Morning. Single-digit AM. I’ve been fighting monsters for the last half hour. Kill the red spikey one ONLY to impress the busty nurse floating on an oversized syringe. She’s a real-life blood drawing nurse, ya know. You should feel honoured to be in her presence.
I’m playing Killer is Dead.
“She Will” by Savages is playing in my headphones.
that good time loving harlot…
I’ve failed my task enough times to break out the music. This is now a task that I will repeat until the kinetic rhythm embeds itself into my muscle memory.
She will she will she will she will… crones the vocalist in my ear. I’ll still be there in ten minutes. Still failing yet refusing to give up. The busty nurse is still unimpressed.
Killer is Dead is a game where you use your Mondo Vision, your personal enhanced version of the Male Gaze (™), to alternatively sneak looks at women’s naughty bits and stare intensely into their eyes until they are sufficiently in the mood for you to give them an expensive gift. (Which of course you earned fighting a Yakuza boss on a tiger). Repeat until she’s turned on enough to sleep with you, rewarding you with a phallus boosting alternative weapon.
I can’t muster any outrage. It’s crass, juvenile, pandering titillation from an industry that worships Sean Connery hairy chest Bond machismo as the ideal. A fuck joke from a nation with a dangerously low birth rate.
The “women” are department store toy dolls, moving along their 120 points of articulation(!) to predefined poses while performing lines upon a string pull. Still, I keep chasing them. Is it the challenge? The reward? Definitely not the plastic doll plastic private jamming sex scenes. I can’t see those enticing anyone who has so much as touched a woman. I don’t know.
I’ll do stupid things for a pretty face. I risk my neck to obtain a bonsai tree upon seeing that Moon River, KiD’s resident Audrey Hepburn homage, requests it (I should my irrational crush on all things Hepburn). I’ll kill my own brother for her kiss (the payment Mondo requests for her job). Later on, I do.
Of course that’s not before performing absurd tasks such as the aforementioned Yakuza fight, as well as fighting a motherfucking steam train. “This is man’s passion” remarks Bryan, my big Black Hawaiian shirt wearing boss as I fight to the front of the train, itself a very symbol of an old fashioned machismo becoming outdated and impotent.
I’m occasionally interrupted by calls by the women I’ve bedded. They ask when they’ll see me again and call me a cold hearted bastard when I inevitably don’t reply.
It serves as a reminder of my own selfish failures. I carry guilt like a Catholic, leaden crosses that cause wounds that never seem to stop aching. I remember the girl I left behind when torn between two hearts. In our post-graduation summer nights we promised our friendship for life. I’d never speak to her again.
I remember a one time hit and run. An encounter whose bizarre and sudden circumstance led to a group situation that was so hideously awkward I couldn’t bear to talk to her again. I’m sure she still thinks of me with disdain. The hickies from that night managed to extinguish a romance that I had been kindling so I like to think I received what I deserved, even if I still carry the guilt for it.
The night after the conclusion of Killer is Dead I felt myself compelled to words. In keeping with the theme of my hapless Susie-Boy romance, it was about a girl. “Gods help me”, I wrote, “I love her but we’re not real.” And we’re not.
Me, lost in puppy dog daydreams of her, eager to please and terrified of revealing a self that I’ve laid naked publicly, a self she would notice if she paid me attention for a real fucking moment. Her, a pin up girl fantasy I keep chasing, unaligned with the image in my head due to the burden of having to exist as a real flesh and blood woman. We come into each other’s company oblivious to each other’s actual existence because for those rare moments we are reunited we can stop thinking about our ceaseless march towards an increasingly miserable and terminal state of being. We are as fake as these Barbie doll fuck toys on my screen. So we come away a little more hollow, so what?
You can’t put a price on a little joy.