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Caaaaapcom. It may not have a sound effect, but if it did, I bet it'd sound like that. Like the Sega tune. When I think back on how many great titles Capcom has made, one sticks out forefront in my mind. And when I say one game, I mean a billion. Street Fighter. What are we at now? SF 2010? Oh, wait. That's a different rip-off game. | ||||||||
| My name is Ryu. I enrolled into this tournament to prove something. . . Something nothing but pain, nothing but blood shed could prove. . . My hair looks great in the wind. . . But that's not all. Martial arts are my forte, and not one to be taken lightly. . . I can punch. . . And with one hand tied behind my back, no less. Reason enough to beat foreigners, eh? I had to find out. So, I entered the Street Fighter tournament. I mean, its not like my competition looked hard. A few scrawny China-men, a hairy Russian, and some guys on bikes. Not that I was supposed to beat those up. . . But, they kept screaming during the matches. . . Couldn't concentrate. . . And then I had my first match. Some sumo wrestler, named after a car company or something. Suzuki maybe. Didn't really matter. He did one head butt and fell over. When his skirt came up, the judge disqualified him for flashing the crowd. Freaks in diapers. . . Ugh. . . But, it didn't matter. I won. And my belt blew calmly in the breeze. Until Chun Li came, that is. Now, that is one seriously hot girl. I mean, those legs. . . They go up to her neck. . . Literally. Thick as trees too. Call 'em "chunky beef stew thighs" back where I lived. . . So, of course, like any gentleman, I punched her in the face. Not just any punch, either. My specialty, ryuken. Basically, I just jump up real high and take a peek down her blouse before hitting her. Lemme tell you, I'd 'a liked E. Honda better. After I beat her up, I stole some guy in the back's bike. Why do people here keep hating me? I'm only killing their heros. . . Oh, right. But, still, my belt blew in the breeze. Freaky shit after that. Some half puma, half ogre, lizard thing got loose in the arena. Come on! This is supposed to be a professional tournament here! Instead of fighting the thing, I just borrowed some guy's rifle in the stands. Took its head clean off. . . Everyone got real pissed after that. Not really sure why. . . I had to go. But first, my belt blew in the breeze. I was kinda pissed about missing my last match in the Congo after that. All I got was that ogre freak. So, again, like any pro athelete, I beat up a car. Broke it to shit too. I thought the owner'd be pissed, but instead of screaming, he just whipped out a stopwatch. Haha, gave me cash for speed. God, I love Tokyo! After killing some Russian and his Marine friend, Balrog came. Huge black guy. Raging. Luckily, all he could do was punch. . . Go figure. Heh, I just stood next to him and sat down. Boxers aren't all that limber and all he could do was punch over my head. Yea, he kept punching and punching and crying and crying. I think I hurt his feelings. To make him feel better, I gave him a swift punch to the balls and ended the match. After coughing up a testi onto the asphault, I think he understood. I saved him some honor. I think if he could have spoken, he would have thanked me. On the plane ride to Spain, there was a breeze. If only I hadn't packet my belt. And then I met my match. His name was Vega. At least, I thought it was a "he". Who could tell under that mask? I tried to cop a feel, but it was no good. He kept bouncing off the walls and stabbing me. It hurt. Who can think of a man's breasts during that? And try as I might to hit him back, I couldn't do a thing. I mean, I thought that I lost. . . But everytime I got knocked out, I kept getting healed somehow. I mean, seriously freaky shit. I'd be laying there bleeding, watching the K.O. clock count down. Vega kept saying something like, "You cannot destroy what is beauty." . . .The little faggot. None to original or quick witted either - the same every time. But, then, outa nowhere, I'd stop bleeding. Not only that, but I'd get up and be perfectly fine. The announcer would call the match like nothing had happened. I'd have thought it was a miracle, but thinking back, some punk kid probably used a code. . . Have you no honor?? Anyway, after a few of these shock things, that fat legged girl came back. Bouncin' off the walls and all. It was kinda like watching a lesbian porno. . . I had to keep reminding myself Vega was a guy. And then she won. . . Just left again. Man that I was, I took the credit of course. . . Who wouldn't? It was almost a shame when my belt blew in the breeze. Then, some guy started throwing flaming pies at me. . . I have no clue what was going on back there. . . Anorexic baker, maybe. Instead of figuring it out, I just shot a fireball at the guy. Easier for both of us that way. Er, one of us. Me. Anyway, after it happened, a referee jumped out and held up my hand. What? That was a match? Is anyone alowed into this tournament? I'm going home. . . But, when I got there, I found the king of this circus of doom. . . A matador. Not just any matador either. He shot fireballs. Name's M. Bison. So, I flew through the air and he flew through the air and I spun around and he kicked me. Then, I lit on fire. Blue fire. You could see my bones. Next thing I knew, I was here. . . In this room. . . Doctors looking down at me. They say its a hospital. I've never seen a hospital with padded walls. . . At least they left me my belt. . . Now, if only there were a breeze. . . |
By Danny
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Link Back Links Writer(s) |
 Danny's weekly video game column. Culture, history, gameplay, tech, and dick jokes. Funny, if you're a dorkmo. |
Puuba-Danny