding up the hilt. He made a big show of putting it back in place. He thought I didn’t see it when he later palmed the knife and tucked it into the back of his jeans.
I went to the fridge and tossed him a beer. As he cracked it open, Darryl nodded to the crystal decanters on the highest shelf of the bar. “Keeping the good stuff for later.”
I looked at the row of dark, swirling liquid. “Saving it for a special occasion, I suppose.”
“Which isn’t today?”
“Not yet anyway. Besides, I don’t think you could handle that stuff.” I could see the gears working as he finished his beer. “Ready now?” I asked. At Darryl’s nod, I pulled a candlestick and a bookcase opened like a door, revealing the stone steps into the basement. As I turned to go down the stairs, I caught a glimpse of the mallet as it was swung at my head.
***
I awoke to ropes chaffing my wrists which were tied behind my desk chair. The living room was in disarray. The books were tossed from the shelf onto the floor, amulets and the curios knocked over, drawers from my desk pulled out and rummaged through. Every painting was pulled off the hooks until the wall safe was uncovered, the thick iron door decorated with coiling snakes.
Darryl lounged on the crimson velvet sofa, one leg slung over a padded arm. He gave a slight smile, headed to the bar, and took down one of the crystal decanters from the top shelf.
“To your health,” he said, pouring a generous amount, then raising the glass. “And your life, as little left as there is.” Darryl took a slow sip of the amber liquid before setting the glass down with a no-nonsense clunk. He leaned forward on the sofa, lacing his fingers together. “Now what’s the combination to the safe?”
The back of my head throbbed. “What if I don’t tell you?”
He pulled out the sacrificial knife, letting the blade gleam under the amber lights. “What do you think I’ll do?”
I glanced between his bemused expression and the knife. “You’ll let me go if I cooperate?”
He thought about that one. “No. I’ll still kill you. But at least you won’t get tortured…not much anyway.” He downed the rest of his drink. His brow barely furrowed as he tasted the faint bitterness of the tannic root which had settled at the bottom of the glass. Manipulation works only if the subject is unaware of the tactic. Forbidden fruit tastes only sweeter.
I’ve survived the Black Plague, my job then was hauling bodies from the gutters; the Inquisition, with only the loss of three toenails; and the Salem Witch Trials. which gave me a permanent abhorrence to the smell of roast pork. In spite of my hurting head, I was amused—delighted, frankly—that this kid would take a run at me.
“There’s neither combination nor key,” I said. “Put your hand on the snake’s belly. Now say these words.” While the words slid off my tongue, Darryl sputtered around the curse-riddled phrase. He repeated it five times before the iron safe door clanked open.
He pulled out item after precious item. The femur of Saint Ignatius. A howler monkey’s paw. The trim of a blood-stained white dress cut from an Aztec sacrifice. All my lovely collectibles, ingredients in fact, piling up on the floor.
The safe was bottomless. Actually, it’s been dimension-shifted, so the front end is in the current dimension, while the back is in another, less pleasant dimension. I don’t have the room in my house and I’ve had centuries to accumulate stuff.
He stuck his arm deeper into the safe. Oh dear, I hope he doesn’t awaken the shargle. Technically, it should still be digesting that nosy neighbour who snooped around two weeks ago, but I doubt it would turn down a snack. I was about to say something when the young man made a face and yanked back his arm.
“What’s that?” asked Darryl, in a voice much higher than his usual conversational tone. He dropped what he had grasped—a quivering, withered appendage—onto the floor.
“Hand of Glory,” I said, helpfully. “Can’t have it lying around or everyone will be wanting one.”
The shriveled hand twitched on the floor, its long, talon-tipped fingers shivering like a spider in its death throes. After it stretched, the flesh dry like a mummy, it flipped itself over and scurried under the sofa.
I shook my head. It was going to be a pain to get it back into the safe, but I would worry about that later. I muttered some words and the wrist bindings fell away. I lifted both arms.
Darryl came at me with the knife. Arm raised, face twisted in frustrated rage and horror, the blade flashed before me. I gave a small shrug and gestured with my fingers. The hilt of the knife loosened and relaxed, before it curled and tightened around his wrist in a scaly tail. The cobra now in his hand turned its hood and lunged at his face. Darryl shrieked as he dropped the spitting reptile onto the terracotta tiles.
As realization dawned in his eyes, Darryl turned and sprinted to the door. He grasped the handle, rattled and shook the mahogany rune-carved wood as violently as he could, but the spell-enhanced lock held firm. I waited until enough time had passed for the liquor to take effect. I find my potions work best when the victims drink them willingly.
I muttered a few words and his hand dropped from the door. He turned, and with a slack face and blank expression, he slowly walked across the living room, pulled back the bookshelf, and headed down the steps to the basement. I followed him. I’m glad I perfected this spell. I’m too old to be carrying bodies anymore. The cobra slithered in my hand, straightened, and transformed back into the sacrificial knife. I gave it a thorough sharpening before the ritual began.
Although it took three nights of work, stretching and tanning the skin, repositioning the parts etc, I have to say I’m quite happy with the results.
Thick, ropey veins crisscrossed the skin covering the playfield. Two nicotine-stained index fingers served as the flippers. The mouth with the thin moustache opened and closed of its own will. It was positioned beneath the finger flippers and acted as the drain. The lips moved and the jaw ground the few teeth I’ve left in its mouth, and clamped shut unpredictably. In fact, all the parts moved and wriggled as they pleased. Like poker, luck is part of the gameplay. I’ve used teeth encased in glass instead of the metal pinballs, in keeping with the theme. Baby-round, steel-blue eyes in the centre of the board looked around independently like a chameleon before they occasionally focused and narrowed their glare. Two ears as bumpers and toes which acted as spinners. I used the long, slimy tongue as a ramp and stretched the nostrils to halt the ball before shooting it out like a rocket for extra points.
Darryl’s wormy, black heart pumped in the centre of the console, providing the electricity to light the counter and the red bulbs scattered throughout the playfield. Clean hearts don’t work in black magic. You need wicked ones for the spells to take.
Grave Robber was a big game, but novelty is always on the horizon. This new game, I’ve called “Body Board,” a fitting sequel. I know it’ll be my biggest hit yet.
The newcomer glanced around the arcade, sizing up the crowd, before he asked, “When can I get a turn?”
“Later,” the long-haired player replied, dropping another quarter into the machine.
They were addicted to this game. It was designed to be this way. I should know. I designed it. Each rush of points released a hit of dopamine. Sayings like “From beyond the grave” and “The midnight crows are circling” played when the medieval cross bumper was hit; these sayings only activated when the obstacles were struck in a particular order. It made the players want to get the pinball to strike the markers in different combinations and permutations. Players dropped quarter after quarter until their pockets ran dry.
The newcomer hip-checked the cabinet, a hard enough bump that the ball rolled into the drain, shaped like a scythe.
The long-haired player hit the glass with the heel of his palm. “Look if you want to play, you gotta pay. Five bucks for a turn.”
The newcomer crossed his arms, showing off a little muscle. “Come on.” He tapped the side of the pinball cabinet. “Look. How ‘bout I make you a deal. I’ll have a go. If I get a higher score than you, I don’t pay you anything. If I don’t, then I’ll pay you ten.”
Before the long-hair player could argue, the newcomer already took his position in front of the machine. He put in a quarter and pulled back the plunger. The lights started up again and the counter quickly ticked upward. The pinball zoomed across the playfield, spinning, striking, bumping. Easy win for the new guy. A small crowd formed, new challengers lining up to test their skill and luck. I watched the hustler as he made bank, switching up his technique depending on the mark. Sometimes acting the fool, sometimes the blusterer, cajoling, bullying, insulting male pride, he extracted dollar after dollar, going after kids for their quarters and grown men for their cash.
After the afternoon’s work wound down, I went up to him. “Not bad. Not bad at all. You really know this game.”
He gave me a yellow-stained grin under that thin moustache. “You want a go?”
“Nah,” I said. “No point going against me. I know this game inside and out.”
He sized me up. I looked like an easy mark, a grey-haired old hippie fool who looked like he wouldn’t have the reflexes or know-how to use a payphone let alone stand up to a pinball wizard. “Wanna make it interesting? I’ll give you all my winnings if you win. And you can give me…” He raised a thick brow.
“I have all the money I need.” At the eager gleam in his eye, I pretended to think about it. “How ‘bout…you win, I’ll double your money. I win though…you come back to my place.”
As it was his turn to be the skeptic, I said, “Easy money. You won’t have to do anything you wouldn’t do anyway. We’ve got a deal?”
He furrowed his brow, grunted, then reached into his back pocket to slip another quarter into the machine. After his play, I cracked my knuckles and stepped up to the machine. I pulled back the plunger, releasing it when it reached approximately ninety percent of its tension. The ball sped over the first ramp, bouncing off the figure of the praying angel, spinning it around. Then I pressed the right flipper, catching the pinball at an angle, causing it to slide into the tombstone of Bridget Bishop. Then a clack of the left flipper spun the pinball to hit the Devil flipper, ricocheting it to the tap-dancing skeleton bumper which triggered a hidden ramp to get a ten times score. I racked up some extra balls and hit a multiplier as the pinball careened to each letter of the playfield spelling out GRAVE ROBBER. The hustler’s eyes flickered as I gained point after point. When GAME OVER finally rolled around, RECORD SCORE flashed on the backbox. I inputted my initials.
“What does that stand for?” he asked as I put in the letters WJB.
“William John Barker. The third to be exact. And you are?”
“Darryl. Darryl from around. How did you get so good?
“I confess I have an advantage.” As he assessed me with those steel-blue eyes, I said, “I’m the game designer.” I put out a hand to usher him out of the arcade. “I need someone with skill to test out my games,” I told him as we walked to my car, a big-boat white Chrysler, him walking with hunched shoulders at a cowboy’s pace. “You’re pretty good.” At his curled-mouth expression, I added, “More than good. Great. I want to see if my new games would challenge someone like you.” I opened the driver-side door, but he stood unconvinced on the curb. “I’ve got games that I want tested, to see if they’re worth releasing. Try them out for a couple of hours and I’ll pay you a hundred bucks.” I threw in a sweetener. “Plus all-you-can-drink beer.”
He opened the passenger-side door and got in.
***
I pressed a button embedded in the stone wall for the iron gates to slide open. As I rolled into the driveway, Darryl tried to hide his unease as he saw my estate, keeping the cool guy façade anchored in place. The house has been described as strange, gothic, or colourful by the few people I’ve let near my home. I like to think it’s as eccentric as its owner. Based on my whims, I’ve added a turret, and additional rooms for tinkering and inventing. The storeys don’t necessarily connect to one another and the staircases don’t necessarily go anywhere. I don’t want an easy escape for anything I want kept in the house. Nor do I want it to be too easy for snoopers or curiosity-seekers either. The ‘No Trespassing’ signs don’t seem to work, but at least I’m shielded from lawsuits. Like rats from a field, the determined seem to be able to burrow their way in.
I held my eye to the black box beside the solid mahogany door and I heard the clicks of the locks unlatching. I caught Darryl tracing the runes carved into the door with a nicotine-stained finger.
“For protection,” I said, as he traced the central symbol. “I admire the ancient ways.”
Darryl smirked as he stepped over the threshold, humouring an old man. He glanced around the living room with stained glass windows and jars of pickled oddities placed everywhere, sniffed at the musty books. His eyes flickered at the gold-gilded artifacts.
He asked me with unsurprising bluntness, “So these games made you rich?” He wandered the room, picking up and examining anything of interest, tapping an ostrich egg chalice, eyeing a megalodon tooth, running a hand over a feather-adorned mallet.
I tried to hide my annoyance. “Be careful with those, please. They were not easy to collect.”
Darryl looked at me as he tossed a jar back on the shelf. It tilted but didn’t drop. I breathed in relief that it didn’t break. He circled the room like a trapped jaguar.
“Put that down,” I said as he held up a sacrificial knife, a cobra with an emerald eye winding up the hilt. He made a big show of putting it back in place. He thought I didn’t see it when he later palmed the knife and tucked it into the back of his jeans.
I went to the fridge and tossed him a beer. As he cracked it open, Darryl nodded to the crystal decanters on the highest shelf of the bar. “Keeping the good stuff for later.”
I looked at the row of dark, swirling liquid. “Saving it for a special occasion, I suppose.”
“Which isn’t today?”
“Not yet anyway. Besides, I don’t think you could handle that stuff.” I could see the gears working as he finished his beer. “Ready now?” I asked. At Darryl’s nod, I pulled a candlestick and a bookcase opened like a door, revealing the stone steps into the basement. As I turned to go down the stairs, I caught a glimpse of the mallet as it was swung at my head.
***
I awoke to ropes chaffing my wrists which were tied behind my desk chair. The living room was in disarray. The books were tossed from the shelf onto the floor, amulets and the curios knocked over, drawers from my desk pulled out and rummaged through. Every painting was pulled off the hooks until the wall safe was uncovered, the thick iron door decorated with coiling snakes.
Darryl lounged on the crimson velvet sofa, one leg slung over a padded arm. He gave a slight smile, headed to the bar, and took down one of the crystal decanters from the top shelf.
“To your health,” he said, pouring a generous amount, then raising the glass. “And your life, as little left as there is.” Darryl took a slow sip of the amber liquid before setting the glass down with a no-nonsense clunk. He leaned forward on the sofa, lacing his fingers together. “Now what’s the combination to the safe?”
The back of my head throbbed. “What if I don’t tell you?”
He pulled out the sacrificial knife, letting the blade gleam under the amber lights. “What do you think I’ll do?”
I glanced between his bemused expression and the knife. “You’ll let me go if I cooperate?”
He thought about that one. “No. I’ll still kill you. But at least you won’t get tortured…not much anyway.” He downed the rest of his drink. His brow barely furrowed as he tasted the faint bitterness of the tannic root which had settled at the bottom of the glass. Manipulation works only if the subject is unaware of the tactic. Forbidden fruit tastes only sweeter.
I’ve survived the Black Plague, my job then was hauling bodies from the gutters; the Inquisition, with only the loss of three toenails; and the Salem Witch Trials. which gave me a permanent abhorrence to the smell of roast pork. In spite of my hurting head, I was amused—delighted, frankly—that this kid would take a run at me.
“There’s neither combination nor key,” I said. “Put your hand on the snake’s belly. Now say these words.” While the words slid off my tongue, Darryl sputtered around the curse-riddled phrase. He repeated it five times before the iron safe door clanked open.
He pulled out item after precious item. The femur of Saint Ignatius. A howler monkey’s paw. The trim of a blood-stained white dress cut from an Aztec sacrifice. All my lovely collectibles, ingredients in fact, piling up on the floor.
The safe was bottomless. Actually, it’s been dimension-shifted, so the front end is in the current dimension, while the back is in another, less pleasant dimension. I don’t have the room in my house and I’ve had centuries to accumulate stuff.
He stuck his arm deeper into the safe. Oh dear, I hope he doesn’t awaken the shargle. Technically, it should still be digesting that nosy neighbour who snooped around two weeks ago, but I doubt it would turn down a snack. I was about to say something when the young man made a face and yanked back his arm.
“What’s that?” asked Darryl, in a voice much higher than his usual conversational tone. He dropped what he had grasped—a quivering, withered appendage—onto the floor.
“Hand of Glory,” I said, helpfully. “Can’t have it lying around or everyone will be wanting one.”
The shriveled hand twitched on the floor, its long, talon-tipped fingers shivering like a spider in its death throes. After it stretched, the flesh dry like a mummy, it flipped itself over and scurried under the sofa.
I shook my head. It was going to be a pain to get it back into the safe, but I would worry about that later. I muttered some words and the wrist bindings fell away. I lifted both arms.
Darryl came at me with the knife. Arm raised, face twisted in frustrated rage and horror, the blade flashed before me. I gave a small shrug and gestured with my fingers. The hilt of the knife loosened and relaxed, before it curled and tightened around his wrist in a scaly tail. The cobra now in his hand turned its hood and lunged at his face. Darryl shrieked as he dropped the spitting reptile onto the terracotta tiles.
As realization dawned in his eyes, Darryl turned and sprinted to the door. He grasped the handle, rattled and shook the mahogany rune-carved wood as violently as he could, but the spell-enhanced lock held firm. I waited until enough time had passed for the liquor to take effect. I find my potions work best when the victims drink them willingly.
I muttered a few words and his hand dropped from the door. He turned, and with a slack face and blank expression, he slowly walked across the living room, pulled back the bookshelf, and headed down the steps to the basement. I followed him. I’m glad I perfected this spell. I’m too old to be carrying bodies anymore. The cobra slithered in my hand, straightened, and transformed back into the sacrificial knife. I gave it a thorough sharpening before the ritual began.
Although it took three nights of work, stretching and tanning the skin, repositioning the parts etc, I have to say I’m quite happy with the results.
Thick, ropey veins crisscrossed the skin covering the playfield. Two nicotine-stained index fingers served as the flippers. The mouth with the thin moustache opened and closed of its own will. It was positioned beneath the finger flippers and acted as the drain. The lips moved and the jaw ground the few teeth I’ve left in its mouth, and clamped shut unpredictably. In fact, all the parts moved and wriggled as they pleased. Like poker, luck is part of the gameplay. I’ve used teeth encased in glass instead of the metal pinballs, in keeping with the theme. Baby-round, steel-blue eyes in the centre of the board looked around independently like a chameleon before they occasionally focused and narrowed their glare. Two ears as bumpers and toes which acted as spinners. I used the long, slimy tongue as a ramp and stretched the nostrils to halt the ball before shooting it out like a rocket for extra points.
Darryl’s wormy, black heart pumped in the centre of the console, providing the electricity to light the counter and the red bulbs scattered throughout the playfield. Clean hearts don’t work in black magic. You need wicked ones for the spells to take.
Grave Robber was a big game, but novelty is always on the horizon. This new game, I’ve called “Body Board,” a fitting sequel. I know it’ll be my biggest hit yet.