The jagged scar on my right elbow, Elbow Jones, if we’re on nickname terms, predicts belt-scroll weather better than any barometer. Whenever a cartridge cue loads up that crunchy “WHUD” sample, the bone hums like a tuning fork struck by Guy’s spinning back-fist. Tonight it is vibrating so hard the coffee on my desk forms

“Swipe it, don’t stare at it,” my friend used to tell me whenever I pulled the rat-eaten Blockbuster™ membership card from my pocket. He meant the mag-strip, of course, but I swear the thing actually vibrates when it gets near a Super Nintendo. I have named the card Cardboardus. Cardboardus is our absurd talisman today, humming in recognition whenever

I see you cradling that pint-size Super NES like it is the last donut at the office party—don’t play coy, we already know you spent a week refreshing restock alerts. Now the existential terror sets in: twenty-one cartridges live inside that gray monolith, each one whispering “pick me” like Pokémon in a glass Poké Ball.