My heart swelled with joy as soon as I pushed open the double doors and walked into the dark, yet vibrantly colored arcade. The place was huge with at least forty or fifty machines in the first room and multiple hallways leading to more. Their screens flickered with retro glee and the air filled with their delightful sounds of beeps of bloops. I did not believe that there could still be such a busy and well-stocked arcade in this day and age, but I was proven to be wrong. There seemed to be games from all eras and places, from some late seventies pixelated classics to weird looking Japanese games that were full of vividly animated cute cats and overly muscular golden haired men. And it all was just a ten minute walk from my dorm!
My roommate Nicole, who I drug along with me on my expedition, seemed far less impressed. In fact, her expression could easily be described as infinitely annoyed, confused, and horrified. "Petra, why the hell did you bring me here," she asked with a disgusted tone.
I looked at her blankly with my arms crossed. She probably had a series of preconceived notions about arcades and the people who hung out there. That or all the blinking lights were giving her a headache, which in that case, I had some aspirin in my purse. I could feel her silent judgment of me, probably making base assertions about my social life and hobbies. In truth, she actually didn't know the half of it.
Growing up, I was the only sister of five brothers, so I was rather used to video games and other things stereotyped towards boys. I was never a true tomboy, but there was one area of interest that we all shared. Our weekend trips to the arcade were a highlight of my Saturdays. We would spend hours pumping quarters into the litany of machines. I spent countless days of my youth earning high scores, beating huge bosses, and occasionally winning plushies from claw machines. Sadly, that local arcade was also kind of a dismal den of nightmares. It was located in the old mall that no one ever went to and was maintained by an overly wrinkled man with the creepiest mustache ever grown. In fact, half the time, most of the machines were out of order or smelled too bad to use.
"I didn't know what this place would be like," I finally responded. "At my local arcade, it was never wise to go by yourself."
"Well, it seems perfectly safe," Nicole said, "which means that I am getting the hell out of here to, you know... do stuff normal people do. Buh bye!" She then promptly fulfilled her statement by rushing out the doors as fast as any human possibly could.
I merely grimaced and sighed. All the old stereotypes about these kind of things were super tiring to me. My friends in high school made fun of me for hanging out in that sad old arcade all the time. Even after graduating from high school and going to the local college, I still got flack for my hobby, even from those commonly considered nerds. I finally transferred to a a bigger school, but I guess there were still going to be people like Nicole clinging to the same old ideas. For example, not all men who hung out in arcades were creepy losers who have never been with a woman. Of course, the two men who played Pac-man stared at me like I was some sort kind of headless ghost. I ignored them and started to check out the inventory.
They had all the old games that I grew up playing, even the obscure ones. Still, I had yet to come across the one that had consumed most of my free time back home. That game in question, of course, was "Punch Masters 3." They had plenty of different fighting games, even the terrible original "Punch Masters," but the third entry seemed absent. It was the most popular and best one! How could they not have it?
I noticed a small gathering in the the side room of the arcade. The patrons talked in hushed tones among themselves while surrounding a single machine. A huge window lined the back of the room, though it was tinted to obscure excess light. I smirked as I saw Nicole sitting on a bench out front, furiously fidgeting with her phone, probably playing a game, ironically. Due to my distraction, I nearly ran into a rather rotund man without realizing it. The embarrassing moment caused me to stop and focus on the sounds filling the room. I recognized them immediately. It was my beloved Punch Masters 3.
About twenty men were gathered around it, ten of them forming a line for the second player's slot. In the first player's position was a tall and lean man with a short and well groomed beard that was night black. On continue appraisal of his physical features, his muscles were well toned and his ass was quite lovely in the tight pair of jeans he was wearing... not that I was staring or anything.
His hands moved quickly in almost zen like precision. What I witnessed on the screen sent a chill through my bones. The man was using Boxton the Bull, a rather large and imposing character in the game. What he did with Boxton was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Player one was not giving player two any opportunity to attack. Every time player two tried something, this man retorted with the right combination to knock his enemy back. Within thirty seconds, player one won without taking a single hit. I had always avoided Boxton due to the character's slow speed, but player one controlled him like he was human lightning.
Upon defeat, player two retreated with his head hung low. At least player one didn't gloat about, instead patting his fallen opponent on the back and saying "maybe next time, buddy" in a mostly sincere tone. The next guy in line stepped up and he seemed actually scared. Player one picked a character even slower than Boxton and beat the new challenger in less than fifteen seconds.
Saying I was intimidated would have been an understatement. I watched as challenger after challenger stepped up to take down player one, only to be beaten in no time. Some brave souls even went back for seconds, only to be beaten even quicker than they were in their first defeats. This went on for a good hour with no sign of slowing down. Despite player one's dominance, the line did not wither. In fact, there always seemed to be new people willing to take on player one... only to fail miserably.
The short man next to me seemed to have been checking me out, more interested in my visuals than the ones in the game. Perhaps, in this rare moment, I wished for the "scared of women" stereotype, not in the mood for sexual advances with all this virtual carnage about. The man seemed rather normal though, despite the bizarre t-shirt he wore that depicted the logo of some Swedish speed metal group. I decided to use my admirer to score some information. "Who is this guy?" I asked my neighboring speed metal enthusiast as I watched player one take down his latest victim.
The man seemed half surprised that I actually talked to him. "Oh? Are you new or something? That's Max Pagani. He's, like, a big deal. The guy is a like professional or something! I think he won some big tournament thing."
I looked at my semi-helpful informant with a sense of awe. "I didn't know there were tournaments for this stuff," I said. Seriously, why didn't anyone tell me about that? That felt like something I should have known about.
"Yeah," the guy nodded. "According to my roomie, he's been practicing to go to the biggest one in the country. So, he is here, like, everyday beating the crap out of anyone dumb enough to face him. Every time I think of trying to enter a tournament, I think of Max Pagani and then want to shit my pants."
I wrinkled my nose at such a... colorful descriptor of fear. "So, he doesn't seem to focus on any particular character."
