A quiet, peaceful time. The sun was shining on the garden, a wave of soft light bathed each and every petal with a golden fire, casting dancing shadows as leaves and branches twisted and dipped lazily in the wind.

The only sound to be heard was the discordant and prolonged squeals of a serving girl, sounding something like a little bird having its head repeatedly thrust into a pile of burning Dreamcast consoles, then having the salty tears of Sega Executives poured on the wound.

I hurried towards the cacophony, like a peaceful late Autumn Butterfly, with sandals flapping loudly on the warm gravel of the paths. I slowed as I approached the source of the din, adjusting my tie and suit to appear less flustered when I finally arrived in the presence of the great man.

Miyamoto-san was sitting passively as Mighty Eternal President Yamauchi-san held the head of an unfortunate serving girl in his gold ring-covered hand. Occasionally he thrust her head into a pile of burning Dreamcast consoles, then withdrawing, he tipped a bowl of seasoned salty Sega Executive tears on the girl’s face, which contorted like the wings of a peaceful late Autumn Butterfly as the painful liquid seeped into her wounds.

Finally, the Mighty Eternal President finished his chastisment of the girl: she crawled off screaming and clutching at her irreperably scarred visage, making desperate indications of agony with her fingers as a sign of great respect. Eternal President Yamauchi-san was evidently pleased by this sign of respect, and kicked her into an ornamental pond and watched her drowning slowly like a peaceful late Autumn Butterfly as the green water seeped into her nose and mouth. When he turned his back, satisfied, another serving girl grabbed the half-drowned girl and dragged her from the water.

Turning and ruffling Miyamoto-san’s hair affectionately, the Mighty Eternal President skipped out of the garden without another word.

All this time Miyamoto-san had neither spoken nor moved, his eyes fixed vacantly at the sky, pehaps observing the patterns of a peaceful late Autumn Butterfly as it danced and dandled its way through the beautiful Summer sky. I bowed low to the great man, and he turned his head slowly, as one wakened from a peaceful slumber. He motioned me to sit.

“I understand,” he said, patting my shoulder with a hand covered by a woollen Barbie-print mitten. “I understand, my friend, that you will be leaving us soon?” I nodded, daring not to speak.

“Is it a question of money?” I shook my head. “Perhaps you feel the need for a new challenge?” I shook my head again. “Ah… then perhaps it is the monotony of life here? The way that things proceed in my garden are too mundane, too boring? Nothing new, unusual or strange ever occurs here…” He smiled sadly “Ah my little peaceful late Autumn Butterfly… I fear that sometimes my garden is too much grounded in the real world, that the fantastical never has the opportunity to walk with us in these hallowed grounds, that instead of excitement fable and mystery, you find that we do things too much by the book here, there is too much store set in truth.” He sighed and stood, revealing underneath his silk Barbie-pattern kimono a plastic pirates’ cutlass and Power Ranger Utility Belt.

“If this is to be your last day with us, then I will fill your ears with the sweet silent warrior song of a peaceful late Autumn Butterfly as she cries for her children lost in battle with the fighting Uruk-hai. Come, my friend and I will tell you a tale that none has ever heard.”

“It was a hot Summer day in my early adolescence, the snow fell heavily on the streets of Tokyo. With an eager heart I pulled on my finest Bermuda shorts and my favourite golden bikini top. My mother, may the Mighty Eternal President save her ten-generation-cursed soul, had been concerned by what she called my “unusual behaviour” of late. So she had sought out an ancient teacher of ballet dance, and hoped that he would set me on the straight and narrow path that the peaceful late Autumn Butterfly sets for us to follow.”

“My teacher, who has now been dead for more than a hundred and thirty years was to meet me on the top of Mount Ridesplace in the suburbs. However, as I later discovered that he had been dead for seven hundred years by that time, this meeting was never to take place. In my bag I carried a pair of pink silken ballet shoes, signed by none-other than Barbie herself, and a handful of candied peaceful late Autumn Butterflies with which to sustain myself on the long journey.”

“It was a great journey, the specifics of which I will not bore you with. Particularly as it began, as always with the other young children in the neighbourhood shouting ‘Fairy Boy!’ as I passed. In my possession was a stick I used to swipe them away and a green tunic that I put on to guard against the freezing Summer sunshine. I ran, using efficient Z-targetting to adjust my position suddenly when obstacle came my way. I pride myself on saying that in my hurry I was graceful like the wings of a wingless peaceful late Autumn Butterfly.”

“I found a great door barred my way to the mountain, so I retraced my steps. In an unexplored nook, I found a chest: cautiously I opened it, and found a small key. I was filled with gratitude as I returned to the door blocking my way. Before I had even found my key, the chains of the lock had split opening the door, and my key was nowhere to be found, like the car keys of a peaceful late Autumn Butterfly that swears he had in his pocket a minute ago…”

“The mountain was high and filled with dangerous ledges, compounded by large stones that looked like they had faces as they crashed from side to side along the mountain ridges. I dodged, with an inhuman agility that belied my youth. Like the peaceful late Autumn Butterfly, I was invigourated by the sounds of metal on stone further up the mountain. I pressed on.”

“When finally I arrived at the summit, exhausted, I found that I was not alone. No, like the peaceful late Autumn Butterfly who comes home to find the plumber in bed with his wife, I was shocked and dismayed that my arduous trial had been for nothing if I had not made it alone.”

“But wait! Like the peaceful Late Autumn Butterfly who needs reading glasses after sitting too close to the television when he was younger, I felt the vision crystllize slowly and come sharply into focus.”

“The young man who stood before me swung his sword almost noiselessly at first: softly slicing the supple blades of grass one by one and collecting the money that fell out. Then, suddenly he would swiftly whip the sword around his body, spinning and striking down whole squares of grass like a peaceful late Autumn Butterfly that forgot to check that the hot coals from his barbecue were cold before her threw them into his neighbours garden, starting a forest fire.”

“My sadness dissipated as a new epiphany struck my consciousness like an arrow: here was my… Link. A Link to the past, a Link to the future: a Link of delicious Cumberland sausages. You see, as much as a physical journey it had been a spiritual journey for me, and one I needed to make to begin my trasition from boy to man, a painfuly journey that would encompass oceans, temples, giant enemy plants, dying trees and the sweet sound of an ocarina on the wind.”

“I tore off my bermuda shorts, frantically scribbling down the ideas as they flashed before my eyes. Before I knew it I was a man, and pitching the greatest saga that our glorious company would ever give birth too, a saga that would span ages, seasons, awakenings, the twilight and even time itself.”

“I am of course referring to Dr Mario.”