It's the laugh, I think. That mocking, haunting laugh. It tears at the soul like a fat kid tears at a chocolate cake or some other sweet confection, devouring it until there is nothing left but crumbs and a few blobs of icing that didn't get consumed. It haunts you. It mocks you, but not only you. It mocks your very existence
. I finally managed to silence it. That laugh shall haunt me no more.
I have finally beaten Soda Popinski in Punch Out!! (Feat. Mr. Dream. Laym).
The battle was a harsh one, with Little Mac putting Soda to the mat first in a flurry of miniature punches. Soda responded in kind, shortly before the first bell signified the end of the round. It was back to our corners.
"He's hurt me, doc!" Mac exclaimed. His mouth tasted like pennies, his words coming out slurred. "Join the Nintendo Fun Club today!" exclaimed the Doc. What fantastic advice, you asshole.
Round two starts. Mac strikes quickly and swiftly, shucking and dodging like a good boxer should. Like a smaller, whiter Mohamed Ali or George Foreman. "I'll fuck you until you love me!" Mac exclaimed, landing a jaw-crushing uppercut and sending Soda to the mat once more. Mario steps in and begins the count. Soda is up in 5. There's almost too much fight left.
Soda charges in, smelling like a bear soaked in bathtub vodka and swinging like something that can only be viewed on fuckingmachines.com (NSFW, btw). He nails Mac with a barrage of crushing blows and sends him to the mat. Mario once again begins counting. Mac regains his feet at the 3-count. The bell rings again.
Mac is hurt. His eyes are swelling shut. He's missing some teeth. He's woozy and more than a bit sick and his ears are ringing. "I can't win, Doc." Mac speaks slowly now, like the kids in the special ed. classroom. "You can do it, Mac!" the Doc replies. "Keep your guard up!" Gee, thanks, Captain Obvious. Fucking jerk. Why did he hire him? The bell rings. Round 3. Final round. All or nothing. His head clears as he stands up and marches back into the ring.
Screaming like a man who is having his nuts twisted together by an angry badger, Mac starts swinging. Left, right, left, right. Over and over. Dodging when needed, blocking when needed. He can barely see. His vision turns crimson for a moment as the blood drains into his eyes only to be blinked back moments later. The drunk Russian isn't fairing much better, having earned the ire of Little Mac and his Fists of Glory. Mac is a man possessed. Soda just cannot hit him. Soda hits the mat once, only to get up at the 5-count and greet the mat again only seconds later. He's clearly underestimated the little white kid from New York with the retarded cornerman.
Slurring caused not only by the massive quantities of potato water but by Mac's fists, Soda charges back in swinging, hitting Mac square in the chin, trying to set up the tiny pugilist for a vicious right hook, but Mac is just too fast, and dodges. Soda knows he's going down, and sees Mac's eyes light up at the opportunity, like a little robot that you'd buy for a child. His grin looks sadistic, soaked in blood and abnormally pushed out by the guard. Soda accepts his fate, and it's only seconds before he starts feeling the punches land on his stunned, tank-shell shaped head. He drops to the mat, unable to get up. Mario steps in, declaring Mac the winner of the bout by Technical Knock Out.
Little Mac, unable to stand under his own power any longer, staggers back to his corner and plunks himself down on the stool. Spitting his mouth guard into the bucket, along with a gout of blood and several teeth, his gaze sways over to the Doc.
"Can I have my bike back now, please?"