Cat and the Pinball Wizard

Cat Rossi kicked the starter on her cherry-red Vespa GS160, the engine crackling alive with the sort of growl only a machine rebuilt with love — and a lot of late-night swearing — could give. It was 1984 in a damp corner of London, where the pavements still smelled faintly of cigarettes and spilled lager after a Friday night, and the youth danced themselves dizzy on ska rhythms spilling out of basement clubs.

Cat, twenty-two, had oil under her nails and eyeliner sharp enough to slice through Thatcher’s speeches. She tugged at her leather jacket, patched with Madness and The Specials, and smirked at her reflection in the café window. Everyone else saw a cheeky, cool-as-you-like girl with a Vespa; only she knew the truth: her scooter could tear through time.

And tonight — it was humming.

The air shimmered as Cat twisted the throttle. The world around her fizzed like a badly tuned telly. One blink, and the streets of Brixton blurred into bright pinball lights, bells clanging, and the smell of popcorn and grease. Cat had landed on the pavement outside an arcade. Not just any arcade — this was the home of the legend.

The Pinball Wizard stood at the centre. Deaf, dumb, and blind, just as the songs said, yet he moved like a ghost, fingers dancing across the machine with impossible grace. The lights chased his touch: jackpots…