Growing up I had a
nickel arcade just a short bike-ride's distance from my home. On lazy
summer afternoons my friends and I would head down there, and for a minimal
admission price we could play every video game for mere nickels.
Then came
Street Fighter and
Mortal Kombat. The "fighting game"
revolution had begun, and we were marginally swept up in it. We knew a few moves for a few of the characters, we could perform the
fatality of our most
favorite Mortal Kombatant, and we thought we were cool for that.
Our
joy, however soon faded, in the guise of "The Mortal Kombat Kid"...
He was always at the
arcade, long hair hanging perfectly straight down the back of his black
leather trench coat. He would never speak. He was
the bane of our existance. His methods were
simple, you'd be playing against the
machine, the space to the right or left of you unoccupied by a human
opponent, and he would walk up. He could sense when one of these spaces existed, like some mysterious
sixth sense. He wouldn't bother to ask, he would slowly and deliberatley drop nickels through the slot, you knew what he was doing, you had time to stop it, but he was like
a force of nature. In a matter of seconds it would all be over, your digital
avatar would be burned to a crisp and dejectedly you'd wander off to play
Operation Wolf.
He'd remain at the machine until the game had been beaten or someone was
foolish enough to challenge him. He knew all the moves. He wouldn't even bother to select a character, but look away and let
fate decide. After you were beaten he would give you a look of disgust which said in unmistakeable
sarcasm, "
Thanks for wasting my time".