Anyway, after I got totally destroyed by this random guy—and let’s keep in mind I’d never even played this game before and I was just ten, all right?—the skinny switchblade-comb guy came over. Still feeling like shit and totally unlike myself, I started to apologize for losing his huge stack of tickets.
He cut me off almost immediately.
“Boy,” he said, “I’ve been watching you… from the shadows.”
His voice was rough and scratchy, like Splinter’s in TMNT.
“Whoa—you mean like the creepy bike-store owner Mr. Horton watches Arnold and Dudley in that very special episode of Diff’rent Strokes?”
(And if you’re too young to get that reference, LOOK IT UP. Lazy-ass Gen Z–ers.)
“No,” he said. “Not like Mr. Horton, although that’s a great reference. I’ve been watching you, and I’ve seen that you’re not like others. You talk too much, it is true. But you do not run from the dark places. You seek out conflict. You crave battle. You have talent. You simply need a teacher to help you hone it.
“I offer myself, humbly, as that teacher.”
He used the switchblade comb on his mustache, which was weird because it was really thin, ratty, and pubey, so the comb was just going through like three long gross hairs.
“Who—who are you?”
“I?” he said. “I am the owner of this fine pinball establishment. I lurk in the shadows, hiding, seeing all, waiting for a student like you. You may call me… ‘Sensei.’ ”
Suddenly this big blond lady stuck her head out from behind the prize counter.
“What the hell you say, Billy?” she shouted.
Sensei Billy rolled his eyes.
“Fine,” he said, his voice no longer rough or scratchy. “My mom owns the place. But I run it for her.”
“Say what?” she yelled.
“I help her.”
“My ass!”
“Okay, so I just kind of hang out and play video games. But I’m very, very good at video games.”
“Get a job and a haircut!”
He snapped the switchblade comb shut like a boss.
“I must warn you,” he continued. “The training will be vicious. It will challenge your mind, punish your body, perhaps even shatter your very soul. You may actually die.”
I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
“Cool,” he said. “So you, uh, want to set, like, a time to meet or something? I’m pretty much always free.”
“Nah, that’s okay,” I said, heading for the door. “But I’ll probably see you around or whatever.”
“Great!” he called as it shut behind me. “Well, I’m mostly just here, so, you know—”
I didn’t actually hear the end of his sentence because I was already gone. It probably wasn’t important.
But then, over the next few weeks, my life turned into this kick-ass training montage straight out of Rocky IV, except I was both Rocky and Drago at the same time. And this was totally, absolutely real:
Out of nowhere all of a sudden, that awesome Joe Esposito song “You’re the Best” from The Karate Kid started blasting everywhere.
Sensei Billy told me to mop the floor. I asked him if that would teach me some kind of cool muscle memory, and he told me his mom made him do it so he figured he’d make me do it. I told him to fuck off.
Sensei Billy shouted, “Again! Again!” for no reason.
I ran around the block a couple times while Sensei Billy smoked a clove.
Sensei Billy brought out an old Casio synthesizer and made me play arpeggios to enhance my finger speed and agility, using both hands, starting at middle C and going faster and faster. I’d never played before, but I was like this natural virtuoso. Notes of fragrant sonic honey rained forth from my fingertips. Small children passing by began to weep. I finished the exercise, smashed the Casio to the ground, and never played again. I was just too good for this broken world.
Just kidding, I sucked. I shouted, “What the hell does this have to do with Mortal Kombat?!,” smashed the Casio to the ground, and never played again.
I told Sensei Billy that if we didn’t start actually playing Mortal Kombat immediately, I was gonna fucking leave and never come back.
Sensei Billy agreed, then pressed stop on his Sanyo boom box. “You’re the Best” stopped playing, and Sensei Billy muttered, “Goddamn song was driving me nuts anyway.”
So yeah, it was all pretty frustrating and I lost respect for him almost immediately. But it did help me get my confidence back, because I was like, “I’m way cooler than this idiot, and I’m only ten.” After all that garbage, he finally started teaching me about Mortal Kombat.
“Let me guess,” Sensei Billy said. “You chose Raiden because he reminded you of Big Trouble in Little China.”
“Duh.”
“You have good taste in movies, but that was a mistake. He’s a split second slower than other characters, and he has a tell whenever he performs his flying-torpedo move. It’s lightning fast—haha, see what I did there?—but he crouches right before he takes off. A good player will see this, block the move, and effectively counterattack before you can recover.”
I thought about it for a second. Finally there was nothing I could do but admit it.
“Shit,” I said, “you said something that makes sense.”
“Thank you,” he said. “The optimal fighter to choose is Sub-Zero. He’s as quick as anyone, his recovery time is fast, so you can flow from one move to another almost seamlessly, and if you time his slide attack right, you can ‘juggle’ your blows—hitting your opponent with a combination of punches and kicks while he’s still stunned. Cheap, but effective. And his ice blast is faster than the spear throw of Scorpion, his duplicate. Plus, everyone knows blue is cooler than yellow.”
“Okay, you’re gonna have to stop, because I’m just that shocked you’re not a total moron.”
He ran the switchblade comb through his hair. “Talk, talk, talk,” he said. “Your talk is worthless!
