There is no princess waiting to be saved. There are no rings, rupees, or coins to collect along the way. There is no prize money. No cheerful celebration. No fucking parade. There is only glory. Oh…And that other, not-so-trifling thing: immortality.
To become grand champion of the Mortal Kombat Tournament is to protect the world from annihilation, to safeguard Earth from hostile realms. Sitting on my couch, I aim to stand victorious, a lone master atop the apex of martial dominance. I will crush the bag of Doritos. I will crush my foes. I will taste it: triumph, Cool Ranch, transcendence of the highest order. I will enter, a mortal warrior, a part-time cashier at Petsmart. I will emerge an undying god, immutable and everlasting.
But first: survive the gauntlet of fist and fire, out-duel fierce foes and their deadly arts. I have no fear. I flex my thumbs. My enemies will be squashed beneath my Crocs-softened kicks.
*
I have always been partial to immortality, the evasion of an otherwise inevitable death. With resolve, I endeavor to win it for myself –glory and all the rest– but most of all, that eternal string of days to fill out my inexhaustible years, a timeline counted in the birth and death of stars. I aspire to get fit, practice martial arts, enter the renowned, otherworldly tournament and try my luck against the deadliest fighters across various planes of reality. I grab a grape soda from the fridge, open my laptop, and begin to type out a list of viable options: taekwondo, jeet kune do, jujutsu, ninjitsu. I skim the text. I crush the aluminum can. I find the couch and begin my training. I graduate from the University of YouTube, ready to defend the planet.
Before me, pixelated in my living room, a grid of headshots stare me down. I study each avatar, each operable fighter, clenching my soft fists and flexing my scrawny arms. I take a deep breath, allowing my warrior spirit to guide me, and, without looking, my thumbs tap the joystick, press down and select. A great gong fills the quiet. I emerge, a brand new me.
Fight!
My fingers dance–muscle memory from sixty hours of gameplay. I do not hesitate to unleash my best. I crouch, extend, and condense my inner chi. I harness my spirit into a ball of flame and singe the smirk free from my opponent’s face. He stumbles, reflecting rage in his single living eye, indifference within the red glow of its bionic counterpart. He offers insults, a library of foul language. In return, I offer more combat. I have so much to give.
I bicycle kick into a five-meter horizontal flight, a gravity-defying paroxysm of legs. I count the ribs of the Australian crime lord as my pounding heels crack each one like the wooden keys of marimbas under the weight of a stone hammer. It is music to my ears when my opponent impacts upon the ground. His health bar indicates his name, Kano, written along the red line that is all but depleted.
“It’s been real sweet, Sugar Kano.” I uppercut his chin to the skies, dark clouds which open up in a warm shower of blood to stain the sand.
Finish him!
I visualize the brutal path that my master had shown to me when all other techniques had been adequately perfected. I breathe in the fire, the spirit of the dragon, and feel my thumbs engage in a ruthless ballet of masterful combat: Down, back, down, forward, 1. My fists ignite, white-hot and luminous, converging in a fatal torrent. Dismembered limbs fly in every direction; fragmented organs scatter as if confetti on the wind. It is overkill to the point of humor, but it is the way of the warrior.
*
There is a god who wields lightning, who flies across the sky. It’s simple: kill him before he kills you. Good. Now, for the next killer-savant. An undead ninja with a skull face that freely vomits fire. Then a warrior who manipulates ice, a pale stranger who can freeze his opponents solid or impale them on spears of frozen water. But wait…There’s more! A Hollywood giant who is destined for action beyond the silver screen. The woman he wishes to fuck, a military special forces officer who kicks like a whip, who sends out a coil of energy that stuns. All of this before the four-armed behemoth, the half human, half dragon Shokan Prince, Goro. He can crush a man like an empty soda can, a bag of Doritos. And yet…If defeated, he opens the doorway to the worst of the worst.
At the end awaits an evil sorcerer, a shape-shifting villain who dines on the souls of the warriors he obliterates. After all the rest –if you make it– there is Shang Tsung, who can turn into your mother if he wishes, your ex, your miniature-fucking-schnauzer. He will mock you with the embodied forms of your loved ones while he breaks your bones and savors your expiring soul.
There is a long way to go after Kano; fearsome foes and deadly turns, a melange of fatalities, or worse, the forfeiture of your very soul. But I am destined to become grand champion, to save the Earthrealm from menace and dread. I have prepared for this. I am equipped for victory.
I stand, my thumbs at the ready.