I lost at pinball, again

I lost at pinball, again. The flipper was warped, but I’m not one to protest.

Lest I forget, a boot shipment engagement: purses and footwear unheard of before. Dignified mall policemen simplified well-being when they suggested acquiring an underpinning, a new offbeat Arcade King. After all, all the kids in this town are wealthy.

A rain delay held up the prom king’s funeral. Everyone followed his passing away with unease, glorifying his exotic fur suit. Playing pinball, I felt like I was tight with him, or, maybe I accurately had been. A dirt bike accident killed him. Unfettered, we grumbled and swore about the mall’s equipment. Playing air hockey, we groped in custodian uniforms, meaning well, allow me to admit. Good Christians have nothing to worry about. Minus a little consorting with teenage felons.

In this book, the antagonist’s advice keeps the train moving.

Aging, we barely looked suitable -- the prom fellow’s gone away, though, what recourses abound? Vestiges of his fox-fur throw blew away, and dry ice began smoking. The Burrito Canyon tortilla-station unfortunate finished unfolding and refolding a steak fajita. We reacted with hesitation and dismay. We have kept gliding air hockey pucks as if justifying our kindergarten time, the extent of our training catching large dodgeballs, arms bruised, praying to the Buddha-necked fifth-grader, please don’t attack me for still not having chest hair.

Ice slide (I refer back to my toboggan prank) had awakened lacrosse teams. Pratfall Brandon (the prom king) moved to heaven, suggested our gym teacher, his black veil whipping in the sun. It was fitting, assuming pratfalls don’t count as sins. “Brandon’s dead,” he choked like a federal agent. Stillness ensued.
Hairpieces tried hard to break the news, so we said to him, “Offer a simile to shatter this comeuppance.” We struck out. The pinball machine began to shake. To my mind, it robbed us child athletes of fulfillment. Hymns close out this story.