I used to be a gamer. In fact I used to go with buddies to Tropicana Lanes in St. Louis and post up at the Mortal Kombat II machine and slaughter any and all comers, bitches, including the one we called Pig and others too, even, once or twice, the legendary John Choe whose skill in the form was matched only by the lore which dripped from his very name. I heard there’s a polar bear that emerges from the slime if you do THIS. Choe told me. My Liu Kang was not to be fucked with, but for real I’d slum it with Reptile too. Friendshipping fools on the daily. And I recall in those moments immediately following victory in a battle wherein I used only kicks, recall the extreme but tiny pride of terribly specific skill deployment. See the line of single quarters lined along the screen’s bottom, and they were faces of future losers, round shiny tokens of sure failure. Theirs.
I’ve since lost the patience, though, and the Skyway eats through cupholder change. So now I pack only a Wii, and its blue light pulses steadily, begging for my attention. Then today I’m referred by friend playwright good man Scott Barsotti to this game here. That was forty-five minutes ago and I really need to eat. So far I peak at 13,077. I’m certain there’s something I’m not getting. Aside from language. Poor lady.