~ Kabbage Knees Megaman 2 Directly in the Dick ~The night had been awkward, to say the least. In a rare turn of events, I had failed to cleverly trick Geo and co into getting me hammered for exactly zero dollars and zero cents, and suddenly Condottiere was looking a hell of a lot less exciting than I'd remembered it. For one thing, I was winning, and these numb nuts were scarecrowing all kinds of stupid shit in an endless cycle of self-sabotaging dumbassery. This game had gone on for far, far too long, it was four in the morning, and having run my cards dry in a show of daredevil strategy (dropping like six tens and folding), a passing glance at the game board told me Geo was poised to win, but Kazz still had a handful of popetokens - I dropped a game ender that gave the round victory to Kazz, assuming, wrongly, that he didn't have two already lined up and a third in the pipe. Laziness of the tired and sober sort didn't often get me into a position of game ending power, but well,
it did here, and I got the feeling the end farce was far less amusing and more more offensive than I'd anticipated. I briefly considered a way to somehow pin it all on McDohl and escape in the confusion, but my mind inevitably wondered from the plan into constructing an imaginary egg salad 'n rib patty triple-decker on toasted rye, and I filed the whole damn event under whatevs.
Unfortunately, that shifty fella with the hollow eyes had been waiting the whole time, his unwavering gaze shaming my indifference all the way back to the room, borrowing straight on through his paper-thin facade of a perpetual David Caruso exit and into the back of my head as I slept. My dreams are often a Kirby-like affair, flooded with delicious berry-swirl creme puffs and woodland critters magically animated from large piles of uncooked Nestle quatra-chunk cookie dough, but that night I could only lie in abject terror as this drug-fueled manic did
unlimited chin-ups and squat thrusts until day break blessedly released me from the prison of my eight hours. He had passed out from exhaustion during the inevitable drug crash some time during the late morning and now hung unconscious from the shattered husk of the television, his mouth dripping with foam and arm lodged somewhere within the mass of wires and shattered glass that remained. I knew leaving McDohl behind was probably equivalent to some form of indirect murder, but I often find that moral judgments of its sort are marginally more work than altogether avoiding them, or eating, and this morning was no exception. Muffling an involuntary fatgrunt into my pillow, I rolled to my side and hastily stuffed three entire turkeys between an arbitrary chin before peacing the fuck out.
The video game hall was a blessed breath of fat air. Hundreds of my fellow breatheren takin' it one step at a time, waddling in short, arduous bursts to a thundering chair-detonating collapse at one of a dozen Smash Brothers stations. There, they would wavedash with Fox over and over until their hard-earned victory had driven away every ounce of competition; it was almost an art, the way we hunkered down and broke each game we could get our sausagey mitts on for the sheer thrill of watching the normies toss their controllers with frustration. "
DOOOOOOOOH HO HO HO HO HO"'s rang out again and again across the arena, a victorious roar that was impossible to ignore; this was our turf, our kingdom! I saw that the real work was being taken care of, taking but a moment to lower the skeletonized remains of my breakfast turkey and to proudly send off a solemn, dignified salute. Truly, there was nothing more I loved than being a fat fucking fuck.
My eyes glazed over the vast selection of game consoles largely unimpressed - some obscure Dreamcast fighter, another dime a dozen Halo 3 deathmatch, one of those tedious japanese top-down shooters for OCD folks - coming to a stop over the brilliant and inspiring title screen of Capcom's immortal Mega Man II. There has been a near endless stream of bitchin' from what seemed like every last corner of the internet over what a hardass this game was, but shit, this didn't look too hard. Yeah, I knew it had invisible blocks somewhere, and I assumed there was probably a couple of walls of spikes I'd have to deal with, but I'd made Powered Up my bitch, and X before that, how tough could a twenty year old game really be? Not very, apparently, as I
completely wrecked Bubble Man's stage like a bag of flavor-blasted pretzel-twist Combos, plowing right on through to Wood Man, and eventually booting up Air Man's with but a chuckling
doohehehohohoh to show for its token gestures of resistance. A grand time, so far - it was like a casual game of Bubble Bobble to humor the kids! Pretty lights and music! What fun and merriment!
"Whatcha got there, sugar-tits?!" A passing bird dropped an egg full of bees on my character and knocked me off the ledge, down several levels to the base of the ladder. Arc was awake, it would seem, the massive bags under his quivering and pus-rimmed eyes poorly concealed by a pair of undersized gecks. "You playin' Mega Man fucknuts?! Ohohohooh, we got ourselves a pro gamer here, everyone!" A family of four ended their charming rendition of Barracuda early as the parents herded their children into the arcade section, eyeing the rowdy newcomer as he tore open a can of Full Throttle from his impossibly douchey beerdolier and poured it over my Nintendo. "Why do you gotta be such a colossal
dick all the time, man?" I could only grimace with disgust as he stabbed a second can with the corner of my gamepad and shotgunned the contents. His response was fairly expected, a crushed can to my forehead followed a guttural belch, "'cause you're fat, fatty. Com'on, lemme show you how someone plays this game without sucking a massive throbbing dick."
Kicking the dripping husk of a console into a passing neckbeard, Arc launched a syrupy loogie into the face of Magfest's Only Girl and wrestled away her guitar hero controller. Garnering a running start through the entire LAN section, clearly ruining Call of Duty 4 deathmatch forever, he broke the live-wired controller across the back of a docile sweater-vest quietly enjoying a game of Star Voyager and tore his console from the table. Feeling this was going to continue for a bit longer, I snuck in a second turkey to tide me over until this horrific display had finally run its course. "Have fun on the floor, shitstick!" Arc's laugh felt like a pack of hyenas had just torn into a baby ward, an awful, awful sound that was nothing short of the polar opposite of Doooh-Ho; a sort of condescending
ch'ahaheheheh that delighted in the pain of others for
all of the wrong reasons. This beast of a man needed to be stopped, for all our sakes.
What followed was perhaps one of the single most grievous perversions of video gaming I have ever witnessed. Arc used every dirty trick in the Mega Man book - the flying platform, the surfing platform, the
saw buster, the
air buster - I could almost admire his keeping to the fat fuck code of game-breaking if it wasn't all so profoundly devoid of the joy and merriment. My rounds were
shining beacons of good taste and buster-only badassery, my movements fluid, my technique divine, my victory monumentus, and my deaths all purely the result of his flicking the TV off and on with a remote from ten feet away, well out of the rotation range of my stubby forearms. Arc played humorlessly, fueled by nothing more than an infuriated and cocksure need to win at any cost, even if it meant using fucking rush jet to skip over the challenge, as one might surmise a cock might. My third turkey tasted bland and lifeless as I farted not for comedic effect, but from sickened physical revulsion. My body was rejecting this Mega Man game with all its might, the mindless non-event that was Bubble Man causing me to lose my appetite for the first time in my entire life; a feeling I never want to experience ever, ever again.
As Arc stomped off at the entrance of Wiley's castle to restock on power bars and haze the prinnyhat vendors, I found myself locked into a zen-like trance of intense and unwavering concentration. The spike pits seemed a laughable and charming diversion, the boss that formed out of various bits of the wall was defeated entirely with a single buster shot, in a single go, and all eight robot masters bowed out of their second fights, beginning an inspiring slow clap that carried me into the final stage of Wiley's chamber. As Arc reemerged with an instantly awestruck Dohl and Duke, I could no longer restrain the waves of jolly flablaugh that erupted from within, Wiley's alien facade eliminated in a spectacular white-knuckle double-bubble gambit. The deed was done, my chair finally collapsed into sawdust as I rolled onto my back and drowned out the furious ballast of variations on "SHIT'S
GAYEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN" with a rallying fest-wide
DOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HOOOOOO