The Two-Time enters the ring in super-intense slo-mo. So damn slow and so damn mo you can barely tell I’m moving. Except I am. Oh yeah, I am.
I gaze around the arena, taking it all in. The thousands of fans. The smoke. The flashing camera bulbs. The occasional knife fight. More smoke. My competitors. More smoke. I lower my experimental Sony prototype shades in this super-cool, super-provocative way, just enough so you can see my gleaming brown eyes—and the crowd explodes!
“KEFVGAAIR! KEFVGAAIR! KEFVGAAIR!”
I turn and stare defiantly at Lord Hannn on his shadowy throne. I point to where I think his eyes might be, then I make a throat-slashing motion across my neck. Then I point at his stupid Xbox-controller hand, and I shake my head and make the jerk-off motion, like “You’re a stupid idiot,” and also “Honestly, how do you even jerk off with that thing?”
Quick shot of Carl the Hunchback looking totally terrified on my behalf, like “Oh no he didn’t!” except not as blatantly dated as that expression.
The scoreboard lights up above us, with all the competitors’ names in fiery red neon.
Sweeping scan of the dozens of elite international opponents in their caricatures of ethnic garb—kilts and bagpipes, kimono robes, giant sombreros, berets and baguettes, khaki pants and Sperry Top-Siders. They look awkward—and bloodthirsty.
“KEFVGAAIR! KEFVGAAIR! KEFVGAAIR!”
The rounds tick off on the scoreboard—Round One… Round Two… Round Three—as my reign of dominance begins.
Shots of me pumping my fist, flashing the “I’m number one” sign, and screaming “Yayayaya!” as my competitors howl in impotent rage and spew all these hilariously stereotyped one-liners, like Kangaroo Jack screams, “Did you hear the thunder? I better run, I better take cover!” and Killer Commie Ivan shouts, “Better Red than dead! Pro gamers of the world unite!”
A quick shot of Lord Hannn pounding his Xbox-controller fist in anger. Back in my corner, Carl the Hunchback strokes his chin, like “You know what? I think the kid’s got it!”
Shot of me doing a super-badass karate kick in the air for no good reason.
“KEFVGAAIR! KEFVGAAIR! KEFVGAAIR!”
Final Round! It’s just me and Mr. Miyagi Min-Zhong. Mano a mano. Competitor versus competitor. I look him in the eye and nod. Finally a worthy opponent. This is it. The battle we’ve all been waiting for.
Yeah, I kick his ass. Like, I beat the guy in maybe five minutes, a new KEFVGAAIR record. After it’s over, I give him a firm handshake, because when it’s all said and done, he was a worthy competitor.
Then I lean in and go, “Hey, Min-Zhong, I just want you to know that I value your culture. The idea that they’d conflate a Chinese national with Mr. Miyagi is offensive and reprehensible, especially when everyone knows that Mr. Miyagi was born in Okinawa, Japan, where he was betrayed by his best friend, Sato, and then immigrated to California, where he suffered in an unjust internment camp for Japanese-Americans before bravely serving for the United States in World War II and earning the Medal of Honor. He was a patriot, a karate master, and a proud Japanese-American. He was not a cartoon and neither are you. That said, that whole thing where he tried to catch a fly with chopsticks was pretty dope.”
Then Min-Zhong goes, “Agreed.”
A furious Lord Hannn overturns a random table. It takes him a few tries with that whole missing-hand deal, but he eventually gets it.
Final epic sweeping wide shot as I turn to the massive, roaring crowd and raise my fists in the air. They scream louder than they’ve ever screamed anything in their lives: