![]() ![]() ![]() Why, only the Wolf could possibly understand how to make a game centered about autoneonaticide. And yes, I only imagine that Harvey Keitel slides into a parking spot in his yellow NSX and struts into the building and starts declaring how the game will be made. It has to be the scene…because there is a serious problem here. The boss, glaring at Steve, extends a shivering digit toward the phone and presses the intercom button. ![]() Years of being beaten into submission by a string of increasingly poor life choices had dulled his passions. ![]() He was a king back in college…now barely a serf, perpetually serving fatter and stupider masters in the realm of middle management. He thinks about his halcyon days on the court. He used to be a professional tennis player and apparently had a pretty high NTRP rating. “What is it, Steve?” the boss asks, the words falling clumsily out of his barely open mouth. Everything has been said…except one thing. Six lifeless executives hunch over various proposals…nicotine-stained fingers shuffling amongst an endless litany of tired tropes. Yellowed posters of past hits wilt on the wall, dog-eared corners long-since torn from their scotch tape moorings listing in the air conditioning. A tray of stale bagels and scummy lox lay on a bureau by a flimsy interior door. Who’s Your Daddy is a game I feel like I’ve been waiting for my entire life. ![]()
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