He got his mom to let us practice after the arcade’s normal hours. I guess that was pretty cool, but I still wouldn’t mop his damn floor. Instead he tutored me as I played Sub-Zero versus the computer, over and over again. I mastered the timing of Sub-Zero’s every move, his ice blast and his sliding kick—I mean, honestly, he only had two special moves in the very first Mortal Kombat, so that part wasn’t super hard. I gained patience in executing each block and punch and kick, learning not to overload the game with my incredible speed. And I perfected his glorious fatality, tearing the skull and the wriggly-squiggly spinal cord from one opponent after another.
Finally, after at least one hour of more or less pretty consistent practice…
“Holy shit!” I said. “I don’t know about you, Sensei Billy, but I’m really, really impressed with myself. Like, I am good on a cosmic level. Probably the best. Definitely better than you. I think I’m ready for some prime-time competition.”
“No!” he shouted. “Your skill is good, yes. Your speed is good, yes. But you still talk too much! And it’s not even cute in a ‘precocious little child’ way! It’s just annoying! You’re not ready!”
“Nah, I’m totally ready.”
He sighed.
“Whatever.”
The next day after school I got to Pinball Pedro’s and went straight back to that sweaty corner of champions. His face grim, Sensei Billy put down a stack of prize tickets even bigger than the first one—absolutely huge, enough to buy one of those shoe-phones you got with a subscription to Sports Illustrated. A crowd gathered around, all my bros were there—it felt like the whole arcade was watching, waiting to see the little ten-year-old get humiliated yet again.
But unlike last time, I didn’t even sweat it. Unlike last time, I barely even cared. I knew I would dominate. And that’s exactly what I did.
With Sub-Zero as my fighter, I tore through one so-called opponent after another: Liu Kangs, Sonya Blades, other Sub-Zeros, it didn’t even matter. I’d knock ’em sky-high with an uppercut, get them with a slide move before they could even hit the ground, then attack again before they had a chance to recover. I was fucking relentless. And I’d finish them off with spine rips that somehow felt more bloody, more violent, and more triumphant with every single fatality. With each kill a new ponytail went limp, another pudgy tummy quaked with fear, another grown man went crying back to his mommy—which was easy, because they all still lived with their parents.
And I? I grew a little taller with each win, my voice got a little deeper, my hair grew a little longer, my face became a little more chiseled. My stack of tickets grew bigger and bigger.
Finally it was over. Or at least that was what Sensei Billy thought.
“Well done, my young grasshopper,” he said. “You now have more prize tickets than anyone in history. You can finally buy a Sanyo Personal Compact Disc Player. Your victory is complete.”
I smiled. And damn, I looked good.
“But it’s not complete,” I said. “I still have one more opponent to destroy.” I pointed right at him. Just in case it still wasn’t clear, I whispered the word “You.”
“What!” he shouted. “You dare challenge me in my own dojo?”
“It’s your mother’s.”
“Nonetheless,” he said. “You dare?!”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m grateful for the training you gave me, especially once you stopped trying to make me mop the floor. But you and I both know there can only be one champion. We will fight not for prize tickets, and not even for honor, because I honestly don’t think you have any.”
“Fair.”
“No, we will fight for… your switchblade comb.”
The crowd gasped. My old crew was basically shitting themselves. Razor Frank said something in Zhuang and I thought, “I really need to learn some Zhuang one of these days.” Even Sensei Billy’s mom was all fired up—she started passing out free Cokes and Sunny D to everyone. She was sick of her son’s lazy ass.
“Fine,” Sensei Billy said. “Yet again, you talk too much. This time, it will be your undoing.”
“Nah,” I said. “Because I understand something you never will. Winning isn’t just about timing or speed or technique…”
I put in a quarter to start a new game, scrolled past Sub-Zero, and chose my fighter—Raiden.
“It’s about being really, really good at talking shit.”
His eyes flashed in anger, and just like that, I was in the dude’s head.
Round one of the best-out-of-three match began, and the action was more intense than anything I, or probably any elite warrior in the history of mankind, had experienced before. He chose Sub-Zero as his fighter, of course. And although it was a pretty badass move for me to select Raiden, that limited me to simple punches and kicks and blocks, because Sensei Billy and I both knew the tell to my special flying-torpedo move. If I even tried it, he’d just block me and beat my ass.
Plus—and I hate to admit this—the dude was fucking good. His reflexes, his tactics, his kinetics were all off the charts. Nothing seemed to rattle him. He was totally locked in. Pure focus, pure concentration. Pure silence.
And that was my in.
“Are you really gonna do that? Like, that’s your actual move right now?”
He was right in the middle of a combo attack—actually pretty nice—but out of the corner of my eye I saw him flinch.
“Shit, so damn predictable!” I shouted. “Look, look, look—I bet I know what you’re gonna do now, I can totally read your mind, you’re gonna do an ice blast… now!”
I mean, Sub-Zero only had two special moves, the slide and the ice blast, so it wasn’t exactly brain surgery—but that didn’t matter right now.
“You did it!” I howled. “YOU DID IT! See, I knew you were gonna do it. I knew it! I can read your mind, dude!”
His hand slipped on the joystick, and I got in a combo attack of my own.
“I
