Cold. Precise. Calculating. That wasn't a win, that was an assassination. I think the best part of it was that en route to the end, he racks up 99+ lives JUST BECAUSE HE CAN.
I have actually seen this before: on a train ride home to Indiana, the girl sitting next to me had this on her computer and we watched it together. Just as I was about to propose, we arrived in Lafayette.
Surge, what you just wrote is the perfect opening paragrah to a novel! It should continue something like,
"Lafayette. Cold, calculating, full of assasins. I hadn't been to Lafayette in over 20 years but I'll never forget the way palette Jack looked me in the eye and said, 'DO I MIND?!' Then I hacked him to pieces. Why? Because I could."
"But that was then and this was now. And the Lafayette of now had changed from the Lafayette of then. Mostly because the buildings were a little older and there were more Starbucks. But I wasn't here for the same homogenous coffee. I heard Palatte Jack was somehow still alive, and he wanted to even the score. He would not rest as long as I was up 1-0. Which meant to stop him, I'd have to change the record to 2-0."
"2-0. More like two ow bitch what the fuck you gonna do now? I knew PJ wasn't scared of me. Any man that could swing a half ton palette jack arouund his head like a sling deserved my respect. But that was then and this is now. I entered the nearest starbucks and ordered a frappe lappe fruity cappe chicno frino mocha latte. I wasn't going to face the Jack man on an empty stomach. As I said I wasn't here for the homegenous coffee- it was for my dog, slayer the wonder pooch. He was a stout 160 lbs and had breath that could kill a fully grown man from 60 feet away."
The coffee-type drink was hot. Very hot. Thoughts of the coming battle with Jack momentarily deferred to the new first-degree burn now covering most of my tongue. For some reason which I've never been able to adequately explain, my mind has a tendency to conjure images which are in direct opposition to the stimulus I'm currently experiencing. The time I was beating off in a theater at a screening of Clueless and suddenly beheld visions of a naked, leering Dan Marino is, admittedly, not a very good example of this but it still shows that my thought process has some major deficiencies. I thought of something cold. Very cold. That's when his face flashed before my eyes. The face of Sub-Zero.
The face of the ruthless Lin Kuei killer I'd confronted one year ago to the day come six months, three weeks and four hours. He and I were a lot alike, me and Sub-Zero. I may not be the highest-ranking member of an ultra-secret order of Chinese assassins, or have the ability to project streams of super-chilled water from my hands at will, or have a brother who's been transformed into the darkest soul in the Netherrealm, or able to holy shit rip out another guy's spine, or be a very good fighter or even able to stand still and drink coffee without injuring myself, but aside from those things, I considered him my equal. Palette Jack, though... I'd need to be more, much more, to ensure my total victory over the likes of him. The best way I could think to accomplish this was to enlist the animal that would make Cerberus whimper like a dog that was really afraid of something and was thus totally whimpering. I needed that animal. I needed Slayer.
Slayer was a level 39 hellbitch. He was such a manly animal that when he got neutered, he just grew another better shinier pair. These new testes were stainless steel like his jaw. A jaw that he had used to tear through the cast iron pantaloons of many a mailman. Plus he could shoot fireballs out his mouth.
Too late I realized that I was drawing stares. I had walked in this Starbucks with a fire breathing dog, ordered a frappe lappe fruity cappe chicno frino mocha latte and then burned my damn tongue on an ice cold drink. The dude behind the counter was like "What the fuck?" Playing it cool, I fumbled for the moderately sized sunglasses in my jacket and slid them on my face. This wasn't just Slayer, he was now my seeing eye dog. I had to pretend I was blind to explain my odd behavior and bringing a dog into Starbucks. Since blind people often forget to put on pants, I took mine off. This was my smoothest move ever. Or so I thought.
I had totally forgotten that I'd stuffed a drawstring bag full of marbles and gold dubloons into my pants before leaving the house that morning. Before they had even reached my ankles, the sack hit the ground with all the fury of a pineapple thrown from the 6th-floor window of a women's dorm. The sudden burst of sound and subsequent clatter of gold and glass freaked out Slayer, causing him to go from calmly lapping at his enormous metallic testicles to streaking like a gunshot through a corner Starbucks in about seven-tenths of a second.
I shut my eyes tight for the bullet ride. Along with sheer reflex, the roaring pain in my dislocated shoulder and the fact that I just didn't feel like making eye contact with anyone as a 160-pound dog hauled me to my presumed deeath both contributed equally to this reaction. Slayer bounded through the cafe directionless, oblivious to tables, chairs, people, even walls. They were all like thin air to him, scattered like dust in his wake. The skin on my knees was losing its 55mph battle with the ceramic tile. It wasn't all downside, though. On the way out the door (actually window), I managed to shift my weight and totally take out a guy wearing a Radiohead shirt who had been slumped in his chair, head down, staring into his espresso since I'd walked in. While he was still airborne I'm pretty sure he saw the middle finger I flipped him as I sped away, so as far as I was concerned, I was still ahead. Daylight flared on the other side of my eyelids as we blasted out into the parking lot. Now I just had to stop this goddamned dog.
And in a moment Slayer had stopped just as soon as he had begun. He stopped mid stance with one paw in the air, his head pointed like an erection overdosed on Cialas. Unfortunately for me, I was still traveling fast enough to the point of catching on fire. I swung around Slayer four times before scraping my face on the asphalt next to his luminous loin. I stood up to see what could of possibly stopped a creature so dangerous not even the makers of Faxanadu could of imagined him. And then I heard it- the slow rolling of small metal wheels along concrete. The unbalanced sound of metal against bearings that hadn't been lubed in so long they caused chafing that could only be matched by the jock that sits around the fridgerators wedding tackle. Palette Jack.
The hatred in his eyes burned with the brilliance of a thousand suns. His hair was a greasy ramshackle mess, extending from his head in all directions like Democrats running from a war. Although he had obviously changed his shirt since 9/11, since it read 'remember 9/11', time had done nothing to quell the putrid musk that encased him. His workboots marched in a slow stocatto rythm slowly behind the squealing wheels of his jack. The lifter of 1000 Palattes had seen me, and doom was in is countenance.
The sight of my foe at once sickened and elated me. Sickened because I had to come to this stinkhole of a town to deal with him; elated because I love nothing more than to feel a mans ribs cave in beneath my boots. I leveled my gaze at his own and for many moments his eyes and mine were locked in an unholy matrimony. With one leg in my pants, skinned knees, and a dislocated shoulder, I studied this man Palatte Jack, newly reborn from a putrid womb of hatred. And then the moments of anticipation were gone, and the moments of action arrived.
The day Palette Jack was born was unlike any other. The sun shined across fields of amber gold grain which would later be brought to an extreme boiling point and fermented into whiskey or beer. Ah yes.
Awesome to watch but why do I get the feeling something is rotten in Denmark?
ReplyDeletePerhaps the more incredible thing is that I watched it from start to end.
Bartender! Another beverage, por favor!
Ever since Fred Savage's brother beat it in The Wizard, the game has never been the same.
ReplyDeletePowerglove....POW!
Cold. Precise. Calculating. That wasn't a win, that was an assassination. I think the best part of it was that en route to the end, he racks up 99+ lives JUST BECAUSE HE CAN.
ReplyDeleteI haven't wtached it, but I have watched a guy beat MGS3 in 1 hour 30 mins or so. And if that is possible, this is.
ReplyDeleteI have actually seen this before: on a train ride home to Indiana, the girl sitting next to me had this on her computer and we watched it together. Just as I was about to propose, we arrived in Lafayette.
ReplyDeleteSurge, what you just wrote is the perfect opening paragrah to a novel! It should continue something like,
ReplyDelete"Lafayette. Cold, calculating, full of assasins. I hadn't been to Lafayette in over 20 years but I'll never forget the way palette Jack looked me in the eye and said, 'DO I MIND?!' Then I hacked him to pieces. Why? Because I could."
"But that was then and this was now. And the Lafayette of now had changed from the Lafayette of then. Mostly because the buildings were a little older and there were more Starbucks. But I wasn't here for the same homogenous coffee. I heard Palatte Jack was somehow still alive, and he wanted to even the score. He would not rest as long as I was up 1-0. Which meant to stop him, I'd have to change the record to 2-0."
ReplyDelete"2-0. More like two ow bitch what the fuck you gonna do now? I knew PJ wasn't scared of me. Any man that could swing a half ton palette jack arouund his head like a sling deserved my respect. But that was then and this is now. I entered the nearest starbucks and ordered a frappe lappe fruity cappe chicno frino mocha latte. I wasn't going to face the Jack man on an empty stomach. As I said I wasn't here for the homegenous coffee- it was for my dog, slayer the wonder pooch. He was a stout 160 lbs and had breath that could kill a fully grown man from 60 feet away."
ReplyDeleteThe coffee-type drink was hot. Very hot. Thoughts of the coming battle with Jack momentarily deferred to the new first-degree burn now covering most of my tongue. For some reason which I've never been able to adequately explain, my mind has a tendency to conjure images which are in direct opposition to the stimulus I'm currently experiencing. The time I was beating off in a theater at a screening of Clueless and suddenly beheld visions of a naked, leering Dan Marino is, admittedly, not a very good example of this but it still shows that my thought process has some major deficiencies. I thought of something cold. Very cold. That's when his face flashed before my eyes. The face of Sub-Zero.
ReplyDeleteThe face of the ruthless Lin Kuei killer I'd confronted one year ago to the day come six months, three weeks and four hours. He and I were a lot alike, me and Sub-Zero. I may not be the highest-ranking member of an ultra-secret order of Chinese assassins, or have the ability to project streams of super-chilled water from my hands at will, or have a brother who's been transformed into the darkest soul in the Netherrealm, or able to holy shit rip out another guy's spine, or be a very good fighter or even able to stand still and drink coffee without injuring myself, but aside from those things, I considered him my equal. Palette Jack, though... I'd need to be more, much more, to ensure my total victory over the likes of him. The best way I could think to accomplish this was to enlist the animal that would make Cerberus whimper like a dog that was really afraid of something and was thus totally whimpering. I needed that animal. I needed Slayer.
Slayer was a level 39 hellbitch. He was such a manly animal that when he got neutered, he just grew another better shinier pair. These new testes were stainless steel like his jaw. A jaw that he had used to tear through the cast iron pantaloons of many a mailman. Plus he could shoot fireballs out his mouth.
ReplyDeleteToo late I realized that I was drawing stares. I had walked in this Starbucks with a fire breathing dog, ordered a frappe lappe fruity cappe chicno frino mocha latte and then burned my damn tongue on an ice cold drink. The dude behind the counter was like "What the fuck?" Playing it cool, I fumbled for the moderately sized sunglasses in my jacket and slid them on my face. This wasn't just Slayer, he was now my seeing eye dog. I had to pretend I was blind to explain my odd behavior and bringing a dog into Starbucks. Since blind people often forget to put on pants, I took mine off. This was my smoothest move ever. Or so I thought.
I had totally forgotten that I'd stuffed a drawstring bag full of marbles and gold dubloons into my pants before leaving the house that morning. Before they had even reached my ankles, the sack hit the ground with all the fury of a pineapple thrown from the 6th-floor window of a women's dorm. The sudden burst of sound and subsequent clatter of gold and glass freaked out Slayer, causing him to go from calmly lapping at his enormous metallic testicles to streaking like a gunshot through a corner Starbucks in about seven-tenths of a second.
ReplyDeleteI shut my eyes tight for the bullet ride. Along with sheer reflex, the roaring pain in my dislocated shoulder and the fact that I just didn't feel like making eye contact with anyone as a 160-pound dog hauled me to my presumed deeath both contributed equally to this reaction. Slayer bounded through the cafe directionless, oblivious to tables, chairs, people, even walls. They were all like thin air to him, scattered like dust in his wake. The skin on my knees was losing its 55mph battle with the ceramic tile. It wasn't all downside, though. On the way out the door (actually window), I managed to shift my weight and totally take out a guy wearing a Radiohead shirt who had been slumped in his chair, head down, staring into his espresso since I'd walked in. While he was still airborne I'm pretty sure he saw the middle finger I flipped him as I sped away, so as far as I was concerned, I was still ahead. Daylight flared on the other side of my eyelids as we blasted out into the parking lot. Now I just had to stop this goddamned dog.
And in a moment Slayer had stopped just as soon as he had begun. He stopped mid stance with one paw in the air, his head pointed like an erection overdosed on Cialas. Unfortunately for me, I was still traveling fast enough to the point of catching on fire. I swung around Slayer four times before scraping my face on the asphalt next to his luminous loin. I stood up to see what could of possibly stopped a creature so dangerous not even the makers of Faxanadu could of imagined him. And then I heard it- the slow rolling of small metal wheels along concrete. The unbalanced sound of metal against bearings that hadn't been lubed in so long they caused chafing that could only be matched by the jock that sits around the fridgerators wedding tackle. Palette Jack.
ReplyDeleteThe hatred in his eyes burned with the brilliance of a thousand suns. His hair was a greasy ramshackle mess, extending from his head in all directions like Democrats running from a war. Although he had obviously changed his shirt since 9/11, since it read 'remember 9/11', time had done nothing to quell the putrid musk that encased him. His workboots marched in a slow stocatto rythm slowly behind the squealing wheels of his jack. The lifter of 1000 Palattes had seen me, and doom was in is countenance.
ReplyDeleteThe sight of my foe at once sickened and elated me. Sickened because I had to come to this stinkhole of a town to deal with him; elated because I love nothing more than to feel a mans ribs cave in beneath my boots. I leveled my gaze at his own and for many moments his eyes and mine were locked in an unholy matrimony. With one leg in my pants, skinned knees, and a dislocated shoulder, I studied this man Palatte Jack, newly reborn from a putrid womb of hatred. And then the moments of anticipation were gone, and the moments of action arrived.
ReplyDeleteOkay FINE, I'll write the next chapter in a little bit here.
ReplyDeleteand THENNNNN?
ReplyDeleteBLAU.
ReplyDeleteIntermission.
Prequel-
ReplyDeleteThe day Palette Jack was born was unlike any other. The sun shined across fields of amber gold grain which would later be brought to an extreme boiling point and fermented into whiskey or beer. Ah yes.