Animal Crossing is a Nintendo game about living a pretend life in a tightknit community of weird humanoid animals, that all starts with you boarding a train to nowhere-ville.

You take a seat by the window, watch trees whiz by in an evergreen blur, you barely notice the odd, human sized cat that takes a seat opposite you.  He speaks in a strange garbled tongue, asks personal questions. You answer them however you see fit. You just want to escape. All you want is peace and quiet. But this cat won’t let up; his unbroken howls of laughter pierce your sanity, make you question every decision you have ever made.  Finally the cat lands on the most pertinent query of all,

“How much money do you have?”

You look at him through squinted eyelids, your head tilted ever so slightly to the left. You explain that your funds, or lack thereof are none of his concern, and if he would please, just go away. Again his laughter fills the cabin as a cheesy grin pulls the corners of his mouth skywards.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make a call.”

He says, stands up and saunters towards the phone. From here you can barely make out what he’s saying about you, though you decide not to care. You have already spent too much of your time worrying about what others think of you.  The cat arrogantly makes his way back to his seat, sits and says:

“I have sorted it out. No need to thank me.”

As you get off the train, a large raccoon, whose closed eyes make judging his character nigh impossible, greets you with a smile.

“Are you the new resident?” he asks.

His cheery disposition frightens you somehow. Nevertheless, you nod in compliance. “Very good! Very good! Right this way then.” He says and beckons you towards him. His name is Tom Nook; he is the local storeowner and entrepreneur. He leads you to a square with four identical houses, urges you to have a look at each and then pick one. You take in the four homes with an air of disappointment. They all lack furniture and could really use a lick of paint, but beggars can’t be choosers. You leave the last house; tell Nook this is the one, as you stare at your feet, crestfallen.

“Very good! Very good!” Nook says with a smile. “Now, on to the matter of the mortgage, will that be cash or check?” Another large smile unnerves you as you hand over whatever change you have left. “Hmm… This is not nearly enough I’m afraid.” His smile turns to a stern glower. “I know! How about you come work for me in my store?” He reverts back to his smile. You can’t say no. You don’t. You spend a week, stacking shelves, meeting the locals, and making deliveries until Nook finally sets you free. His final words are “You can pay off the rest of your mortgage at the post office. You have one week, or I’ll send my goons after you.” He smiles like he’s joking, but you never know with him.  You still owe him 19.800 Bells.

To gather funds you do random chores for the other villagers because they are too lazy to walk ten paces to the left to pick up their Pokémon Pikachu, or whatever, from next-door neighbours who were in turn too lazy to even think of returning it themselves.  The bird next door says she lent it to the bull that lives down the road. The bull says he lent it to the toad. The toad lent it to the duck, and so forth. You finally return to the cow, Pokémon Pikachu in hand, equipped with a smile that gleams so brightly it’s visible from the moon, even though all you want to do is wait until this cow falls asleep and set fire to her and her disgusting décor, and what do you get for your efforts? Stationary. Stationary and a fucking lecture about sending letters, and how everyone just loves to receive them. Is this a sick joke?

You rush to the post office, as your mind compiles a letter so vile, you will barely be able to look your own mother in the eyes for weeks without feeling mortified and disgusted with yourself for sending it. But you do. You wait a day, maybe two, sitting inside your rusty shack, flipping the light switch on and off, again debating every decision you have ever made, and elect that you made the wrong decision for each one. The next day you happen to cross the cow at the local store, she hails you, expresses her gratitude for the letter, reading it aloud for all to hear, completely unscathed by any of the gratuitous statements about her and her personality.
“Please send me a gift next time.” she says. “Everybody loves a present!” 

You wake up the next day feeling empty, your bank account still just as empty, and decide it is within your best interest to do it all again, and again, like Bill Murray trapped in an Andie MacDowell-less Groundhog Day. Your mind reels with but one question.  “Are you having fun yet?” 

9/10

Benjamin Porter

Did you see that Zach? Clear as a crisp spring morning. F K… In the coffee.” I mumble to myself, blow into my mug and sigh.