Tiny figures jog across the screen, lobbing the hard pelota ball back and forth.

Tiny figures jog across the screen, lobbing the hard pelota ball back and forth.

Speakers spaced out, the reverberant pop, pop, pop of the ball's ricochet echoes off the bar's high ceiling.

Watch the match with her.

For a quarter of an hour you watch as men in short shorts and tall socks hurl a leather sphere against concrete with tremendous force. Their passionate grunts are matched only by the violent impacts of the ball.

You study their movements carefully -- a beautifully choreographed display of physical prowess.

Reminds me of my training...

Despite your unprepossessing appearance, you acquitted yourself admirably in the major physical arts, receiving higher than average marks for your cohort.

The words of your old double HOLOCENE come to mind. In the so-called Developed World, the whole political and cultural economy of a place is revealed through its sporting rivalries.

"What's the deal with the brown team?"

"Thought you said you were a regular once upon a time?"

"My priorities lay elsewhere back then. Primarily in getting pickled."

"That's Quisach PC. Everyone around here goes for them."

The local's local. Team of the working classes, with strong ties to the old silk industry.

Thin ribbons of the old fabric sewn into the tops of their socks.

"It's been a really long time."

"I can get down with Quisach PC."

"¡Viva Quisach!" She raises a glass to you. "Just remember that we're not allowed to use the WCs in another team's arena."

"Wait, why not?"

"I guess they're worried someone will take it upon themselves to recreate the Ceramic Panic of 83. One person rips out a toilet and lobs it into the stands, one time..."

"My bladder is iron. I'll hold it in for Quisach."

"And if not, there are plenty of plastic bottles around."

"Huh, maybe this isn't my team."

"Yeah, not everyone can hold it in for their team."

"What's the deal with the red team?"

"Recreación. Bunch of pretty boys in short shorts."

Her lack of expression is so blank as to be an expression itself.

Recreación is a money laundering vehicle for the profiteer class, those who've won the End of History by steering years of 'stabilisation packages' to their chosen enterprises.

Needless to say, a significant part of their player's salaries are paid by EMTERR.

"I take it EMTERR's not very popular here."

"'Stabilisation' hasn't done much for Quisach."

"Are they any good?"

"They're alright."

"I like the look of Recreación, actually."

"It's always safe to lick the ass that smells like money. Enjoy hanging out with the rich foreigners and sex perverts."

"Hold on, I didn't know about the sex perverts!"

"Recreación partisans always say that."

Maintain plausible deniability for everything, at all times.

"I feel home at last."

"Money tends to have that effect on people."

"I'd rather not lick anyone's ass."

"Your choice. Some of us like to keep our pride and our consecutive losses."

"I don't think I can pick either team." (Back out.)

"Probably better not to involve yourself in a conflict you don't understand."

"Why are their shorts so short?"

"Shows off their work," she says, appreciatively.

Indeed, each of the pelota players display taut hamstrings, chiselled gastrocnemius and soleus, and perfectly rounded glutes that bounce appealingly under the shorts' tight, synthetic material...

"Why are their socks so tall?"

"Helps with blood circulation, reduces fatigue." She sniffs. "Also makes their legs look longer."

"Should I... go for one of these teams?"

"I suppose? It's a good way to meet normal people."

She's not yet entirely convinced that you are 'normal people'.

Watch some pelota.

15 minutes pass in near silence as you stare at the television, mesmerised by the rhythmic action onscreen.

In your trance-state, you hear a voice that sounds eerily like yours hiss 'yesss!' when one team scores a point on a particularly tricky shot.

It's only when the channel cuts to a commercial for tuk-tuk insurance that you snap out of the sports-induced reverie.

"Can we watch something else?"

"No. Shush."

That's enough pelota for now. [Leave.]

The bartender gives you a brief, familiar nod as you slide off the stool.

The TV is working normally again. On the screen, two pelota teams are caught in sweaty rivalry. A mascot in an elaborate moth costume dances on the sidelines while being pelted with trash.

"The picture looks a lot better now. Thanks for doing that thing."

It's still almost impossible to make out the action on-screen.

"It's getting worse." She watches you, watching the television. "I really need to just give up on it and buy a new one."

Alternative wording

"Had any other thoughts on how to fix this?" She gestures to the television.

"Looks like you've got a problem there." (Nod at the discoloured TV.)

"Oh, yeah." The bartender frowns. "Protypos are garbage. I suppose I'll buy a new one, again."

"That sounds expensive."

"Nothing lasts anymore."

BY DESIGN. THE ARCHITECTS OF THE DEVELOPED WORLD WOULD HAVE YOU ACCEPT AN ENDLESS CYCLE OF CONSUMPTION AND DECAY.

TELEVISIONS SHOULD BE NEITHER LARGE NOR THEIR SCREENS THIN. THEY SHOULD BE SMALL, SQUARE, DEMURE, AND WATCHED IN CAREFULLY MONITORED MODERATION.

"It's kind of pretty, in a way."

"It looks confusing. Purple was Pitol Sporting's colour."

What's wrong with the picture?

Electrons deflected by magnetic interference -- the shadow mask has been corrupted. Without an instrument of magnetic banishment, you are near powerless to exorcise the demons of distortion from the Fogged Mirror's television.

"No need to throw this thing out. It just needs to be degaussed."

"Oh?" She looks at the TV, then at you.

"You don't have a degaussing wand lying around somewhere do you?"

"No, I'm not sure what you're even talking about. No wands here."

All hope may not be lost! The proximity of the speakers to the CRT's screen has caused this blight, so perhaps removing their malign influence will, if not completely free the television, at least prevent its further defilement.

"You should probably find one then. It'll fix the magnetic disturbance."

"Yep, probably should."

"In the meantime, you can just move the speakers further away."

The bartender stands on her toes and moves the speaker a few centimetres. Almost instantly, the purple blotch recedes.

"Well, then." She gives the television an appraising look, then turns the same gaze onto you. "Good eye. Thank you."

You stare into the purple haze. Figures shift and ripple under discoloured static -- fish below the surface of a vast, unknowable electronic sea.

Here, fish-fish.

You wiggle your little finger back and forth in front of your eyes. The screen is not affected in any way.

Come on, TV. Tell me what's wrong.

Much like the actual ocean, the violet waves that lap across the screen are unaffected by your pleas.

The television is a cheap Luzian knock-off. These things start falling apart as soon as they're lifted off the assembly line.

Maybe she should just throw it out.

But that's such a waste...

The television may be dusty and broken, but it is not yet its time to go to the scrap heap. Salvation is possible.

No! There must be some hope of fixing it...

All things can be fixed -- with enough time, effort, money, will. The question is, do you have any of those?

"Try moving the speakers. They're disrupting the TV's magnetic field."

"I prefer it this way, actually."

"Enjoy it while you can, I'm trashing it for a new one as soon as the next shipment comes into the Bazaar."

It's pretty but it's also making my eyes hurt. [Leave.]

The TV continues to rip open the colours of another dimension.

Under a thick curved screen, colours rip and tear into each other, making it impossible to make sense of what is currently playing.

A discoloured bloom of interference mars the corner of the screen, tinting the dancing mascot on the sidelines purple.