The end was near. Jeff Pickles had been standing in front of the weathered Pac-Man machine for more than three hours, guiding the yellow puck through the same maze over and over and over again, gobbling up every dot, power pellet and piece of fruit in his way. He was sweating, shifting his weight from foot to foot; his hand kept cramping. There were only two possible ends to this pixelated dance: Either Pickles would steal every point and become one of the few to boast a perfect score on the game — or Pac-Man would die trying, collapse in on... More >>>