Sitting in the middle of a puddle, a remnant of some 90s childhood, was a pog. Not the cardboard pogs you would try to win, but the weighted plastic pog slammers.
Chase was walking to work when he saw the pog in the puddle, its formerly shiny surface almost entirely wiped down to the muted plastic; only the middle round medallion sticker denoting its silvery glory remained, and it was this that glinted in the sun, catching Chase’s attention.
Stopping over the puddle, Chase leaned in, looking closer. It was one of the Dragon Slammers, the rare ones that all the rich kids in school had, the ones Chase had dreamed about for nearly the entire run of pogs’ popularity. He reached down, lifting the slammer from the puddle, and turned it over. In the center of the silver sticker was a hologram of a dragon head; the coolest thing to an eight year old boy, and even cooler to his adult self.
Chase pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dried the slammer. He put it in his pocket and continued walking to work, planning to find a mint condition dragon slammer when he got home again.