I was born in the video game world. Both my parents (as well as their parents) were behind the scenes NPCs. But they never felt they weren’t important. They took pride in the roles they were designed for and instilled this sense of self-worth in me.

By the tender age of 10, I was helping my mom with her real estate business. I did odds and ends around the office, tidying up and reading the occasional telegram. She sold homesteads along the Oregon Trail. From my 16-bit perspective, it was an exciting field filled with intrigue and adventure. Trying to make a difference for hard-working people looking for a better life out West, she considered herself the facilitator of dreams.

As an independent contractor, my mom never let on the struggles she, and of course, her clients, faced. She’d invest hours analyzing the ever-changing maps and charts to find the perfect location that hadn’t already had a claim staked against it. She accurately filled out the cross-state paperwork in triplicate, making sure all pertinent documentation was ready before the afternoon’s Pony Express departed. She was meticulous when it came to synchronizing the time, date and location the parties involved in the closing were to meet.

Unfortunately, after all the details were finalized, a potential homeowner would more often than not die from dysentery before even crossing Wyoming. Heartbreaking on all fronts. Usually, the remaining members of the grieving family would give up hope, divert to the south and settle in Salt Lake City or Boulder. My mom was not licensed in either location. So, all that work and energy she put in was for nothing. If your income is solely derived from commission, deals that fall through make for anemic paychecks. But my mom persevered with a programmed smile on her face.

So, I was destined to follow in my parents’ footsteps. When old enough, I set out on my own with the intent of being part of something big. It’s scary in the world of graphics. But life was good in 1981. Optimism was giving the country a big, warm embrace. America was prospering under President Reagan’s “Trickle-Down Economics” policies.

I understand that for others to advance, a consistent supply of inventory is necessary for the true players to triumph in their respective quests. I recognized this broad niche and decided to fill some portion of it so I could take a big terabyte of the profit pie topped with a heaping scoop of capitalist ice cream. My question was, “What void can I fill?” Deep down I knew when I got this answer, I’d be on the way.

While waiting in line at craft services one afternoon, I listened as a spunky Italian in front of me commiserated with other players. Seems he’s currently in a protracted battle with a gorilla named Donkey Kong, or DK as he was known in the gaming community. Apparently, DK is a thorn in the side of this plumber, Mario, and his girl, Pauline, by trying to keep Mario at bay and having Pauline all to himself.

Mario, in passing, mentioned he wished he had better wooden mallets to smash the barrels constantly being tossed at him. The ones he wields now are too heavy. Hearing this, a serendipitous lightbulb flicks on in my head. Without hesitation, I interrupt, “Wooden mallets you say. I can get you wooden mallets. My mother knows where the clear cutting of vast tracks of land out west is being done. She can get lumber. My father’s the foreman at the bat manufacturing company for Intellivision’s Major League Baseball game. Together, we can make you mallets.”

“Thatza great. Howza big can yous maka them?” “As big as you.” “Whatta kinda wood ya gonna uza?” “Ash, of course,” I state with confidence. “Oy, mamma mia, Imma in,” Mario replies. I was now on the way.

Selling wooden mallets that haven’t been produced yet to a stranger in blue overalls that’s being harassed by a barrel-tossing monkey was not the path I thought I’d ever take. But sometimes the path you’re on is really an exit ramp to bigger things. I jumped at the opportunity knowing things will work out in the end. So that’s the start of my relationship with Mario and the inception of my company: Mallets, Mallets, Mallets.

I didn’t realize how huge a client Mario would become and how many mallets were needed for all his games. After a quick learning curve, my small company managed to keep up with the demand and we forged a solid working partnership.

“Yup,” was the curt response he gave when I asked my brother if he would like to make a lot of money. I noticed that DK would go through a 100 times more barrels during a game than Mario did with mallets. This was an untapped market. But my moral compass points North. I didn’t feel it was right to sell DK barrels that would be destroyed by mallets I sold to Mario. It came off as a conflict of interest. But with my brother’s experience repairing wagon wheels for my mom’s players, it was an easy transition for him to lead the newly formed business: Barrels, Barrels, Barrels. And my compass only deviated a couple of degrees.

Our cousin came on board to supply the oil and fire for the burning drum. She was a borderline arson who ultimately worked on the pyrotechnics involved with the Adamant Flame from Street Fighter. She was also a wiz regarding regulations and overcame the minor speedbump when the embargo kicked in and oil prices shot through the roof. Being resourceful while stretching the law regarding imports, she formed a shell corporation in the Bahamas to avoid the tariffs. This kept production costs from ballooning and the money poured into our coffers. All was well in the world. But a healthy stream of revenue means the inevitable unhealthy flood of drama.

First, Mario’s brother, Luigi, got into some legal trouble with the Feds after overstaying his work visa. The bilingual, human rights attorney who took the case and was smart enough to get the charges dismissed while securing a green card for Luigi came with a hefty price. Those billable hours depleted a large chunk of the brother’s retirement savings.

Pauline wanted to start a family, but Mario got into professional go cart racing. He met Princess Peach in late 1984 at the Monaco Grand Prix and that was the beginning of the end for his relationship with Pauline. As someone who was always the “damsel in distress,” I was surprised when she got a cutthroat attorney. Although they were never married, her barrister convinced the jury that she was Mario’s common-law wife. Without a prenup, Mario was on the hook for half his net worth. That’s a whole lot of quarters. Last I heard she was married to a programmer and residing in Los Gatos.

PETA got involved by filing a cease-and-desist letter citing that DK was subjected to animal abuse and inhumane conditions. When PETA disregarded DK’s multiple restraining orders, their letter was withdrawn.

The International Association of Bridge, Structural, Ornamental and Reinforcing Iron Workers, Local 605 started raising a stink over the use of non-union labor for rebuilding the trusses Mario destroyed while climbing to save Pauline. Greasing the teamsters’ palms wasn’t cheap.

Then Mario got into an extended contractional dispute over licensing residuals with Nintendo. He was looking to parlay his joy of driving carts into a full-time gig with his brother and thought he should be properly compensated. Nintendo countered that Mario’s licensing fee covered all future endeavors. In the end, Mario got a physician to deem his knees arthritic and climbing ladders was counterintuitive to Mario’s long-term health. Both sides agreed to a court-sealed settlement. Personally, I think climbing ladders reminded Mario of Pauline and brought up painful memories of what was and what could have been.

By then, there was scuttlebutt circulating that my job was one of many in consideration for being outsourced to a third-party vendor in Mumbai. I saw the writing on the wall and went my own way. It was a good run. But as with any successful venture, there’s popularity. And popularity leads to incrementally higher levels of fame. Fame always begets money, which ultimately ushers in stress-headaches. I was too young to have stress-headaches. After spending some time as the exclusive pizza caterer to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I left the video game world for good. We all outgrow our comfort zones. I stayed in technology though. Now I service bitcoin vending machines.

Since I was never a marquee name, I don’t get invited to any Comic Cons or asked to join gamer podcasts. That’s okay, I welcome the freedom anonymity brings. I can reminisce about the good old days, painting memories with broad brushstrokes of biased nostalgia. And can do it without being worried that I’m going to get hit with a barrel. Or unplugged.

The dim, smoky glow of the tavern lanterns cast wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The oaken surfaces stained from years of spilt ale and drawn blood from drunken brawls.

The warm, yeasty scent of beer mingled with the tang of sweat and the faint note of rusty blades and daggers. Patrons spoke in hushed voices, keeping one eye on their drinks and if they were lucky enough to have a second, on whoever staggered in through the battered oak door.

I sat at my usual corner, back to the wall, nursing a tankard of bitter soured ale and shuffling a deck of Gwent cards that had seen better days. Each frayed at the edges and crease marks running their surfaces.

My reputation unfortunately preceded me, a trickster with nimble fingers and the sharpness of a knife hidden in the smile. Dagnar the name and separating patrons from their coin the game.

A ripple of unease whispered through the room as the door creaked open on its half broken hinges. The cold forced itself in on a gust of frigid wind like a wicked omen. A precursor of a bad night on the dark horizon. He walked in, tall and pale, dressed in all black and silver, with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the lungs leaving one speechless. Scars crisscrossed his face, each line a history of violence. And surely a horrid tale that went hand in hand with its presence.

His eyes, those damned eyes, glowed like embers from the depths of a dying fire. A fire that didn’t need much prodding to become adequately stoked. I didn't need a name to know who this man was. A Witcher.

The chatter died as he strode past tables of farmers and soldiers, boots thudding with the cadence of a death march. He halted by the hearth, the flicker of flames licking at his silhouette, and let his gaze sweep the room like the precision surgeon’s blade. For a moment, I held my breath, fingers tightening on the edge of my cards.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that could cleave stone. I caught the bartender’s eyes shifting nervously, but no one answered.

The Witcher sighed, more weary than frustrated, and turned to face me, as if he had known where I was the whole time.

“You there,” he said. My grin was automatic, masking the twist of anxiety and fear burbling in my gut.

“Aye, Witcher. What brings you to our humble corner of Novigrad?” I raised my tankard in a mocking toast.

“Yennifer. I’m told she was seen passing through,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have you heard of her whereabouts?”

“Ah, the sorceress,” I drawled, pretending to think while I shuffled the deck. The cards slapping against the table buying me time to phrase my thoughts. “Perhaps we could make this interesting? A simple game of Gwent. I win, you share a drink, a tale, and toss me a copper. You win, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Another ploy to buy me time.

The room collectively exhaled, tension slipping from their postures and they resumed their duties and conversation. The Witcher’s lip twitched, half amusement, half disdain.

“Fine,” he said in his voice that sounded like raking stones. He pulled up a chair and sat across from me. He dropped a pouch on the table; the heavy clink of coin echoed. “Deal.”

I set the cards, fingers moving deftly, sliding in a marked one just so. A dangerous move on my part, but my hope that his hands weren’t as well versed in cards as they were with his weapons. A few rounds passed in tense silence. Outside, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, soldiers whispered about Nilfgaard’s relentless push north, about the battered Redanian defenses and whispers of a rebellion brewing in Skellige. The war may be drawing to a close. Gods be praised. But here at our table, there was only the game, and the Witcher’s unsettling gaze catching every flinch, every tell.

“You’re sweating,” he noted, laying down a biting frost card that turned the tide.

“Just the heat,” I replied smoothly. But my stomach churned as I watched my carefully laid strategy fall apart. My siege troops no longer holding their position on the table they once had.

“Strange,” The pale Witcher said, glancing at my deck. His golden eyes met mine with a knowing glint. “Your cards … they’re heavier than they should be.”

I feigned a chuckle, a sound as thin as parchment and attempted to change the course of conversation. “You never said your name, your accent? Is it Rivian?” I tried to snatch the cards back, but his hand shot out, iron-hard fingers closing around my wrist.

“Cheaters don’t deserve mercy,” he growled.

Time slowed to a heartbeat, then splintered into chaos. I reached for the knife at my belt, but he was faster. His chair clattered to the floor as he drew his steel sword in a flash of silver. The blade caught the firelight as it swung toward me; I stumbled back, drawing my knife too late.

A roar erupted as patrons scrambled for the exits, tables overturned and tankards spilled, beer slicking the floor. He advanced upon me, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I lunged, aiming for the gap beneath his ribs, but he sidestepped with the grace of predator on the hunt.

“Igni,” he intoned, and flames roared to life from his outstretched hand. I cried out, throwing up an arm to shield my face. The heat seared, blistering skin in an instant.

“Damn you to the nine Hells!” I spat, desperation clawing at my throat. I swung wildly, the blade catching nothing but air. His foot slammed into my chest, sending me sprawling into an upturned table. Pain shot up my spine as I crashed to the ground, the room spinning.

“You know where she is,” he said, sword tip pressing against my throat, cold as a winter's kiss. I gasped for air, vision spotting.

“Sod off,” I managed, defiance trembling in my voice.

A second of silence, then the blade sank in, swift and merciless. My world shrank to a pinpoint of pain before slipping into blackness. Over the din, I heard him mutter, half to himself, “I’ll find you, Yen.”

The last thing I saw as my eyes began to lose their focus was the Witcher’s unyielding expression as he pulled his sword free.