No, I Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over Moscow
It was chaos. Chaos, I tell you. Sure, it began simply enough. We’d fly in, drop our payloads in orderly configurations, and fly out. But that was just for starters. Those missions could go on for hours.
And over time, the pace would step up. And the blocks would start to pile up. And up. And your nerves would start to fray. There was no room for error, no room at all. You’d be off by one unit, or you’d under- or over-rotate by ninety degrees, and then the menacing pile would loom higher and higher!
And the music! Oh, lord, the music! Ramping up faster and faster, until it pulsed in your skull like a living thing! I can still hear it! A digital balalaika, blooping and bleeping its infernally catchy folk melody to a constantly accelerating tempo! It was enough to drive you mad, mad, I say!
I still see them sometimes, in my dreams. The blocks, falling, falling through space—and never landing in the right places.
Wear this shirt: to show your pride as a veteran of one of the toughest 16-bit campaigns ever waged.
Don’t wear this shirt: if you weren’t there, man.
This shirt tells the world: “Now that tune’s going to be stuck in your head all day.”
We call this color: R(B)AF
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