A BIRTHDAY MIRACLE
The door swung open, making an authoritative crack as it smacked the wall of Jimmy’s bedroom. Jimmy was a young boy, a hard-done-by boy, a boy who didn’t have a chance in life. He was born into an abusive family. His Dad was often beating the wife, and, when that ritual wasn’t in progress, he was berating her.
“You didn’t cook the steak right!”
“Jimmy isn’t in bed—what kind of useless bitch are you?”
“How dare you not lock the back door! No doubt you’ll come running to me when some bastard robs the place!”
Jimmy often cried his way out of the room when his father went off the handle like this.
However, now he was on the receiving end.
“You idiot!” Jimmy’s father screamed, and the world around Jimmy shook like it had just been thrown into the washing machine.
“You fucking idiot! What kind of son are you?” he continued, and just as Jimmy opened his mouth, about to ask what he was in trouble for, his father bellowed again, “You just don’t get it, do you? You ask, ask, ask fucking ask! I work my ass off in this goddamn family to put food on that frigging table, you unappreciative little shit, and the only thanks I get is you demanding more from me?”
“Dad, it is nearly my birthday–“
“Wah, wah. Dad this, Dad that; are you some kind of whining machine? Because you were designed pretty fucking well, in that case.”
From downstairs, the sound of hurried footsteps could be heard. It was Jimmy’s mother, coming to her poor, defenseless son’s aid. It was freedom. It was the only one who cared about him running to help him—his one and only protector. The next moment, Jimmy saw his one and only protector appear at the top of the stairs, and his one and only protector meeting a swift fist in the nose, and his one and only protector tumbling down the staircase, knocking her unconscious.
“Right,” Jimmy’s father said, “anyone else in this world wanna try to convince me why I should buy this ungrateful kid Guitar Hero III for his birthday? Eh?”
As soon as those words had finished being spoken, half the house was blown into the sun. Appearing at the spot where the wall had once been was a dark, muscular knight in shining armor.
“Samuel L. Jackson!” Jimmy screamed in delight, first for the fact that he was in the presence of Samuel L. Jackson, second because Samuel L. Jackson had prevented Jimmy from getting a whuppin’, and thirdly because he had a long box with Guitar Hero 3 on the side under his arm.
“Here you go, kid,” Samuel L. Jackson said, and handed the box over to Jimmy.
“Thank you, Samuel L. Jackson! I’ve always wanted to play Guitar Hero!”
“Well, let’s go then! But first, I have one bitch-ass motherfucker to deal with.”
He turned to Jimmy’s father, who had wavered but was still somewhat defiant.
“You want to mess with me and my business with my son, asshole?” Jimmy’s father attempted to argue, but his self-aggrandizing was short lived.
“It’s not just you and your son’s business anymore. It’s you, your son and Samuel L. Jackson’s business now, motherfucker.”
“I have no clue where y-you get that from, but leave this house right now, before I make you l-leave.”
“You ever read the Bible, Brett?”
“There’s a passage I got memorized, seems appropriate for this situation: Ezekiel 25:17. ‘The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.’ Get what I’m jamming, motherfucker?”
Brett started coughing, almost destroyed by the sparking repartee that Samuel L. Jackson had beat him down with. It was such a pure owning that nothing in the world could have made it worse.
Until a gun was staring him in the face.
“Now, you have 30 seconds to apologize to your son, and sincerely, or your unconscious wife is going to have to glue your motherfuckin’ brain back together, do I make myself clear, motherfucker?”
“Then fucking do it. I already started counting.”
Brett looked over to his son, and, through tears of fear, said, “Son…I-I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was such an asshole. I’m sorry for all the times I beat you. I’m sorry that I di–“
The gun fired and blew Brett’s brains all over the wall.
“Time’s up, motherfucker.”
After he helped Jimmy’s mother clean up the mess, he sat down with Jimmy and played Guitar Hero III. He had played the other games in the series, and found that this new version played pretty much the same. There were minor graphical enhancements, such as the singer actually singing the song (although the guy had a chin you could knock a wall down with). He didn’t like the art style, but he guessed that was something he could overlook, considering that the game was more about pretending you could play a guitar like a pro than graphical prettiness. Although there were new modes, he felt these left much to be desired, as the battles he had with Jimmy became one sided very quickly, and rarely did they have a close fight.
The soundtrack was OK, but the note charts he found were stupidly awful. A lot of the songs that could have been good fun were ruined by these note charts, which all seemed to aim for difficulty and contortionist hand movements than fun, and this was coming from a Guitar Hero veteran like Samuel L. Jackson (he spent many a day playing it on Expert, getting FCs and five-starring everything. That is, when he wasn’t out kicking ass). Part of the note chart problem could have been solved by making sensible hammer on and pull off choices, instead of letting a monkey decide whether those notes should be HO/POs, which seemed to have been done by the designers. But, on the whole, Samuel L. Jackson thought they were designed badly.
There was still some amazing fun to be had, though, especially on Through the Fire and the Flames. Heand Jimmy spent much of their time playing that song, playing through the night, even though their whammy bar broke.
When it was time to leave, Jimmy gave Samuel L. Jackson a hug.
“Thank you so much for the game, Mr Jackson.”
“No problem kid. Just one thing.”
He then punched Jimmy through the doorway, picked up his game, and walked back outside.
“I spent $135 bucks on this, motherfucker. I’m not leaving it here.”
He then shot the mother for good measure, and sat in his car, lighting a cigarette.
“It’s chicken shit. You don’t fuck another man’s Guitar Hero game.”
Samuel L. Jackson turned the ignition key on the car, revved it, and drove off into the morning light, ready for another day of being fucking awesome.