You know, it’s
funny. I’ve played a lot of fighting
games in my time, but I’ve never really put too much stock into why I chose the
characters that I do. Until recently;
since I learned about the concept of “mains” a few years back -- the character
you play the most, and are arguably the best with -- it’s made me wonder what
inspires that fighter/player loyalty. As
I’ve mentioned before in several other places and to several other people, I
have zero recollection of my time in arcades.
I guess I spent SOME time there, since my brother remembers the arcades
fondly (and being two below-ten-year-olds, our parents did their best to corral
us in the same general area). But ask me
about who my main was in Street Fighter
II, and I’d respond with a resounding “Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…”
But now it’s 2012. Thus far, two big fighting games have been
released, and there are at least four more games coming down the pipeline. It’s a time to re-evaluate one’s choices --
what draws you to a certain character.
How you forge your loyalties.
And, whether you’ll stick by them through your darkest hour, or abandon
them to play Wesker.
So I made this little
ditty in response to that thought. Now,
if you’ll allow me to invoke the muses…
So many games have I now
played
With barest-boned of
accolades
The mother that adores
me so
Sees them as artifacts
of woe.
My brother’s grades,
once at summit
Did soon start a hasty
plummet.
Whilst younger scion
brought home A’s
His body thinned;
muscles away.
But soft! No matter to us boys
No need for bikes! No need for toys!
Our fingers
strengthened by the day
Our senses, honed, each
time we played!
And such was life for
many years
Besting the beasts that
instilled fears
That emerged from our
consoles vast
With deft thumb twitch,
we throttled past.
But if there stood a
great divide
Forcing a kinship’s
override
‘Twas when we sparked
our latest fight
One to stew ‘bout
through the night.
Instinctive skill did I
dare wield;
Defense and strength to
own the field.
Dear brother, vowing
heart to war
Used rapid force to
raise his score.
I, the dragon; tiger
was he
Two beasts of high
divinity
(In games at least; to
neutral eyes
Weasel and peacock,
undisguised).
And thus when latest
stage came ‘bout
Beseeching duels in
large amounts
The time came ‘gain to
choose our sides --
Warriors, shearing
rivals’ hides.
“Now Yoshimitsu, come
to me!”
My sibling cried with
ecstasy --
Only to find his
glowing blade
No better than a
farmer’s spade.
“Bob Richards! Surely blubber’s best
For putting dastards to
the test!”
And while those antics
made him smile
Foes’ slothful links
did leave him riled.
He soldiers daily,
undeterred
For a fighter above the
herd.
His loyalty shifts with
each eve
With little thought; no
need to grieve.
As for me, my woe’s
compounded
On the grounds of
claims resounded;
“Just Paul and Guile --
now rest assured
You’ll see their
plateau-like coiffures!”
So I’d yelled quite
boastfully
(Drawing ire from my
pup, Henri);
Come game’s release,
and clash of wills
Prospects and truths
both gave me chills.
Could I use Guile to
hold my ground?
Indeed; with blades
surpassing sound
I held my own ‘gainst
kin’s onslaught
Rendering most attacks
for naught.
But with Paul came a
true quagmire
One that crossed my
blunt desire --
Could I use him? And was he strong?
In combat, would he
dare live long?
“He’ll be simple; easy
to game
Straightforward offense
is my aim.
Like a mountain, there
I’ll stand --
And come my chance,
I’ll leave my brand.”
Such were my thoughts,
and yet my fears
Multiplied as news
reached my ears.
Fighters from their
pantheons high
Did make their claims
with divine cries.
I sensed as much when
Lord of Hair
Through guides and
fights earned no fanfare;
And then one post did
make it clear:
Beware of Paul -- he’s
bottom-tier!
“A plague on thy
house! Wretched curs!
To make such claims --
surely you’ve erred!”
Is what I dared dearly
to shout;
Those words, alas,
would not come out.
I’d known the sting of
bottom-tier
With Phoenix Wright
since late last year;
I’d put no stock in
fated lists --
Even whilst turned to
bloody mist.
I merely wished for
battles fun
And standing proud with
chosen one.
‘Gainst foes with stats of devilish class
My ideals, rent; I’m
but an ass.
And so one night, as I
did trot
To my cold bed,
post-poorest lot
Did my mind’s workings,
one and all
Did dare to ask: “Why
select Paul?”
Far back I thought, to
days long gone
When a new challenger
did dawn
Upon my clan; with Tekken 5
Prompting players to
take a dive.
“Why do you ask? I’ve chosen Jin
His cursed fists will
earn me wins!”
I claimed, with foolish
bravery
Passing over others
quickly.
For a mere breath, my
sights did rest
And put my senses to
the test
A tall-haired man, with
beard of gold
So reckless, he! A stench, so bold!
“Who is this
knave? A fool so high
In foppishness! I’ll
never try
To win with him; he
stands no chance
If I should dare, my
head be lanced!”
I hardly entertained
the thought
Of Paul; I hoped his
bones would rot
That he may quickly
leave my sight
And let me start my
heated fight.
But time did pass, and
heat mellowed;
I spotted that burly
fellow.
With gritted teeth, and
heavy sigh --
“What harm is
there? I’ll risk a try.”
As I trained for half
an hour
I then learned of
Phoenix power.
Rugged blows and heavy
strikes
Did set my heart upon a
hike.
“What in the
world? Such majesty!
Such impact -- I can
hardly breathe!
Oh, all the time I’ve
flushed away --
No, never more! I’m born today!”
At first I would not
dare admit --
A service to this
prideful twit --
That I’d been
transformed quite like this
By Paul, in search of
Iron Fists.
So first, I kept my
shift discrete
(With Jin, I hardly
knew defeat)
Eventually, I made the
leap
And with Paul’s
strikes, left foes in heaps.
And so it was in Tekken 6
Where Paul, through
hammer blows and kicks
Brought me more wins,
and perfect rounds
And bodies, piled in
stretching mounds.
“You know, I think back
to a time,”
My brother said (joining
this rhyme)
“When you reviled that
bearded fop
And clamored he was
red-clad slop.”
“That’s true
enough. I must agree.
But that’s all ancient
history.”
I gave a nod, and once
again
From Raven, stole a
perfect win.
And so I stand, right
here and now
Wond’ring if Paul
should take a bow
In light of evidence,
primed to mock
Dwarfing his
rampart-styled locks.
To win with Paul, with
aims of fun
Is no slight task; he
needs but one
Misstep to scream is
final words;
I’d guess his vict’ry’s
rarely heard.
But just one win offers
enough
To prove his mettle --
yes, he’s tough
Rugged and charming,
fun yet brave
Come any foe, their
fangs he’ll stave.
A counterpoint to stoic
twats;
Though they are
skilled, their souls are flat.
So boring, dull, and
too routine
(And often, made of
plasticine).
What I want is a fighting man
One who can break their
tricks and plans
One whose fists fly
noble and true
With passion, heat --
comedy, too.
To win a fight with
fist-born creed --
Of tiers and fame,
there is no need.
Conviction, and to
fight freely
That is a fighter’s
loyalty.
And such is life -- the
truth I’ve gained
The strongest of my
haughty claims.
Though I lack skill,
and can’t move fast
Till end of days this
faith shall last.
I’ll make my stand, on
my own terms
And ‘gainst strong foe,
I’ll dare not squirm.
Though my fingers may
oft grow terse
With Paul I’ll brave the
universe!
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