Adventure Game Studio

Andrew turned off the computer, the last lines of code he had stared at for the last hour or so still burned in his retina.

Zander crashed into his chair, letting two heavy hands drop on his shoulders. "We wanted to go for a beer – George, Philip and me. Wanna come along?" Zander asked.

"Oh no, not today." He thought for a second. "I wanted to watch the game."

"What game?"Zander flipped through the TV schedule in his mind. Soccer – no; football – no; basketball, tennis, baseball – no, no and no.

"Uhm,"Andrew said, doing the same, "Uhm, snooker."

"Oh, yeah, of course!" Snooker? Who watches snooker? "Have fun!"Zander said, pushing back from Andrew's chair and his beer belly into his desk.

"You too! See you Monday!"

*

Coming out of the shower and drying his hair, Andrew turned on the TV, switching to the sports channel.

Huh! He laughed, then sighed with relief. There actually was a snooker game on right now. But he didn't pay much attention to it, letting the words of the commentator drone in to one ear and out of the other while he smeared gel into his hair.

It was a slow affair, as his cat, Mimi, constantly tried to lick from the open container. He had tasted the gel once, trying to figure out why the cat liked it so much. He still had no idea.

But Mimi made him late nearly every Friday evening, so much so that he stopped using the tube and opted for a taxi nowadays. It meant he had to walk further, but it was still quicker. There was a subway station right outside his apartment, there was another one opposite the back door of the club, but he never told the taxi driver his exact destination and he never got picked up from his home.

Today, he had the driver stop for a second at a gas station. He jumped out of the car quickly only to return a moment later with a sad looking bouquet of roses and a protein bar because they had no other chocolates. He was bad at remembering birthdays, or rather, bad at remembering to buy birthday presents. Hopefully, Elena would appreciate the thought at least.

*

Hours after they had entered their first bar for the evening, the three work friends had found their way into a noble part of town.

"There's no bar here!" Philip griped, looking around the wide streets and dark villas.

"Not a bar," George laughed, "But one of the best clubs in town!"

"Private?" Zander asked, while Philip wondered: "What kind of club?"

"No, not private, not exclusive, just expensive. And the girls there are exquisite!" George tried to say, the words becoming a jumbled mess for his drunken tongue. But he got his message across and the two other men hollered with excitement, then shushed themselves, looking around the quiet neighborhood one more time.

The club was in one of the smaller villas, surrounded by a small park and a large iron fence, far enough away from the other houses so that the guests didn't attract too much unwelcome attention.

A doorman stood in an old porter's hut near the portal of the fence, rattling down the rules to all newcomers in a cheery tone. "No touching, just looking!" the most important one was said with steely eyes, but as if he was inviting friends to a party.

*

Blowing kisses into the dimly lit auditorium, Elena sashayed out onto the stage. The room had filled since her first of six performances of the night. Three men, probably work friends going by the crinkled shirts and loosened ties and rather drunken state for this early in the night, at least for the club, sat at one of the front row tables. They hollered and cheered before she even really started.

Elena stood in the middle of the stage, one slender leg peeking out from her diagonal skirt, then she nodded to the guitar player at the side. He started to play the song she had composed herself just for her performances, while she added the gentle rhythm with the castanets in her hands. Slowly, her whole body started to sway to the music, her naked feet started to beat the wooden floor, then her hips kicked the skirt from side to side. The faster and faster the music became, the more sensual her dance turned.

The guests in the first row didn't appreciate her art. At first they had hollered, but the longer and longer her dance lasted and no clothes came flying from her body, the more silent they became, then louder again, demanding something Elena did not offer.

But when the dance ended with a final strike of the castanets and the last note from the guitar drifted away, the audience applauded loudly, drowning out the disappointed calls from the one table.

*

"Keep an eye on table four during Andy's set, John." Elena said to the gruff looking man at the stage exit when she strolled away.

"Will do." he answered with a simple nod and no other questions.

"Problem?" Andrew asked, standing there, waiting for Elena in a fluffy white bathrobe, his hands behind his back.

"They're just here to see naked female flesh, that's all."

"So, the usual? Who cares. - Anyway, happy birthday!" and he pulled out the sad flowers and granola bar.

"Thank you, Andy!" she said, genuinely happy and kissed him on the cheek, then moved on to his lips, feeling up his naked body under the fluffy bathrobe.

"Stop!" he murmured into her lips, then pushed her slightly back. "Not the right moment!" He felt too much from her touch, just too much.

"I know." she pouted.

"You still plan to visit your parents this weekend? There's a ballroom tournament..." He trailed off. He knew the answer already.

"They throw me a birthday party. You know I can't simply skip out on this. You could come..." She trailed off. They were not ready yet.

In the background, techno music started to pulse through the old villa, calling them both back to the present.

"Got to go!" Andy said.

"Break a leg!" she called as she gently pushed him towards the stage.

"Better not!" Andrew laughed, the banter between them long turned into routine.

*

A moment later, the techno song rose in volume through the loudspeakers and Andrew breathed in and out quickly, pumping the air through his lungs to the rhythm of the beat. He let his bathrobe slip to the ground, revealing his almost naked body underneath. Only his speedos and his slight beer belly hid his penis from view. Adjusting the fake leather, he stuffed this little bit of unnecessary fat back in, then he was ready.

Andrew walked onto the stage to the cheers of the audience, many regulars who had seen his performance before. Here and there, a few jeers were mixed in with the cheers, taunting his not so perfect body or his gender, which, in context, also revealed a not perfect body.

"Gay!" - "Come on, where are the girls?" - "Buuuh!" - "Naked men? At least get a real one here!" - "Look at this floppy-"

Andy's mind droned out the voices, fully concentrated on his routine.

Slowly, he walked towards the iron pole in the middle of the stage, counting the beats in his head. He put his hands on it, one above the other, bending his body almost unnaturally. Then, at a shrill note, timed perfectly, he jumped. Now his stiff body was horizontal with the floor. For a moment, he held the position, then he swung his legs up, embracing the pole with his feet. Letting go with his hands, he whirled around the pole once, twice, slowly sliding further to the ground, before putting the hands back and stretching his legs so that he almost did a handstand nuzzling the pole. Putting hand above hand, he climbed up the pole in this position until his feet almost touched the high ceiling of the former salon of the villa.

Here, the stage-lights blinded him almost completely, but by this part in his act it didn't matter if they did. It didn't matter any longer if he heard the music. Here, he was one with the pole, his movements, the tension in his muscles almost meditative, the cheers, now almost nothing but cheers, felt like a warm rain on his skin, washing the sweat away.

But becoming one with the pole and the music and the dance, also meant that the voices from down below became clearer once again.

"What is this? Women's night?" George jeered. And it was George. Andrew recognized the voice, heard it clear as day over the music. "Or gay?"

His fingers slipped for a second, dropping him a couple of feet closer to the floor.

Shit. Shit. Shit! The thoughts pumped to the beat. George was here. Zander and Philip, too?

"It's a great performance, though!" Philip, laughter in his voice, called over the loud music to be heard by his friends.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Did they recognize him?

"Wait a sec, doesn't this guy look like Andrew?" Zander.

Shit!

"What, seriously? Our Andy?" Philip.

"Yes!" Zander.

"Wow, didn't know he was into this stuff!" George. "Monday will be fun!"

Monday will be pure horror. It was the first clear thought that broke through the rest of the panic. And it came right as he pushed back from the pole, landing in an almost comic book like three point position in front of the audience. Cheers and applause filled the room, droning out the next words of his colleagues and his next thoughts. He bowed a couple of times, almost in trance, then left the stage with his head low.

*

On Monday morning, Mimi had to paw his head five times before he finally got up. And even then he considered calling in sick. There was no way he could face his colleagues.

There was no way he could skip work.

There was no way he could suffer through their taunts.

There was no way he could leave the project to George, really.

Damn.

*

It was like running a silent gauntlet. The receptionist just nodded as usual. The janitor did not notice him, screwing in a new light-bulb. The HR lady was copying files, not looking up either.

Zander smiled, friendly enough. Philip smiled as well, though forced. George was not in yet.

"How was your weekend?" Zander asked after a while.

"Great."

"And your Friday?" Philip added, his smile becoming weird.

"Great. I met with my girlfriend." Andrew said curtly.

"Sure you did!" George said from the door, just coming in. "But just to get this straight" – He laughed at his own feeble attempt of a joke. - "you like showing all or what?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Andrew said, staring intently at his keyboard, even though he had not turned on the computer yet.

"Oh, come on, Andy, we all saw you." Philip said, "Saw a little too much, to be honest." After a pause, where he seemed to set his head straight, he added, "I think it's pretty courageous. Weird, but courageous."

"It's a hobby. Just a hobby." Andrew said with a sigh.

"Fucking gay, if you ask me." George laughed again.

"Nobody asked you!" Zander stood up and positioned himself in front of Andrew, facing George. "And nobody cares about your opinion. Or yours, for that matter!" He turned to Philip. "Or mine, but I do think it was a fricking fantastic performance, very stylish and artistic, and probably needs a lot of strength. Your arm muscles must be incredible. And if you enjoy it" he looked back at Andy, "who are we to judge? Now lets get the fuck back to work, all of us!"

*

Rumors spread quickly, as they always do. And uncomfortable facts follow fast. At lunch, whispers greeted him in the canteen, at the end of the day, cat-callers ducked quickly behind partition walls.

The next morning, some positive comments found their way to him, a quick pat on the back, an encouraging smile, though all in secret, all when people were alone with him.

Proposals followed soon after. Andrew had no idea how many men actually found him attractive, Zander one among them. He turned them all down, mentioning Elena, his girlfriend. Few believed that she was real.

The taunts never stopped.

Three days later, he turned in his resignation.

Muriel tottered over to the sink to start the dishes, manoeuvring her walker around the gauntlet of toys and food spills that her great-grandkids had left on the linoleum.

"Oh, leave it be, Gran," Lindsey chided her, beating her to the counter on legs fifty years younger. "You go relax. Do a puzzle maybe? Or go study your old family history documents."

Muriel squinted through her thick glasses at her granddaughter, then back at the chaos that was her house. Children were running left and right, playing some sort of chasing game that involved shouting at the top of their lungs. She subtly reached behind her ear to turn down the volume of her hearing aid another few notches.

"What was that, dear?" she said, feigning deafness, hoping her granddaughter would take the hint. Why in heaven's name did parents not parent anymore?

"I'll do the wiping up," Lindsey proclaimed in an overloud voice, as if speaking through a very old telephone. Muriel frowned, looking at the pile of dishes on the counter. The possibility that she would have to rewash the dishes after Lindsey's half-assed effort hung heavily in the air, but she doubted she could wrestle the wash cloth from the thirty-year-old without causing a scene.

Muriel nodded, defeated. "I guess I'll go find my knitting," she pouted. She made to move her walker towards the living room, but stepped on some kind of squeak toy and nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Careful, Gran!" Lindsey shouted over her shoulder, all innocent smiles. Muriel was saved from grumbling something uncharitable under her breath by the ring of the phone.

She unslung the portable phone from the holster on her walker.  "Hello?  Muriel speaking," she said in her sing-songiest inflection.

Her great-granddaughter pulled at her skirts, distracting her from the person on the other end of the line, but Muriel pushed her ear into the phone harder, as if she could squeeze her whole body through to escape.

"What's that you say? Bridge at 4 tomorrow? Oh, that'd be lovely, but I'd need a ride. Marilyn can swing by? I thought they took her licence? Oh, I see. You don't say! So be it, then. Four tomorrow. Ta!"

Muriel hung up and stooped down to see what her great-granddaughter wanted. These were the kind of moments she cherished, despite all the distractions. At her age, you had to seize each and every one—you never knew when it could be your last.

"Look, Granny!  Playdoh!"

Muriel shook her head. "Where in heavens did you pull that out from! That's Granny's special sticky-tack!"

It was going to be a long evening.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Muriel rolled over to look at the clock and groaned. The sky was dark, her family safely packed off to the commuter suburb they called home. The world was asleep, but her bladder stirred restlessly. Sighing at the futility of ignoring it, she rolled out of bed.

3 AM. She pulled a sweater on against the chill of the morning air. Then a shawl. Then a toque and jacket. She wondered if a scarf and mitts might be overdoing it, but decided to err on the side of caution. A beeping sound through the window told her it was time.

Muriel hobbled out through the lobby and out into the cool of the night. There was Marilyn, perched on her personal mobility device like a biker, complete with black leather jacket. Her old friend somehow revved the electric engine, then winked at her.

"Damn fools to let you back on the road," Muriel tsked cheerfully. She collapsed her walker and hung it on the back of the scooter.

"Don't obscure my turn signal!" Marilyn growled as she flashed a smile from her new dentures. They were Mr. Clean white, flooding the darkness with their brightness.

"Move up," Muriel shooed. "I'm not riding around in your basket like a bit of discounted shopping."

"There's no room," Marilyn said, shaking her head. "You've got to perch on the back. There's a little ledge for your feet and everything."

"We'll bloody tip over with all my weight that far back," Muriel exclaimed.

"I've always wanted to pop a wheely down the freeway," Marilyn told her with impish enthusiasm.  "Now stop your quibbling and hop on. Bridge at four!"

Muriel nodded, thanking her stars she'd had the foresight to bring the mittens. In a trice they were tearing down the street at a heady 10 km/h.

*   *   *   *   *    *   *

4 AM. Marilyn pulled up under the overpass, tearing a skidmark in the loose gravel and chuckling wickedly. Muriel nodded to the gang as she unfolded her portable walker. There was blind Kentucky Jack, twirling his white cane about playfully; and Firebrand Phyllis, an ever-present cigarette dangling from her lipsticked lips despite her ninety years of age. And there, in the shadow of the abutment was their undeclared leader, Alice "Aces" McAddams, flashlight in her mouth, studying some old documents in her elegantly gloved hands.

"Wheels," Phyllis nodded to Marilyn. "Mayhem," she nodded at Muriel.

"Did anyone pack a furnace?" Muriel asked, clapping her hands around her. The windchill of even the moderate speeds of Marilyn's mobility scooter had cut her to the bone.

"What, is this a tea party?" Firebrand asked, flicking the ash from her cigarette into the darkness. "Who brought the scones?"

"Hardy har har," Wheels laughed, giving her old friend a shot in the arm.

"Knock off the foreplay, ladies," Aces called, gesturing for them to gather around. "Wheels, give us a run down of where we stand."

"Dammit, Aces. Let's just get down to the brass tacks," Kentucky Jack grumbled.

"It's your damned dementia that holds us up when the tacks are out!" Aces spat back, although not unkindly. "Wheels, let's hear it!"

Wheels flashed her overwhite smile, blinding everyone except the already-blind man. "We're still working the Marconi file. Jonny 'The Scar' Marconi, mob kingpin back in the fifties, died in prison years ago. Rumour has it he stashed a treasure somewhere under the city, kind of as a nest-egg in case he ever broke out. Something untraceable, like gold or jewels or art - rumours can be flighty things. He was fond of Egyptian history, including the idea of traps around pharaoh's tomb, so we're going to have to watch our step. I assume Aces has another lead, which brings us out to this desolate bit of urban blight."

Muriel nodded along. She'd read up on the Family history as well.

Aces picked up the thread, all business. "I've unearthed a new clue in some correspondence between Marconi and his last surviving grandchild, now long deceased. He hints at the "family jewels" being safe in the old bank vault. It took me a lot of research in the archives, but I think he's literally talking about the Millbank, an old stocking factory with mob connections demolished back in the sixties to make way for—"

"This expressway," Muriel finished, looking around with renewed interest.

"I've secured some schematics from the city that indicate that the freeway was built over a disused network of drainage sewers. There's an outlet just over there, barred up of course. It's my theory that those tunnels tie into the old factory foundations, which was derelict even when Marconi would have stashed the jewels."

"What if this is another wild goose chase?" Old Kentucky asked, pinching Wheels in the buttocks and making her shriek like a schoolgirl. "My memory ain't what it used to be, but I sure as hell remember the old gas works debacle."

"It's true," Aces admitted. "We know Marconi spun a lot of false rumours to protect his treasure, and that his affinity for Egyptology led him to build ingenious booby traps engineered to last for centuries. He was determined that only the worthy should inherit his treasure. We need to stay on our toes down there, people. Understood?"

They all nodded grimly, and then set to their tasks.

In a hot minute Muriel had her "special sticky-tack" wedged into the weakest joints of the drainage tunnel grating. Firebrand gave her a knowing smile.

"Anyone care for a smoke?" the old chimney asked. Everyone dove for cover as she flicked the butt of her cigarette at the substance, blowing the metal cover off like a champagne cork. Then she cackled like a witch over the moon.

"Old Kentucky," Alice said, pointing the blind man in the right direction of the dark drainage tunnel. "Time to put that tactile sense of yours to good use."

"I feel you," the old man joked, his white cane probing into the darkness. "Any of you ladies up for a good time?"

Muriel smiled. "Let's go exploring!"

Okay, this is a great beginning... where's the rest of the story? I really like the main character, the other treasure hunters could be fleshed out a bit more. But the story really needs to continue. We're just getting to the meat of it; the adventure just begins - and you leave us hanging.
I like the hints of all the past these characters have with each other, and all the adventures they had in their past. Actually, adventure is really the name of the game here: The whole story reads a bit like the intro to an adventure game. Now we can go and solve a few riddles with a protagonist who would really make a great adventurer - life experience, street smarts, probably combined with book smarts, and needs to find clever solutions to avoid physical activities.
All right, you probably don't need to write the rest of this story - turn it into a game instead!

The little details make this story come alive: the beer gut, the overloud voices of the work buddies in the street, the cat that likes to lick hair gel (ew!).  The hobby was fascinating, and deliciously clandestine.  I was disappointed to learn at the end that Zander was one of the folks who propositioned Andrew - is no one in this world open-minded enough to appreciate art on its own merits without sexualizing the artist? Given the circumstances, I can see why Andy resigned, but this tears at the flaw at the heart of the whole story: given the risks involved (and Andrew clearly appreciates these, given his evasiveness), why would he leave so much to chance and not conceal his identity on stage? This turns what could be a heart-wrenching story of injustice into a well-what-did-you-think-would-happen?

As for your critiques, I 100% agree with them.  Mostly I ran out of time, as per usual, but I also felt that I had achieved my goal: the story was about the secret hobby, which has been entirely revealed by the end.

An interesting story that I enjoyed reading: it defies some clichés and the ending is sad but realistic. Although a few things in Andrew's behaviour aren't entirely believable (like not masking himself during his performances on stage, or not showing his girlfriend to dissipate doubts about her existence) they don't undermine the story.

I like the cast's characterisations through their names, descriptions, and dialogues. But when the story starts to get interesting... it stops. Which is a bit disappointing.

By the way, the Marconi surname for a mob boss in 1950s US makes no sense. Marconi is a typical surname of the north, as the famous Guglielmo Marconi (who was from Bologna) can attest. The Mafia is a phenomenon from Sicily, the south.

Other than that nitpick, a very enjoyable story... but I wish there was more! The characters are too good to stop here.

I vote for To the Pole, since it feels like a complete story.

I liked the story and felt Andrew's pain at having to face his first day back at work after being found out. The ending was sad, but probably realistic. We still shame straight men for doing "gay" things. But it's a pity Andrew wasn't able to come to terms with the fact that everybody knew, and feel empowered to keep on doing his art.

I wasn't sure about the setting. Was it Britain (the Tube, snooker), America (the subway, the mentions of both Soccer and Football - to Brits, soccer is football), or somewhere else? That's not a major issue, but as a Brit, the mixture was noticeable.

I liked this one a lot too. I enjoyed the juxtaposition of Muriel's home life, where she is seen as an almost invalid old lady who shouldn't even be standing up, and her adventurous social life, treasure hunting with other old folk. Each of the characters seems to have their own strengths among their weaknesses and they seem to love each other. I would love to spend more time in the company of these old people.

Which is why I was disappointed for the story to end where it did. You set up a potentially great geriatric heist story but stopped it almost as suddenly as if it had been playing around with a ball of grandma's special sticky tack.

Tough one, but I'm going to go Baron, for the lovable characters and the threat of a ripping yarn.

"We've been here before."

Sam wasn't angry or upset. He had felt that way before but now, that seemed like a lifetime ago.
His mood mirrored the trajectory of the sun in the sky. He had set out in high spirits, with a sense of hope he hadn't felt in years.
But, as his shadow grew ever longer and dimmer, that familiar doubt entered his mind again and it had made him angry. Did he really think this time would be different?
It had been dark for hours and Sam knew he had given up. He felt no anger, no shame, simply resignation to go back and have things be the way they always were.
He repeated himself, a little louder this time: "We've been here before."

"I heard you the first time."

With the silence broken, Sam asked the question that had nudged itself in his mind hours before: "Why are you still looking?"

"Why have you given up?"

The replies came defiantly fast and Sam considered his reply for a moment. The reality was that he was cold and deep down, he knew that the entire thing had been folly from the start.
By now, someone would have discovered that he wasn't where he was supposed to be and the longer he was gone, the harder it would be to justify his absence.
It was true that he had felt optimism, perhaps even hope, that things really could be different.
But whatever he had felt before, there was none of it left now.

Finally, Sam answered - "I don't think I have really given up. I think I have just accepted that it was unrealistic to wish for more than I already had."

"You believed it once, didn't you? Why not believe it again? What changed?"

Sam had no good answer.
On a good day, he could believe in taking destiny into his own hands. On an exceptionally great day, he might even look both ways before grabbing destiny by the horns.
Yesterday had been such a day and by now, he regretted it deeply. The problem with standing up for yourself, Sam thought, is that no one could possibly tell you if you're doing it right or not.
More and more, he started to doubt that he understood destiny at all.
Many of the beliefs that were once core to him, beliefs that he thought were truly his and true, had shattered before his eyes once he realized they did not belong to him and they would never have lead him to where he thought they would.
Where once it had been so obvious to him, he now no longer knew who he was and he no longer knew who he wanted to be. So why was he here?

"I thought I finally found a way out. A way up, out of this pit, something to hang on to. But I am not sure any more. I have spent so long thinking about this, and the more questions I ask myself, the more questions arise.
I don't have an answer to most of them and it terrifies me. For the first time in my life, I panic about the future and the present. And the last thing I want to do is think about the past."

"Because you still think the past was how things are meant to be?"

Sam froze. He wanted to object. No! He knows the past was a lie, that it wasn't him running the show. He knows that he needed to build his own life.
He knows all of those things, but the feeling remains that the past was easy and he felt happy.
He had learned that that was not real happiness, but he feels confused. How is happiness supposed to feel? Surely not like this, unsure, doubting every intention and thought.
There were times he wished to go back, erase his knowledge and just live his life as before. But he knew that to be impossible and so he was stuck between two lives:
One he can never return to, and one he felt he could never reach. Would he even know if he reached it? So why was he here?

"I know I don't want to go back, but being out here is not helping me much either. I tried, and you're still trying. If both of us can't find it, then who can?"

The doubt in Sam's heart grew a little stronger. The feeling was far too familiar and he embraced as he always does. Questioning everything was the only certainty he had left.

"I appreciate you trying, but I don't think this is the right way. Maybe we'll find one day, maybe we won't, but I think it's time to go back now."

Sam blinks his eyes a few times and returns to the present. He sits a table at a local bar, surrounded by some of his remaining friends.
He flashes a smile for the joke his friend just finished telling, a joke he did not hear. They all laugh, but a smile is the best Sam can muster right now.
Exhausted, he excuses himself for the night. He grabs his coat and leaves the bar, walking home alone.

Deep down, Sam knows he will never be able to share how he feels. There are no words that can describe the abyss of doubt and the suffering it causes.
As he walks home, with a heavy head and an anxious heart, a thought returns to him. A reminder for why he went looking for himself in the first place:
That things in the future could be even better than they were in the past. Even if he does not believe it now, he believes that he wants it to be true.
He will go search again. Not today, and likely not tomorrow either, but some day because he has seen that there is a better way.

I think it might be a little too chaotic and maybe it fails to get the point across. I kind of changed me mind about what the story is about half-way through. I think it shows, but I did not want to overly edit and just allow it to flow.

As you posted the story in this thread, I assume it is also meant for this theme: A SECRET HOBBY - which I can't see in your story at all. I don't know what the secret hobby is, or if there even is one. Overall, the whole setting of the story is pretty 'dark' to me. I don't get any sense where or when or even why it is taking place. There's reference to the sun in the beginning (which seems to be a memory, going by the ending), and then a bar with friends. That's very little to paint a picture, everything else is inner thoughts (probably?).
As a matter of fact, I don't even get a sense who Sam is talking to, or is he even talking to anyone other than himself?
What this story does offer is a deep inner perspective, a person trying to find their way, someone who feels alienated from their friends to some degree. But I can't really figure out why. Is there any reference to an actual event that happened prior to his contemplations? I'm not sure.
Overall, this story gives me the impression that you had something in mind, some idea of a scene, some idea of events and reasons that you just never bothered to tell the reader because they were so clear in your head. (It's one of the problems with "show, don't tell", sometimes, a writer has to tell the reader certain things.)

The humourous situations, great characters and the great descriptions of the main character being really annoyed, but hiding it very well.

I liked your non-submission, but then I also like a lot of introspection in my stories. I understood the secret hobby to be yearning for something more than just wasting time away at the bar, with the main "character" actually being the inner voice that keeps saying "we could be so much more than this". I'd say next steps are to watch formatting and verb tenses for clarity (although the formatting might not be your fault, sometimes the forums do weird things). Welcome aboard - hopefully next time we get to vote on your story!  ;-D