Wall Street Titan lets you be a giant deathbot fighting bankers

The 99% has 100% of the massive robots.

Wall Street Titan (iPhone/iPad, 69p) lets you play as a robot stomping the fat cats who caused the global financial crisis and defending Occupy Wall Street.

The, er, plot is that the bankers have built a gigantic robot to clear out the occupiers, but then Anonymous hacks the robot and changes its mission. Much crushing and explosions ensue.

As for the game itself, it's a fun tube/toilet distraction (yes that is how I categorise games). Tap on the "suits", avoid the protestors, and pick up power-ups like pepper spray and shields. Any suits who escape call cops, and eventually tanks, who show up and start shooting back.

As everything piles up, it gets harder and harder to keep the protestors alive, and eventually all you care about is keeping your own giant deathbot from being taken down. All things must end, though, and when you do get blown up, stars are awarded for objectives which you've completed. Then you start all over again.

It's got Facebook integration (which doesn't seem to add that much) and three stages in all. Eventually, you end up stomping the White House. Which is probably worth 69p.

A screenshot from Wall Street Titan.

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

Getty
Show Hide image

Brexit… Leg-sit

A new poem by Jo-Ella Sarich. 

Forgot Brexit. An ostrich just walked into the room. Actually,
forget ostriches too. Armadillos also have legs, and shoulder plates
like a Kardashian.  Then I walked in, the other version of me, the one
with legs like wilding pines, when all of them

are the lumberjacks. Forget forests. Carbon sinks are down
this month; Switzerland is the neutral territory
that carved out an island for itself. My body
is the battleground you sketch. My body is
the greenfield development, and you
are the heavy earthmoving equipment. Forget
the artillery in the hills
and the rooftops opening up like nesting boxes. Forget about

the arms race. Cheekbones are the new upper arms
since Michelle lost out to Melania. My cheekbones
are the Horsehead Nebula and you are the Russians
at warp speed. Race you to the finish. North Korea

will go away if you stop thinking
about it. South Korea will, too. Stop thinking
about my sternum. Stop thinking about
the intricacy of my mitochondria. Thigh gaps
are the new wage gaps, and mine is like
the space between the redwood stand
and the plane headed for the mountains. Look,

I’ve pulled up a presentation
with seven different eschatologies
you might like to try. Forget that my arms
are the yellow tape around the heritage tree. Forget
about my exoskeleton. Forget
that the hermit crab
has no shell of its own. Forget that the crab ever
walked sideways into the room.
Pay attention, people.

Jo-Ella Sarich is a New Zealand-based lawyer and poet. Her poems have appeared in the Galway Review and the Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2017.

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear