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How many billions of greasy £iras I must have wasted, in the vain hope of managing to bend the persistent Martian offensive, is unknown: making an estimate, surely on the low side, I suppose I must have donated about a thousand £iras a day (that is: 10 fantastic games) for several years to the here-and-now owner (more Hic than Nunc to be honest: the vernaccia flowed freely among the responsible adults of the circle) of the crowded game room of the oratory.
Now I wouldn't know but in my day it was like this: that blessed place that allowed you to insert the coveted "Coin" of the most coveted and crowded game in the entire room, the one that allowed you to challenge the terrible and well-organized (truthfully also a bit stupid, always aligned in a square) aliens and that allowed you to send a few dozen of your young neurons into unconscious self-combustion [it was nice when you had many..], you had to patiently conquer it, inch by inch, often elbowing with the worst daredevils of the neighborhood: guys who at 11 years old claimed to smoke two packs of cigarettes a day and who boasted of repeatedly groping the breasts of the most developed and uninhibited in the neighborhood and who, at the critical moment (when the Martian rocket struck him down), could spout so many curses as to make the hairy dock workers of the nearby Portovesme industrial hub blush; tough guys indeed.
Guys who, when you were battling against the fearsome invaders, would breathe chinotto and licorice wheel on your neck, ardently hoping that the missiles and rays of the "little Martians" would finally take you down so they could play: in practice, you were forced to play against two types of Martians: those inside the game who were specifically trained to do so and then against the more dangerous ones: those who surrounded you, panting and flushed when you were about to break their sweat-soaked record.
Among the absolute highlights that marked the most valiant players was the particularly arduous attempt to hit the spaceship (maybe scoring 300 points!!) by passing Your rocket between two rows of paired and restless Martians: the success of such a hit granted immediate respect from the large audience.
Then I remember the day when, without any warning, they sadly took away our favorite three-button box (move right, left and fire): it was replaced with some "modern" game I can't remember anymore: each game cost a whopping two hundred 200 £iras: from that moment my, indeed, our lives were never the same again.
Game Over
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