A RELATIVELY SHORT TIME AGO IN A PLACE NOT TOO FAR AWAY—

It was December 8, 1982, and the Grassy Knoll Pub in Driftwood County was buzzing like a hive of slightly drunk bees. The premiere of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial was happening that night in some fancy theater a few towns over, but Cassidy, the perpetually soused Irish doorman, didn’t give a rat’s arse about Spielberg or his wrinkly little alien. He was too busy pouring pints of Guinness for the locals and eyeballing the two newcomers who’d stumbled in around 7 PM, looking like they’d just escaped a Radio Shack explosion.

The pair—Howard and Cliff, video game developers from Atari—had inexplicably driven down from Silicon Valley with grand plans to catch the E.T. premiere, soak up some inspiration, and maybe pitch a game idea to some Hollywood suits*. Howard was the loud one, all wild hair and a Hawaiian shirt that screamed “I own a Commodore 64 and I’m proud of it.” Cliff, quieter, had the sunken eyes of a man who’d spent too many nights debugging code on a flickering CRT monitor. They’d heard about the Grassy Knoll from a gas station clerk who’d muttered something about “good beer and weird vibes,” and that was enough to detour them.

“Two whiskeys, neat,” Howard barked, slapping a crumpled twenty on the bar. “And none of that watered-down piss. We’re celebrating tonight!”

Cassidy raised an eyebrow, his pale face creasing like old leather. “Celebratin’ what, boyo? Ye look like ye just lost a fight with a typewriter.”

“We’re gonna make the greatest video game ever,” Howard said, puffing out his chest. “Based on that E.T. flick. Spielberg’s a genius, and we’re gonna ride his coattails all the way to the bank.”

Cliff nodded, sipping his whiskey like it was medicine. “We’ve got six weeks to crank it out. Atari’s breathing down our necks. Holiday sales, you know.”

Cassidy chuckled, a low rumble that sounded like a coffin lid creaking open. “Six weeks? Ye’ll be lucky to make a game that don’t crash a console, let alone sell. But sure, drink up. Ye’ll need it.”

The night spiraled from there. Howard, fueled by whiskey and bravado, challenged a local to a game of darts, only to miss the board entirely and lodge a dart in the jukebox. The machine sputtered to life, blaring “Sweet Caroline” on a loop until someone kicked it quiet. Cliff, meanwhile, got roped into a conspiracy rant by Jesse Custer, the pub’s owner, who insisted E.T. was a government psy-op to prep folks for alien disclosure. “That finger glow? Subliminal messaging, mate,” Jesse slurred, waving a pint. Cliff just stared, too drunk to argue.

By 10 PM, the premiere was a distant memory. Howard was arm-wrestling a biker named Big Earl, losing spectacularly, while Cliff doodled game ideas on a napkin—E.T. falling into pits, E.T. getting lost in a maze of green blobs, E.T. doing… something with a phone. “It’s genius,” Cliff mumbled, his handwriting a drunken scrawl. “Players’ll love it.”

Cassidy, sensing opportunity, slid a tray of what he called “Widow’s Tears”—some unholy mix of gin, grenadine, and regret—across the bar. “On the house, lads. To yer success.” The developers downed them, gagged, and ordered another round. By midnight, they were sprawled in a booth, arguing about whether E.T. should have a health bar or just die in one hit. “Realism, Cliff!” Howard yelled. “Kids love pain!”

When Jesse stumbled in the next morning to open the pub, he found Howard and Cliff passed out under a table, surrounded by empty glasses and a napkin covered in illegible sketches. The E.T. premiere? Missed it. Their grand plan? Buried under a hangover thicker than Alabama mud. They staggered to their car, a beat-up Pinto, and drove back to Atari, piecing together a game from half-remembered bar talk and spite.**

Six weeks later, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial hit store shelves. It was a mess—glitchy, confusing, and about as fun as stepping on a Lego. E.T. fell into pits. E.T. got stuck. E.T. made kids cry for all the wrong reasons. Atari, expecting a holiday blockbuster, shipped millions of cartridges. They sold maybe a quarter of them. The rest? Shipped to a landfill in Alamogordo, New Mexico, where they were buried under concrete and shame, a monument to one epic night at the Grassy Knoll Pub.

Years later, Cassidy would tell the tale to anyone who’d listen, a wicked grin splitting his face. “Them lads came in with dreams and left with a disaster. That’s the Knoll for ye—where good ideas go to drown.” Jesse, polishing the bar, would just nod. “Shoulda watched the damn movie.”

*This is one of Cassidy’s favorite stories. Please forgive an old Irish drunkard’s embellishments.
**IF Cassidy’s telling the truth here—and I stress IF—that’s a drive back worthy of its own story one day.