So it was like, fuck, you know? The pressure was on, the buildup was just insane, I had no idea what was gonna happen. Suddenly all my shit-talking arrogance just drained out of my body. I totally choked up, my mouth got all dry and sandpapery, and I went straight-up silent. My hands were sweating like a muscleman prizefighter’s, my adrenaline was coursing through my veins like a Lambo at full throttle, my heart was pounding like an ancient shaman’s drum.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

So I gulped… Took the controls… Chose Raiden as my fighter because he reminded me of Big Trouble in Little China… So much anticipation… So much suspense… So much anxiety…

And then, yeah, I pretty much just lost.

And, you know, that was it.

Look, I really don’t know what else to tell you. I lost, okay? Some old dude in sweatpants with a ponytail and two thumb rings picked Sub-Zero and he beat my ten-year-old butt. I’m not going to give you the play-by-play, because honestly it was pretty embarrassing and losing is not, like, part of my brand. I’m seriously already tired of writing about this stupid little story of me actually losing for the very first time in my Dimension R life.

Anyway, after I got totally destroyed by this random guy—and let’s keep in mind I’d never even played this game before and I was just ten, all right?—the skinny switchblade-comb guy came over. Still feeling like shit and totally unlike myself, I started to apologize for losing his huge stack of tickets.

He cut me off almost immediately.

“Boy,” he said, “I’ve been watching you… from the shadows.”

His voice was rough and scratchy, like Splinter’s in TMNT.

“Whoa—you mean like the creepy bike-store owner Mr. Horton watches Arnold and Dudley in that very special episode of Diff’rent Strokes?”

(And if you’re too young to get that reference, LOOK IT UP. Lazy-ass Gen Z–ers.)

“No,” he said. “Not like Mr. Horton, although that’s a great reference. I’ve been watching you, and I’ve seen that you’re not like others. You talk too much, it is true. But you do not run from the dark places. You seek out conflict. You crave battle. You have talent. You simply need a teacher to help you hone it.

“I offer myself, humbly, as that teacher.”

He used the switchblade comb on his mustache, which was weird because it was really thin, ratty, and pubey, so the comb was just going through like three long gross hairs.

“Who—who are you?”

“I?” he said. “I am the owner of this fine pinball establishment. I lurk in the shadows, hiding, seeing all, waiting for a student like you. You may call me… ‘Sensei.’ ”

Suddenly this big blond lady stuck her head out from behind the prize counter.

“What the hell you say, Billy?” she shouted.

Sensei Billy rolled his eyes.