I found it in the back corner of Pinball Pedro’s, where the grown-ups played Street Fighter II at the big-money table. These dudes were the real winners in town, you know? We’re talking guys with ponytails and thumb rings. Men in their thirties who lived with their parents, couldn’t hold a steady job, but held the top record on the arcade’s Ms. Pac-Man. The fucking champions of the only arena I knew.

And the stakes? The stakes were massive. Not cash—cash was for suckers and for dudes who had cash. No, these guys played with the only real currency of value in Pinball Pedro’s, these little orange paper prize tickets you could trade in for cool shit at the prize window. A couple tix would only get you a little plastic spider ring or some shit like that, but stack up enough and you could get some major high-tech hardware, like a Discman. Well, not a real Discman, I think it was a Sanyo or something, but still pretty badass.

I’d watch these balding giants of manhood from afar, my eyes wide in awe and envy as Blanka gnawed heads and Ryu threw “Hadouken!!” and giant stacks of prize tickets changed hands faster than a Chun-Li helicopter kick. I studied the moves, soaked up the knowledge, and something told me deep down that maybe, just maybe, I could compete with these titans who were old enough to (probably) have pubes.

But for the first time in my cocky young life, I didn’t have the guts to try. Most important, I didn’t have enough prize tickets to bet.

Until one day I saw them playing a new game, their cherished Street Fighter II pushed to the side like a bowl of soggy Mr. T cereal. This new game had a level of action that made Street Fighter II pale in comparison. A level of violence. Of speed. Of momentum.

This new game was Mortal Kombat.

Blood spattering, heads decapitating, spinal cords dripping, lightning blasts exploding, screams of agony and rage and “FINISH HIM!” echoing everywhere! I’d never seen anything like it.

I had to play it. Had to. But how?

I pushed my way through the crowd of greasy goatees and black pleather jackets, elbowing fuckers out of my way until I finally grabbed a joystick for myself.

“Hey,” someone shouted, “you got enough tickets, kid?”

I was about to lie my ass off, when suddenly the crowd parted and a man stepped out of the shadows. He was skinny and pale, with a scraggly little mustache. He might’ve been twenty-five or he might’ve been forty—he had one of those weird young-old faces. He eyed the mob around me, pulled out a switchblade, and flicked it open, revealing a gleaming black plastic comb. He ran it through his oily, thinning hair. It was impossible not to be impressed.

“I’ll cover him.”

He slammed down a fat wad of tickets. It was a crazy-huge bet. I mean, I could’ve bought, like, a brand-new solar calculator with that kind of paper!