My brothers split their money and purchased one in Maine.
It's the only useful thing I've seen come out of there-
well, that and Cujo-
I spent my money on a teddy bear.
Don't hold it against me; I was four at the time.
If I cried enough, mom would make them let me play 'til game over.
I'd always pick Double Dragon.
But then, I'd only ever get as far as the bridge in the woods in level 3
before I'd have to surrender the controller.
Returning to my miserable books.
But oh man, would I watch...
See me now, age 6.
"Who's breathin' on my neck!"
My brother's friend Russell would shout.
"Paul, go away!" they'd all shout.
Fuckers.
My therapist tells me not to dwell on it.
I would say nothing, but watch their every move as they blasted the shit out of the medusa heads in Jackal.
Eventually they'd have to pause it, and Russell would say, "Paul, go piss!"
Cause I'd be writhing, unable to peel my eyes away.
Russell probably saved me from a few bladder infections.
He's married now. Poor fucker.
This blog isn't full of insider information.
I'm not giving reviews so that pock-marked hard-ons can shit all over them.
It's not some goddamned retro throwback (cause retro's so trendy now).
It's pulp for all others who couldn't take their eyes away.
And still can't.
From one writher to another.
eDit: It wasn't until doing this post that I realized how terrifying real-life jackals are.
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