And he was playing on the big dog, the original Duke controller! So his fingers had a lot of ground to cover, and they weren’t even long! They were these little fat, ugly, stumpy things. Like, not attractive fingers at all. That made it even harder to watch.

Now, everyone knows that I hate using controllers in general—tell me to use a controller instead of my mouse and keyboard on my stream and I will never speak to you ever again. Like, that’s it. Mom, you’re cut off. Dad, you’re getting nothing in the will. You’re dead to me. That’s how seriously I take that shit.

But back at the 2001 KEFVGAAIR, using that first-generation prototype advanced Xbox console, playing with a controller was the only option.

You know what?

Didn’t fucking matter.

Why? I’m glad you asked. Not really, because you should’ve known the answer. And the answer is that I’m the best. It doesn’t matter what game, what console, what computer, or what controller. I cannot and will not be beaten. It’s that simple.

So when I saw how Hannn could move, how he could work that ridiculous Xbox controller implanted on his right stump using his left hand, I didn’t sweat it at all. I mean literally not one single molecule of sweat came out of my perfectly formed pores on my stunning alabaster forehead.

I just smiled and I started moving even faster.

Because a true champion doesn’t quake at the first sign of real competition. A true warrior doesn’t tremble when he’s finally challenged. The Two-Time, Back-to-Back 1993–94 Blockbuster Video Game Champion doesn’t run from the danger at the end of that long, dark alleyway.

No, he keeps right on running. He embraces the danger. He thrives off the challenge. He grows stronger from the competition.

This was what I’d been craving back in my lair. This was what I had missed. This was the VIOLENCE, the SPEED, the MOMENTUM I had been yearning for.

Now I’d found it. And I loved it.

My reflexes got sharper. My fingers and thumbs moved faster. My killer instinct became more lethal and more instinctual. I was the claws of the hawk. I was the fangs of the cobra. I was the wolf’s cunning and the lion’s roar.

And then something weird happened. As I steadily gained the upper hand—pun 1,000 percent intended—on Hannn, thin wisps of smoke slowly started emanating from his shadowy throne, from right around where his nose would’ve been if I’d ever seen it. Blood-red sparks started flying everywhere as an electric crackling sound echoed from his balcony.

CRACKLE-ZIIIPPP-POWWWW-TWANNG!

I had to get to that balcony.

From the arena’s platform, I leapt into the stands. The rabble scrabbled. A few asked for my autograph, a couple more asked me to lay on hands.