The Important Shit Name: Adam
Location: Austin, TX
Steam Name: pointingdevice
Xbox Live: PointingDevice - Currently defunct!
General Information -----
Adam "PointingDevice" McWaters was birthed July of 1979, in a sleepy military fortress in the hill-lands of Texas. At the time, this area was referred to by the locals as, "flavor country," however 2-6 years after his birth, "flavor country" was relocated to west Texas/Arizona/New Mexico.
Point is, that summer was hot as fuck.
Due to the extreme heat, Adam was taken almost immediately to the happy-go-lucky country of Germany, where he was protected from the terrible sun by a constant layer of gloom and cold. He would be 2 years of age before he would ever experience the fiery orb directly. This experience would not go well, and would further complicate life for Adam in the future, many times.
After 9 or so years under the gray skies of Deutschland, selling real Levi's to the unfortunate locals who had to deal with Turkish knock-off brands, Adam would find himself and his meager earnings in arcades across the land. In these dark secluded caves, the boy would learn that these machines were his true parents. These had cruely birthed him, stoic, into this world from whatever hideous canal or cantrip. He didn't know which one was his actual parent, per se, but it was probably a shmup of some sort, since he beat so much ass at those.
Or a Neo-Geo multigame cabinet. It's still really up in the air at this point.
Upon arriving back in Texas, he was delighted to find that arcades existed here too. Dark, dingy and smoky, he could continue his reign of destruction all over any dude challenging him to Samurai Shodown or what-have-you. Time passed in the peaceful struggles against lesser fools who didn't know what time it was... But for how long?
He did find himself suffering through many battles what existed outside the screens. Beyond the areas where he was tearing asses up. For years he fought against the tyranny of the Daytona USA machine's ever-present, ear shattering shrieks. The long lines at whatever Mortal Kombat machine was new. Rising costs per-play. Square meat patties on round buns. 8-year-olds, fuckheads that they are, spilling their Big Reds into any classic cabinet's controls. He arose as victorious as Conan over these motherfuckers.
Adam did do this for the good of all arcades across the world. For all those who respected the edicts and the old ways. He battled to ensure that those after him could get their chance to kick asses in at their favored games. He fought for the promises of sticks and buttons that react with snap and response. No sticking. No bullshit. No excuses. For these things did Adam "PointingDevice" McWaters bust heads.
But one black day, wounded from a difficult discussion with the giant blob of mankind that spilled forth from the Killer Instinct machine, and exhausted by years of sheer attrition, a dark shadow fell across the land. He looked up at the oncoming foe and realized his own death. There before him rose the great six-headed avatar of his childhoods' undoing. On each writhing neck, shadowy effigies mewled and gurgled and cursed him.
In one of it's many right hands held high a Revolution X cabinet and did consider it "classic." It's left hand was an enormous lobster claw which gripped a bag of play tokens that cost an uneven amount of actual money to acquire. Amongst it's 6 slathering heads was a floating crown of a DDR machine, upon which lazily danced a series of slack jawed man-boys. Each head a skeletal visage of the last 6 chosen Pokemon of the Beast. Their mewlings called forth and heralded the end of arcades as he knew them.
Their voices ringing in his ears like tinnitus. Like the Daytona USA machine's wretched call. Like a fever. Adam "PointingDevice" McWaters did fall defeated, and he crawled away heartbroken. Leaving behind the tattered flag of his youth, and the vicious screams of the Beast that consumed all it surveyed.
Since that terrible day, he has primarily enjoyed games on PC, and fully accepted modern consoles as "awesome," in one way or another. But a giant hole has been metaphorically fucked into his very soul. A hole which can never be filled again, no matter how much money some proprietor is willing to lose.