“Hurry, boys! The natives in the Amazon still have a few gems clutched in their fists! Let's go fucking brain them and relieve them of those riches!” — Uncle Scrooge.

During these Last Days of The Republic, I’ve decided to mark the ruling class’s victory over the American Dream by taking a look back at the most lovable oligarch Duckberg ever produced: Unca Scrooge.

"Lovable” because while he is an enthusiastic wealth hoarder and seemingly a racist, he’s also a pretty cute little duck guy. He wears a top hat, spats on his little duck feet, and speaks with what I suspect to be an exaggerated Scottish accent. These things are Very Cute. His nemesis, Glomgold, can be described basically the same way, except he wears a kilt (also adorbs.)

This game is about two avaricious ducks whose only interest on this earth is to amass more wealth than the other. They don't need more money, but having more than the other guy gives them self worth. In the process, indigenous peoples are stripped of their resources and valuables.

That’s the story, that’s all there is. So aside from the characters being anthropomorphic animals, you could say this game is "based on true events."

The fun part is you can hop around on Scrooge’s cane like a pogo stick in this game, which is very cool. The levels are fun and the bosses aren't too hard to beat: Magica De Spell was even kind of pretty, which was a secret opinion I held as a kid. I no longer believe that, because I was cured of that condition. When your dad finds your journal and you’ve written Mr. Robbie De Spell on the cover and a duck lady with hearts all around her, you get cured quickly.

DuckTales’ music gets a chef's kiss, too. The soundtrack sometimes reaches Mega Man 2 levels of genius, particularly the Moon theme. It makes you feel like a true badass while you play, just like when you air-punched to Mr. Big or Warrant in your bedroom as a kid, long after you were supposed to be asleep. Art rules. I wish I could make some one day.

The first time I ever played DuckTales was in February of 1990 at my buddy Aaron’s house. It was a sleepover/birthday party, and a few of our buddies and me got to stay over for a night of pizza, movies, and video games.

It was a rare treat, and a night of many important firsts for me. The first time I saw RoboCop, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, played DuckTales, and the first time I ever faked a heart condition to be excluded from roughhousing with other boys.

It’s not that I was a weakling, it’s just that I got winded easily, didn’t like getting hurt, and was also very weak. So when the evening turned to wrestling and other physical contests of Boys’ Strength, I was quick to say, “Oh no, my heart!” in order to be excused from the proceedings.

Sometimes I wonder how much I missed out on due to being afraid.

The moment I walked into Aaron’s house, on that cold February evening, I felt like I was stepping onto a different, richer planet. Against the wall of the living room sat a big screen TV with a comfortable looking couch and leather chairs surrounding it. Actual art hung on the walls. The carpet was lush and my feet sank into it.

I thought about my house, with its 13 inch TV that sat on a giant floor style TV from the 70s that didn’t work, and our bare walls, adorned only by a small clock and scribbled-on calendar. It was impossible to imagine living the way Aaron did.

Aaron led us upstairs to his room, which was bigger than my living room at home, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. He had play sets from G.I. Joe, He-Man, Transformers, and more just tossed around on the floor. I mean the expensive ones, the ones I would stare at in the Sears Wish Book every Christmas, knowing to not even circle any of them because there was no way my parents could afford them.

I said “Wow, you have the USS Flagg! Can we play with it?” I had never seen the G.I. Joe play set in person before, I couldn’t believe he owned it. It was over a hundred dollars at Hills. He’d never even mentioned it to me.

“Nah,” he said. “It’s boring.”

I just stood there, refusing to accept that the USS Flagg could be regarded as anything but fucking awesome, let alone boring. He was like Scrooge, swimming around in gold coins like they were water, zero regard for the value of what he had. Absolutely shocking. That was the moment that I started to realize people who have everything don’t really value anything.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I said, almost sounding like I meant it. “So, what should we do?” My eyes didn’t leave The Flagg as I asked.

“This!” He cried. With that, he crashed into me, tackling me to the ground. The other guys started laughing, and then piled on. Headlocks, arm bars, and figure four leg locks soon followed. Rowdy Boys transforming into all sorts of tangled configurations atop me. A literal nightmare.

Buried under three wriggling people made me start to panic, I was trapped and couldn’t escape no matter how hard I tried. “Oh no! My heart!” I yelled as loud as I could.

To their credit, the guys immediately scattered and Aaron asked if I was alright. I said I was, but I needed to sit on the couch for a bit and rest. (Aaron also had a couch in his room. Unbelievable.)

We spent the rest of the evening watching movies on Aaron’s personal VCR.

Watching RoboCop and Indiana Jones with those guys remains one of my favorite memories of growing up. No one bullied me or told me I was a loser or anything. If I could Quantum Leap back to any night of my life and relive it, it would be that one.

That night after Aaron’s parents went to bed it was time for Bat Club, our secret sect, to swing into action.

Bat Club was the secret society Aaron and a few of the other guys had created the previous summer during Batman Fever, and one that I'd been initiated into by leaping from the top floor of Aaron’s garage down onto the main floor. An uncharacteristically brave action for me, it tells you how much I needed to be accepted by this club.

Our rival gang was called The Night Boys. I will get to them in another review.

I still remember sitting on the edge of the trap door at the top of the garage ladder and looking down, my stomach squirming like a tangle of Void Eels and the guys down below encouraging me to jump. They weren’t shaming me into jumping, they were telling me I could do it. It was really weird to have people encourage me, and I think that’s the only reason I actually went through with it.

When I hit the concrete garage floor, I didn’t stand back up to mocking or laughter. I stood up to cheers and high fives. Bat Club was amazing. Hell, I would join it again today.

The jump hurt like a bastard and my shins ached the next day, but by completing the initiation I proved my worth to the Bat Club. Just like Indy proved his worth in the leap from the Lion’s Head in The Last Crusade. Two brave souls, Indy and me. Basically the same guy.

Realistically, it should have been the people he had robbed chasing his greedy ass and not the beagle boys.

So that night, Bat Club crept out of the house and into the chilly night air and walked to the nearby park. It was close to midnight, and the only people there besides us were a younger couple, maybe in their early twenties, making out on one of the benches under a shelter.

It wasn’t a big deal to me. I knew what making out was- having already seen it in my favorite movie, 1987’s Moonstruck, starring the world-famous singer Cher, and Nicolas Cage in his best role. (Olympia Dukakis not to be missed.)

So yeah, I was NO stranger to the way of making out with a Lover. I’d even hoped to try it for myself one day.

Sadly, as was usually the case when I hung out with my friends back then, it wasn’t long until the night took a turn for the shitty.

As we were walking along the gravel road that cut through the park, we noticed a third party that we hadn’t seen before, an older guy who was standing off by himself in the grass.

His back turned to us, illuminated by moonlight, he was facing the young lovers as they sloppily invaded each other’s mouths. His right hand was moving in this weird, jerky motion.

We didn’t realize what he was doing at first, but in our thirteen-year-old minds we all simultaneously concluded that he must be “bopping the one-mouthed salami eel with the five-fingered discounter” while watching the couple rub their tongues and teeth against each other.

It was dark and hard to see what their exact technique was, but that was my understanding of what making out was at the time. Moonstruck didn’t really make it too clear. Kissing in movies made me feel kind of shy so I watched the make out parts out of my peripheral vision.

Eric, de facto leader of Bat Club and teenage drumming prodigy with a skateboarder hair cut, started dying laughing and pointed at the guy. Before anyone could say anything he shrieked, “HEY, THAT GUY IS JACKING OFF AT YOU,” to the couple. The lovers, and the (alleged) Pleasureman all turned to look at us.

I’ll admit it, the scrutiny in this situation was more than I could bear, their attention feeling like a military grade laser boring into my brain, and at that moment I bolted like a bat out of hell.

I mean, I was fucking GONE. Even back then, my baseline anxiety levels ran high, and having snuck out after curfew meant that I was already near-panicked, but maintaining enough that the other guys didn’t notice.

That was all that ever really mattered. Not what was causing the anxiety, not techniques on reducing it, not figuring out why you were like this. Only making sure no one ever noticed. People noticing you weren't like them made you an Other. And that was the worst thing you could ever be.

I was like a deer on the shoulder of the road: calm on the surface, but inside gripped by primal terror, ready to bolt into traffic and end up a red smear on the highway at the lightest upset.

So when Eric shrieked “HEY THAT GUY IS JACKING OFF AT YOU” to the couple, it was Too Much. Panic crashed over me like a cold, black wave. Focused only on escape, I forgot about the low-hanging PARK CLOSED sign we'd stepped over on the way in. I ran straight into its chain, tripping and sending myself sailing face-first into the gravel on the other side.

Certain The Masturbator was right behind me, I scrabbled back to my feet. I didn’t dare look back as I regained my balance and spat the gravel out of my mouth. Without even checking myself for injuries, my flight resumed. My friends’ uncontrolled laughter echoed behind me as I disappeared into the night.

Laugh all you want, dickheads, for I will not be the one to die at the hands of some midnight jack-offist in the Veterans’ Memorial Park on Route 31.

The good news of this review is when they got home, they told me the couple explained to them that the guy wasn’t actually cranking it, he just had nerve damage or something, and it was normal for him to take walks in the park at night.

By the time the guys made it back home and explained all this to me, I was already Transylvania-deep into DuckTales, about to fight the sultry Magica De Spell, a villain who turned into a flying bird for you to fight. Which seemed odd, ducks are already birds. Maybe ducks can’t fly. So she turned into a crow or some other evil bird who could fly around to fight you. What do I know about birds? I just nodded at this new information and kept playing.

The guys did make fun of my panicked escape, but not as bad as Ellis or the kids in school would've. My cowardice didn't even cost me my place in Bat Club, and I was grateful beyond words. They were good guys. I was friends with Aaron for years afterwards.

Now in the interest of full disclosure, I feel I have the responsibility to tell you that I did develop a bit of a crush on Magica De Spell at the time.

I recovered from that condition eventually, but I am not afraid to admit that I have had that illness. Never be ashamed of overcoming adversity.

Unless your adversity is "this other billionaire is more of a billionaire than me." Be ashamed of that.

DuckTales Final Rating: 10/10