Baobabs Mausoleum Ep.1: Ovnifagos Don´t Eat Flamingos

My first minutes with Watracio Walpurgis set the tone perfectly: a vampiric eggplant FBI agent in a suit and tie, cigarette permanently fixed to his lips, stranded in a town called Flamingo's Creek that materialises from a nightmare once every 25 years. The opening credits roll over a genuinely hypnotic surf-psych track by Messer Chups, accompanied by VHS tracking glitches and bleeding EGA colours that you can toggle on or off in the options. The presentation alone signals that solo Madrid creator Jacob Jazz made exactly the game he wanted to make, for better and for worse.

Flaminog's Creek runs on the logic of a fever dream with a point-and-click skeleton underneath. Most of Watracio's time is spent hunting for items - literal keys, sardines, random objects - to unlock the next screen, and the puzzle design is linear and rarely taxing. What the game keeps throwing at you is genre shifts: you start in a top-down Zelda-style overworld, briefly dip into a turn-based RPG encounter with four combat commands (one of which is "Spit" and exactly one of which can win the fight), cross a lake in a timing-based boat minigame that appears once and is never referenced again, and at one point lurch into a first-person sequence involving a janky platforming jump over water. None of these modes are deep. Several are frustrating. Act 8 in particular is a long maze crawl with five hit points and a checkpoint-free restart, which critics and players alike have flagged as the game's low point. The jank is real and should not be minimised.

And yet. There is something stubbornly charming happening at the margins of all that jank. The townsfolk of Flamingo's Creek are genuinely strange: a gasoline-drunk trucker you need to make vomit to move his rig, a giant murderous crab, cosmic laser chickens, a Wendigo lurking somewhere in the dark. The broken English in the dialogue has the accidental poetry of a translated B-movie. The VCR-framed episode structure, where each act lives on a cassette tape you load up on an old TV, is a small aesthetic detail that sticks with you far longer than any puzzle solution will. The soundtrack, built around that Messer Chups opening theme, keeps the atmosphere from collapsing even when the controls misbehave. This is a game made by someone who cared about the mood above all else, and the mood lands.