The following was written during a caffeine rush, and should not be taken too seriously. It seemed funny to me at the time. It may or may not be continued in the future. Feel free to comment if you like it or beg me to stop.
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He had a voice that could charm the pants off of any fangirl or fanboy, the looks of someone who had a decent run at a social life before the world of video games had replaced it, and the sharp tongue that could cut through steel faster than a diamond saw. They said that thousands if not millions of gamers hung on his very words whenever they wanted to consider buying a game, and his review could boost a game’s sales into the top 10 or brand it with a scarlet letter and be cast out from the land of Good Games.

But The Critic was not happy. Sure, he was getting paid for work that several other people with their blogs and webcams would stupidly do for free. However, internet infamy was a double-edged sword. People flooded his inbox with sycophantic messages, everyone wanted him to review their shitty indie games, and everyone wanted him to slam their original characters and ideas just for the sake of getting some sort of attention.

All he wanted today was to sit down and eat a nice bowl of cereal, the one thing he did to relax in the morning before he skimmed through the thesaurus to look for new ways to describe how much he hated a game and its components. After pouring the crunchy flakes into the bowl and cutting a few slices of banana into it for extra nutrition, he went to the fridge to find some milk for his cereal. However, after searching for a whole minute, he could not find any milk. He would have to eat his cereal dry today.

The crunchiness of the cereal scratched his teeth and his throat ever so slightly as the crushed flakes tumbled down into his stomach. It’s always the smallest things that end up causing someone under pressure to snap, and this bowl of dry cereal happened to be the straw that broke the back of The Critic's psyche. Suddenly all his little complaints about the video game world had coalesced into a giant nasty pile of evil inside his head.

Now The Critic had a mission: The world of video games had to die.

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The old man lit a cigarette as he sat in the Café of Hard Knocks. Well, it claimed to be a café, but it also sold hard liquor to its patrons. It was also one of the few establishments left in the city where you could smoke without enduring strange looks from the patrons or the workers. But you had to put yourself through a hell of a lot to gain entry to this place. The ones who didn't make it got sent to the School of Hard Knocks until they could toughen up enough to gain entry into the cafe, or their contracts got canceled. Whichever came first.

“Snake? How’s it been going?”A slightly younger black man, dressed in a US Marine outfit and shouldering an M249 SAW sat down next to him, “Still fighting genetically-enhanced super-soldiers?”

“Feh. I hear my brother might be up to something again. Probably possessed a walking toaster with that detached arm of his this time.” Snake took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled, trying but failing to stifle a cough. “Considering the bastard who writes this stuff, it’s within the realm of possibility, as long as you bash your head into a brick wall a few times until it makes sense.”

“You ever considered just shooting the guy in the face? I’m pretty sure that would kill him for good.”

Snake growled at the man, “I bet you never had to fight vampires or giant mechanical walkers when you answered your Call of Duty.”

“No, I just had a dumbass at the controls. How do you think I died so many times?”

Before he could answer, a gunshot echoed throughout the room as the man’s brains were blown out.

“Oh…come on!” Snake whipped out a tranquilizer pistol and found himself pointing a gun at a policeman whose biceps were bigger than his head. “Why did you have to kill the black guy off first?”

“He’s a zombie!”

“He’s not a zombie, he’s a Generic Marine!”

“Well, it’s not my fault they all look alike!”

“What do you mean, ‘they all look alike?’”

“Zombies, man! If you saw what I saw in Africa, you’d do the same thing! Look, he’ll turn into a zombie any minute now!” The place grew quiet as the body lay still on the floor, the head exploded into something unrecognizable, “Aaaaaany minute now…” Some floor goblins quietly dragged the body away as a bloody streak was left on the floor of the café, “Aaaaaaany minute now…”

“Look Chris, get your fucking PTSD-addled brain back on straight. What did you really come here for?”

Chris Redfield twitched his head a few times, and then slowly lowered his gun. “What? Did I get the zombie?”

“If you stay here any longer, you’ll be getting a lawsuit from the NAACP as well. Now c’mon, let’s get out of the bar before the trigger-happy generic space marines start showing up.” Snake stood up and half-dragged Chris out of the Café while the bartender shook his head as he mopped up the bloodstains. It was gonna be another one of those days. “So tell me, why are you here?”

“Something’s gone wrong!” Chris shouted as he ripped his arm out of Snake’s grip and continued walking out of the bar and down the street, “The Critic has not issued his usual decrees in weeks, and the Chief wants you back at the station. He’s putting a team together to find out what’s going on.”

“So let’s go then.”

“We can’t do that. We need a key to get in first.”

“A key?”

“Yeah.”

“A key to get into the police station that we work for.”

“Yeah.”

“You mean saving the world several times over from my evil brother wasn’t good enough for that asshole?”

Chris stopped to fish the keys from his pocket as they reached his police car. “The Chief thinks we need new tests to keep us fresh for whatever new missions or sequels develop for us in the future…aw shit, I left my keys in the car.”

Snake simply groaned.

“Now don’t get your skin-tight suit in a bunch.” Chris flexed his right hand, and then wrenched the passenger’s side door free with the power of his massive biceps. “There, see? All better. Now let’s go before more zombies show up.”

Snake groaned again. “For the last time, Chris, not all black people are zombies in disguise. And if you had just taken your damn meds like the doc said…”

“Oh, because those nano-injections the Medic prescribed for you have done wonders for your wrinkled ass.”

Snake resisted the urge to strangle him then and there. Besides, they both knew he could just get out of it through the magic of a quick-time event. He reluctantly got into the passenger’s side seat and then unlocked the driver’s side door so Chris could get in.

It was gonna be another one of those days.