Paintball
I tried bargaining. I tried bribing. I tried cajoling. But all that I got from Atlanta’s adoptive mother was a noncommittal air and, of all things, a sudden idea for the three of us to go play “paintball” somewhere in the city. And she refused to be dissuaded.
So here we are, in an arena filled with obstacle courses and structures that somewhat mimic a particularly dense village, each garbed in a strange, hard but light armour on the head and chest. And the similarities stop there, in my part, because the weapons that we are to use are neither swords, nor spears, nor staffs, nor bows, but elongated contraptions with perpendicular hand-holds named “paintball guns.”
War-games are war-games, still, whatever the weapon and arena are like, and I do not boast when I say that I am gifted with versatility.
The three of us are to capture the “enemy” stronghold on the other end of the arena, while the “enemy” side consists of five strapping young men. No wonder, then, that the “enemies” look down on us.
Well, they look up to us, literally, bruised and battered, at the end of the game.
How satisfying and exhilarating it feels….