Mario Stories

 

1. Li’l Penguin Lost

I’ve been meaning to vent about this since 1996. In the first snow level of Super Mario 64, the player spots a crying baby penguin waddling in circles at the peak of Cool, Cool Mountain. Mario can pick up the small bird and travel, but a newb may wonder where to go. Farther down slopes of the mountain, at the base, one finds a big, distraught mother penguin. When approached by Mario, she’s like, “Ope! I lost my kid. I’m freaking out. You look like a problem solver, Mr. Mustache. How ‘bout some help?” 

The mission is easy to complete. Carry the wee one from the top to the bottom, avoid a few obstacles, be careful on the bridge with the jumping snowmen, and reunite mother and child. A grateful mom then awards Mario a star. It appears to emerge from her butt, but hey, a star’s a star. And personally, I’m more than happy to end the trauma by bringing a penguin family together. Call me a wuss all you want, but I don’t even carry the kid a short walk to the edge of the earth and drop him into the abyss. I may be soft, but I don’t need your cheap thrills and I don’t want that on my conscience.  

It felt great to earn that star. Instead of just winning a foot race against Koopa the Quick or stealing a star off the tail of a giant eel monster, this feat makes me feel like Mario made a difference. Put a cape on that man! He’s Super Mario. 

However, when the player returns to that level, the li’l penguin is lost again, estranged from his mom. When you talk to the mom a second time, she’s like, “Ope! I lost my kid. I’m freaking out. You look like a problem solver, Mr. Mustache. How ‘bout some help?”

It’s fitting to have February-type weather on Cool, Cool Mountain, because it seems like these events are taking place on Groundhog Day. “Thanks for helping me find my kid!” says the relieved penguin. Existence resets. “Hey, help me find my kid!” Repeat on loop. 

If you have enough of a nagging superego for this experiment, you can rescue and reunite a second time. You will be awarded a star that’s black, not golden, which means it’s not really a star at all. This cues the usual spin-and-peace-sign celebration by Mario, who then leaps out of the magic painting on the wall, having achieved nothing. 

You can leap back into the painting to find the child is in need of rescue again. Now, I am not a parent. I don’t have firsthand knowledge of all the challenges. But I gotta call it like I see it. Mama penguin needs to step up her game, because she’s in an endless cycle of losing her damn kid. 

In a perfect world, I’d rescue the li’l one every time. But I’ve got problems of my own. I gotta beat Bowser’s ass by throwing him at bombs. I gotta save the Princess and eat the cake she baked for me. My God, there’s a damn vulture tryna steal my hat on the pyramid level. Is there a button I can press to call Social Services on this penguin mom? No? Well, then I’ll just conquer this game and get all 120 stars knowing there’s still a lost li’l penguin on Cool, Cool Mountain. Ain’t that a b-word? 

2. The Mario 2 Outlook

   
   

   
   
   

The Oligs got a Nintendo on Christmas Eve of 1988. At the time, it was a charmingly American thing to do. We still have a picture of the unveiling in a family photo album. My older brothers rejoice, the oldest holding the box, the other grinning behind him, their golden hair gleaming. My sister hand-gestures at the box. She humored us this one time by showing excitement for Nintendo, before ignoring video games for three decades and counting. As for yours truly, the pic shows only the back of my head, because I was so smitten with that Nintendo that I could not turn my head around to smile. 

My parents never played the thing. But it’s a safe bet that my mom took the picture, basking in our Christmas joy. With less excitement on his face, I can see my dad wearing a thin smile, blue eyes semi-charmed, but always ready to roll. It’s likely that I babbled thank yous to Santa Claus, when Dad was the one busting his ass to buy his kids a home console that would never give him a minute of entertainment. 

My mom worked hard and sacrificed, too, for games she never played, but I find myself singling out my dad more now that he’s gone.

After presents, my brothers and I stampeded down to the basement to hook up the system. My sister didn’t join us. For years, I think, this gave me the misconception that girls just don’t get into video games. 

With no regard for originality, the first cartridge my brothers and I slid into the NES was Super Mario Bros. By the time my oldest brother logged his first death to a slow-marching Goomba (which would be humiliating by today’s standards), I was hooked. The peppy tunes, running, jumping, platforms, pitfalls, fireballs, and invisible stars enhanced my four-year-old quality of life. As the youngest and smallest, I was the last one to have a turn. It was a long wait into the night for Little Nicky to hold the controller. Thus began the trend, I suppose, of me becoming a night owl. 

On level 1-1, I got killed by the same slow-marching Goomba, so nevermind the shit I talked about my brother. I whined as the controller was wrestled from my hands by my older brother, who soon had the thing wrestled away by my oldest brother. Dad called down the steps that it was time for bed, thus ending the controversy. 

All this is to say, the Oligs have been down with this Mario shit since late ‘88. We got a copy of Super Mario Bros. 2 sometime in ‘89, and finished the iconic trilogy in ‘90, bringing home Mario 3 not long after its release. 

My favorite of the trilogy is 2. That’s a contrarian flex. On a credible top 100 list by IGN, Mario 3 rated the very best Nintendo game ever made. The original Mario takes home the bronze at third on the list. What about the NES Mario that is the nearest and dearest to my tender heart? Well, Mario 2 barely cracks the top 20 at #18. I respect IGN’s conclusions, but I say ranking 2 behind Bionic Commando and Excitebike is a miscarriage of judgment. 

IGN is not alone in its ranking of the trilogy. If we look at GameRankings for an aggregate score, Mario 3 dazzles with a score of 98%, the original earns an 86%, and 2 comes in last with an 81%. 

Now let me tell you why everyone is wrong but me when it comes to Mario 2. The most convincing argument I can give is this: People are wrong a lot. And I believe Mario 2 is a fine example of this. 

Admiring 2 is a fine way to defy conventional thought. At the risk of painting in broad strokes, we have more idiots than geniuses on this planet. As a whole, we’re so dumb that we’ve allowed flat-earthers, pre-ripped jeans, and Trump to make comebacks. In America, we’re still clinging to standard measurement over the simpler and more logical metric system, as if 1,000 meters equals 1 kilometer is harder to know than 5,280 feet make up 1 mile. So if you want to tell me that Mario 2 is the runt of the litter, you’ve got to show me something more convincing than popular opinion.   

Mario 2 is unique. It has versatility. There are four players to choose from, each with its own strengths and quirks. Whereas 1 and 3 are like partnerships with Mario and Luigi, democracy flourishes in 2. Better yet, 2 offers us a band, one that’s diverse and rich in star power like The Beatles. 

Paul is like Mario: the face of the franchise, the affable frontman, the charismatic leader. With his eccentric leaps of creativity and “Jealous Guy” feelings about Paul/ Mario, John functions as Luigi. George equals Peach; both can levitate with meditative zen. Toad has the beefy build of a drummer. Have you seen how fast he can dig down in sand? Imagine those hands and biceps smashing the skins. Like Ringo, he’s an essential member of the band whose solo work doesn’t measure up. For bonus points, drummers even sit on a stool. Toad, stool. This story writes itself. 

So if Mario 2 is like The Beatles, what does that make 1 and 3? Well, I compare them to Simon & Garfunkel. They’re partnerships. And the one billed first has had a much stronger run as a solo act. And yeah, I get that Luigi’s Mansion has slightly narrowed the gap, but let’s not forget that Luigi was a no-show in Mario Odyssey because he lost his sidekick job to a damn hat named Cappie. I repeat, Luigi got replaced by Mario’s hat. (By no coincidence, Paul Simon frequently wears hats.)

 I’ll take The Beatles over Simon & Garfunkel any day in this increasingly stretched metaphor in defense of Mario 2. 

  

I love 2 because it transforms Toad from a bystander into a hero. And whereas Princess Peach is a victim of kidnapping in most Mario titles, she kicks ass and throws bombs in part 2. That’s feminism, baby. 

Lovers of the plumber’s second game are imaginative. We’re daydreamers who dig up potion bottles and smash them to make a door to another dimension appear. We seek prizes and power-ups in a shadowy otherworld. Then with a sigh, we return to the chaos and villainy of the real world. 

Big fans of 2 are not altogether kooky, though. We reject the silly notion that it’s cool to morph into a flying racoon or put on a frog costume. Star power is enough for us. We get that fleeting jolt of invincibility from drinks, laughter and sex. We are, after all, only humans—not raccoons or frogs. 

A monstrous frog is, in fact, the final boss in the sequel. His name is King Wart and he looks a lot like former NFL player Ndomakung Suh. In part 2, Bowser and his minions are nowhere to be found. As every 2-believer knows, evil can assume more than one form. 

Perhaps the greatest virtue of this title is its timelessness. Granted, all three NES games are timeless in a figurative sense, but numero dos stands out because it is literally timeless. Fans of the original and part 3 gaze to the sky to see the seconds ticking down to oblivion. Mario 2 devotees don’t share that bleak perspective. Clocks are unnecessary bothers to us. We realize that the hourglass could be an oppressive invention—because life is not a race, it’s an exploration. We’d rather roam at our own pace than be menaced by deadlines. For us, there is no warning sound to incite panic at the 100-second mark. The soundtrack doesn’t have to speed up to a nervous frenzy. We try not to rush into life’s game-changers like marriage and parenthood based only on our age. We might incur scoffs from the Mario mainstreamers, warnings about “biological clocks” and that old cliche, “life is short.” Showing no fear for time requires a leap of faith, but don’t forget, we’ve got Peach on the team to keep us levitating. 

Can your favorite Mario justify such a leap of faith? 

In closing, it should be noted that after the last vegetable has been tossed into King Wart’s mouth, when we finally croak that monstrous frog, the credits roll and we see Mario snoozing in bed. He dreamt the events of his second quest. 

It’s funny to dwell on the meaning of the Mario 2 outlook. And maybe it’s childish for a grown man to still be musing about 8-bit video games. Hell, it’s 2024. Still, when I got the idea for this story in 2012, I was babysitting my one-year-old nephew. I was seated in a cozy chair, scribbling sentences on a legal pad with Buddy asleep in the cradle of my left arm. He started to stir and I had to stop writing. But I was able to lull him back and keep writing by singing to him. 

I sang to him, “Row, row, row your boat…” And I wound up telling him that, much like 2, life is but a dream. 

3. Yoshi Freaked Out My Niece

Winners was looking over my shoulder as I kneeled down to flip the power switch. Her face glowed with rich colors as the game started up. She grinned at the title screen. A cartoonish Italian voice spoke: “Itsumi, Mario!” Then: “Hello!” 

 Had I known this at the time, I would have informed my 3-year-old niece that Mario actually says, “Itsumi,” the Japanese word for “super,” and not “It’s me, a Mario.” I learned this from a friend only last year. But getting my facts screwed up didn’t stop me from having a good time. I tapped the silver bow atop my niece’s shortly cropped hair.

“It’s me, a Mario!” I said in a stereotypical Roman voice I picked up somewhere. 

I grabbed a controller and the two of us sat on the couch. Winners was attentive, as I had told her I had a surprise for her. She was a big fan of Yoshi, the cute green dinosaur the player can ride in Super Mario World. She had seen Yoshi in action in his debut game, but had no idea that the egg-laying male makes a brief but memorable appearance in Super Mario 64.   

The catch is, to chill with Yoshi, one must not only beat Bowser twice but 100% complete the game. That means collecting all 120 stars, not just 80 or 90. Most mortal men and women fall short of this achievement, but not Uncle Nick. The day before our hangout in grandma and grandpa’s basement, I had obtained star #120 with some tenacious play inside of Tick Tock Clock. 

I even checked to make sure the Easter Egg I had unlocked actually worked. It did! 120 =Yoshi. Winners was gonna be amazed. 

Sitting beside my niece, I picked my file and resumed the last part of my quest. Time for the plumber and Yoshi reunion. I began to narrate to my niece. 

“Mario just runs across the front lawn of the castle… finds this little platform, and look! Now there’s a cannon inside. So he drops inside of it, aims high and shoots…”

Mustache guy shouted “yahoooo” as he soared through the air onto the roof of the castle. This made Winners giggle. 

“Now I walk around this corner and—look! Who is that?” 

“Yoshi!!” she exclaimed. She was at a level of enthusiasm that rivaled how she felt a year ago about that bum Talking Elmo. 

“That’s right,” I said, smiling vicariously. I collected a few free guy mushrooms out of habit. “Should we talk to him?” 

“Yeah!” she said. 

So we did. I read the word bubbles to my niece. To you, I’ll just paraphrase: 

“Mario?! Whoa, it’s been a minute, my friend. They told me to wait up here for you to show up. Don’t ask me who ‘they’ are, but they did. Now, be a straight shooter with me: Did you really beat Bowser again? And get all the stars, and save the Princess? You?! Nah, I’m just bustin’ your balls, I knew you could do it. Now, I gotta tell ya. I hate to break down the 4th wall like this, but thanks for playing this game. This is the end. There is literally nothing left to do after this but get on with your life, OK? I’m still gonna give you 100 lives, but really, this means nothing. Bye!”

My number of lives increased from 8 to the century mark. Looking back, this was the ideal time to shut off the game and go have a tea party. Instead, we kept watching. His cameo complete, Yoshi faced a nearby waterfall and jumped off the roof of the castle. 

I thought of it as a somewhat clumsy farewell from an NPC. To a 3-year-old, however, it looked like Yoshi suicided himself. 

I know that was my niece’s perception because she at once broke into tears. “Nooo, Yoshi! Yoshi don’ die! Don’ die, Yoshi!” 

 I was mortified by this twist. I had no idea that Yoshi’s kinda clunky goodbye could cause childhood trauma. I fought past my ignorance and offered Winners a hug. 

“Oh no, that’s not true,” I said consolingly, “Yoshi just jumped into the waterfall. He’s alive.” 

She was doubtful about that. She knew what she saw. The cute dino was chatting with the man in red overalls, seemingly bursting with joy and gratitude for this life. Then, with no warning signs whatsoever, Yoshi jumped off the very tall castle to his obvious death. 

This was awful. My niece was freaked out, and I can’t say I blame her. I’m not a YouTube personality, but I must say that the devs screwed up when they made Yoshi’s exit look a lot like suicide to 3-year-old. With that in mind, I’m giving Super Mario 64 a score of 99% instead of a hundred. 

Anyway, it took about 10 minutes to calm Winners down. I’m a big wuss in front of a crying kid, so I said I was sorry to make her upset. I told her it was only pretend. I repeated the words “make believe” in a soft tone. I even restarted the game, returned to the cannon and the rooftop, and spoke to Yoshi again so that she could see he was fine. 

This time, I flipped the power switch. The screen went blank. Was Yoshi a timeless prisoner fated to always leap into the waterfall even though that may look like offing himself? We’ll never know. 

Eventually, Winners recovered. She wasn’t crying when her dad came to pick her up an hour later. 

A month after the Yoshi incident, Winners came up to me at her grandparents’ home. She had time to reflect on what happened. At any age, she had the look of someone who needed to confide. Somewhat bashful, but with great composure, she said this: 

“When Yoshi die, that not real. Yoshi fine. It all preten’.”

Then she gave me a hug to show that all was forgiven. I felt like a hero. 

Itsumi Mario.   

Operation Fu/ Jam

1.) I hate to apologize for cracking jokes. Doing so leads to a vicious cycle of wicked temptation and guilt—and that is hardly a productive way to live. All these years after I wrote “Cubs Fan Wants to Waste Time Travel,” however, I'd like to amend a swipe I took at Steve Bartman—the hapless, bespectacled bystander who became the scapegoat for the Chicago Cubs after he deflected a foul ball that the left-fielder nearly caught in game 6 of the '03 NLCS.

“Bartman deserves at least a dozen vengeance wedgies,” I wrote.

While somewhat funny, that statement is not at all true. It's hyperbole. In actuality, Bartman has suffered enough—and then some. He was simply a tailor-made target for writers; he became the source of twisted inspiration for goofy Cubs fans like me. In all sincerity, he should be forgiven and treated with immense kindness from now on. In fact, that is an understatement. We should ask him for forgiveness. On that spooky night at Wrigley Field, the fallout from Bartman's mistake was a revolting display of humanity.

When I defamed Bartman, the context of the essay was that I wanted to travel back in time to prevent him from swatting away that fateful ball that was aloft in foul ground. I cited his mishap as the absolute most vital happening in history that begs to be altered and rectified. I'm still fond of that one, but I'm no longer on-board with its premise. No. It occurs to me now that it would be petty to enact Quantum Leap redemption on something as frivolous as the outcome of a baseball game.

The time has come to let go of that senseless resentment.

The same cannot be stated, though, about Shaquille O'Neal's decision to license his name and likeness to Shaq Fu rather than the NBA Jam series for the Super Nintendo.

Let me explain.

2.) As the number one overall pick in the 1992 draft, Shaquille O'Neal was drafted by the Orlando Magic. The dominant phenom quickly established himself as a premier big-man; he went on to win the Rookie of the Year award. Shaq was and remains charismatic, disarmingly goofy, and marketable, and so in no time he was fielding offers from the entertainment industry to cash in on the craze he generated. He appeared in commercials for Reebok. He starred in movies—once as a funky genie and another time as a black Robocop. He signed a record deal and dropped an album called Shaq Diesel.

And, oh yeah, circa '94, some lowlifes as Electronic Arts convinced him to fulfill the title role of one of the shittiest video games ever made.

Shaq Fu was in the one-on-one fighter genre; it was the kind of game in which the aim is to jump around a lot and punch and kick another guy until his life-meter runs out and he keels over. To my knowledge, most of the people who actually bought a copy of Shaq Fu jumped out of second-story windows upon completion of level 2. The game was maligned by everyone who bothered to care about it. All these years later, the offending cartridges dwell near the top of a steep mound of pop-culture junk.

NBA Jam, by contrast, remains a masterpiece. The vid stripped round-ball down to a two-on-two contest—a marquee duet vs. a marquee duet. NBA Jam merged the simplistic setup and permissible violence of Nintendo’s Arch Rivals with the aerial acrobatics of a coked-up superhero. The result was an addictive frenzy of give-and-gos, glass-shattering dunks, three-balls, and brutal shoves that ranks as one of the most beloved sports titles to be found on 16-bit systems.

Now, I don't intend to express contempt for Shaq. He is one of my absolute favorite NBA legends. By the time I entered junior high school, I lost track of how many times I had cheered as I watched a beastly Shaq-dunk on Sportcenter. Over a decade later in college, I howled in a rowdy fit of joy when I saw him hoist the Larry O'Brien trophy alongside of Dwayne Wade. I never cared much for his movies or his music, but I never begrudged the man for putting some effort into something other than what he was obviously born to do—which has got to be abusing and belittling chumps in the low-post while winning scoring titles and championships.

Regrettably, Shaq's likeness never abused nor belittled chumps in the low-post in either NBA Jam title for the Super Nintendo. I have never let out a rowdy fit of joy after posterizing 16-bit Karl Malone on a tomahawk slam courtesy of 16-bit Shaq. NBA Jam and Shaq are both great, nevertheless, but they don't overlap. When he signed a contract to endorse Shaq Fu, litigious sticking points too nerdy to dwell on prevented him from appearing in the console-import of NBA Jam.

I don't despise Shaq for choosing money over merit; I'm just disappointed. Like Bartman, I just have this unwavering, dumb urge to talk some sense into him—from one mistake-prone human being to another.

Another reason why I chose to obsess over Shaq for two weeks and write about him is that we were both born on March 6th. Sometimes non-famous people feel a weird kinship for celebrities who share their birthdays. I don't take horoscopes seriously, but by contrast, I get a quirky kick out of the notion that some weirdo who moonlights as a palm-reader gives Shaq and me the exact same advice on a daily basis.

Every time I glance at the astrologically based counsel foretold for Shaq and me in the newspaper, I expect to read, “Use your veteran-savvy to counteract the youth and athleticism of Dwight Howard. Also, you should probably scale back on making references to The Simpsons.”

That never happens, though, and so I regard astrology as an absurd but endearing footnote tacked on to the long list of faulty ways to make sense of the world.

Anyway, I hate to see my March 6th cohorts fuck up so wretchedly. Those lazy scientists still have plenty of work to do, but if, someday, those brainy pillow-humpers finally fulfill their potential by inventing a time machine, I would lobby to go Quantum Leap on Shaq for his role in the Fu / Jam debacle. What follows is an account of what would happen if only those lousy geeks who call themselves scientists would quit jerking off and get down to business.

Enjoy? Enjoy.

3.) At the culmination of an hour or so of research on Google and a week or two of stalking a video game developer with a creepy vice—as well as my main man Shaq—I'd determine the exact date and time that the Big Diesel entered the headquarters of Electronic Arts to ink the Godforsaken deal in question. A rough estimate of this date and time—to the clueless, hastily-guessing mind—is January 11th, 1994, at 9:15 a.m.

Before stepping inside of some sort of a dome-shaped, metal chamber with gamma rays and protons beams or some shit (just to give you a few ideas to build on, scientists), I'd have to visit a costume shop. Part of my master-plan involves dressing up like Luigi (Mario's brother). I'd buy a lighter and something that could harm people, too. I'll explain why later.

With a frenzied swirl of electrons, I materialize in a back alley of the Electronic Arts building—located in Redwood City, California. I straighten my tussled overalls and adjust my green cap before noticing a frumpy and astonished homeless man. Dumbstruck, he blinks at me repeatedly and then tosses his bottle of cheap whiskey in the air.

“I've had enough of this.”

I lunge and catch it before the glass shatters against the concrete.

“Are you crazy?” I scold. “There's plenty left in here and this is probably gonna be the highlight of your day.”

He considers my point, nods gratefully, and accepts the bottle as I hand it back.

I check my watch for confirmation of the date, year, and time—all precise.

“Not bad, scientists,” I say as I hustle alongside the EA building toward the entrance.

The lobby is stark but ornate. The floor is marble and the furniture, while sparsely placed, is lavish. The walls are decorated with framed posters of EA hits such as John Madden Football and NBA Live. I admire the scenery for a beat and then hurry past a burly security guard with watchful eyes and a shaved head. The secretary behind the desk is likewise suspicious.

“Can I help you?” she says. She poses her question with drawn-out uncertainty.

“Indeed you can, ma'am,” I say. “I'm an acquaintance of Mr. Chaz Flenderson, one of your most esteemed developers.”

“I see...” she murmurs, looking over my shoulder to lock eyes with the security guard.

“Yes. Could you be a dear and please tell him Luigi is here?”

“May I ask what your visit pertains to?”

“You may. Certainly. Only—Mr. Flenderson would prefer some discretion on the matter, and I simply can't breach his trust by giving you full disclosure, ma'am.”

The heavy clacking of the security guard's shoes resounds throughout the lobby. I picture him squeezing his holstered nightstick. As he approaches, I rub my mustache for a second—a nervous gesture that I quickly correct by letting my hands slink past my waist. I breath out, assuming the posture of a man with nothing to hide.

“Is that right...Luigi?” Her eyes roll. She exchanges haughty glances with the man poised to club me. “And do you have a last name?”


“Brothers,” I say, shrugging. “Trust me, he'll know who I am...ma'am.”

She grins wickedly and clicks her fingernails against the desk. Her hand inches closer to the phone. I don't turn my head but I know the security guard is really bearing down; his steamy breath seeps underneath my collar and my whole body wells up with beads of sweat.

“Well, one way or the other, this ought make for quite a show,” she says.

She grabs the phone and dials the extension number.

“George,” she says to the man lurking beside me, “If Mr. Flenderson wants nothing to do with this guy, I'm going to look the other way. OK?”

My head swivels to see George nod. He seems intent on crippling my retinas.

“Yes, ma'am,” he says.

I can hear a faint dial-tone, and then another.

“Politeness,” I remark to George. “That's where it's at—am I right, George? Whatever happens, just know that I say ma'am, too.”

George says nothing, but as he continues to stare, I gather that his manners have limitations.

The dial-tone ceases. A muffled voice succinctly answers the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Flenderson. There's a man in the lobby asking for you. He doesn't have an appointment. He is dressed in green overalls like Luigi and he refers to himself as such. He says you're expecting him...”

The voice reprimands the secretary. Her bemused expression turns somber; she becomes like a misbehaving beast getting whipped by its master.

“Sir, you don't have to hiss at me,” she says, flabbergasted. “Your wife and kids? What do they have to do with this?” Her glower is more wrathful than George's when her eyes meet mine. “OK...OK. I'll send him right up.”

She pump-fakes a slam of the receiver, thinks better of it, and then sets it in place with delicacy. She engulfs her elfish face in her hands. George gets the hint, exerts a let-down grunt, and backs off. I'm exhaling with so much relief that I nearly forget to breathe in. The secretary gestures toward the elevator without making a peep.

“Much obliged, ma'am,” I say.

I press the “Up” button and tap my feet anxiously as I wait. For the first time I become aware of the barely audible radio. It's a hit by Nirvana that I remember and love. Despite my better judgment and in too ominous a tone, I sing along loud enough to be heard.

“Well, I swear that I don't have a gun,” I sing. “No, I don't have a gun...”

A ding echoes throughout the lobby and I board the elevator.

Outside the window-plated lobby, a sleek limousine pulls up. The Superman logo is emblazoned on the side of the back-right door. A behemoth athlete steps out, one incredibly long leg at a time. He is dressed casually, in a black shirt and blue jeans, and is soon accompanied by another passenger from the limo—a tuxedoed man much burlier and darker than George.

Shaq lets his bodyguard lead the way. Once inside headquarters, Shaq nods respectfully to George. His pearly grin vanishes as his ears perk up; he shakes his head and struts toward the secretary.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” Shaq says with a wink. “With all due respect, it's cool if you like grunge. However, I'm kind of an important client, and while I'm here, I'd prefer to listen to something with a bit more flavor.”

He leans his 7'2” frame over the desk and presents to her a CD. In an instant the rancor I stirred in her is gone.

###

Having endured the humdrum piano twinkles of the elevator music, I step off hoping to hear Cobain's vocal-mimicking solo. No such luck. The Notorious B.I.G. has overtaken the stereo system.

“What gives?” I wonder aloud.

A lanky, pale man with thinning hair charges down the hallway to accost me.

“I could ask you the same damn thing,” Flenderson says.

He latches hold of my shoulder and roughly shepherds me into his office. He bristles with contempt and agitation as he points his finger to my forehead.

“What gives? I specifically told the agency not to send me any guys while I'm working! I never know when my wife's gonna stop by to nag my ear off. Put yourself in my shoes, numb-nuts. How would it look if she caught me with a male prostitute in my office?”

My cheeks flush and I stammer, unprepared for the most unsavory part of the mission.

“My bad. Um, afterward, I can give you some sort of a...coupon.”

“You're gonna have to do better than that, slim!” he shouts. “And you're not even tall and sculpted like the other Luigis. Christ. What do you weigh? A buck thirty-five?”

“That's a remarkable guess."

“Shut up! Do you even have a big penis?”

“Meh,” I shrug.

He stomps toward the phone atop his desk.

“That's it. I'm calling security.”

“You didn't let me finish,” I blurt out. “I was going to say, 'Meh. It's big enough.'”

He slams the receiver down. In a 180-turn of emotions, he approaches me and swats my butt.

“Great answer! Confident but nonchalant. That's what I like to see. Put a positive spin on the manorexia and I'm sold, blue eyes.”

My eyes narrow as I gaze at the carpet. I scratch my mustache.

“Um...don't think of me as...manorexic. Look at this way: I've got the... metabolism of—uh--a marathon runner?”

He clasps onto my slender jawbones and smooches my cheek. It's revolting. There is no cause for tongue when kissing someone on the cheek.

“Brilliant! Now do me a favor. Shut up and wait in my office or else I'll kill you. I've got an important meeting with a major client. Shouldn't take longer than 20 minutes, and after that, Luigi, we'll bang one out to celebrate.”

His eyes flicker with panic as the elevator chimes on our floor. He shoves me onto his leather couch, hysterically hushes me, and shuts off the light as he leaves the room.

I gather my breath and blink deliberately. I will need some time to gather my composure for the next phase of Operation Fu/Jam. A moment later, I overhear Flenderson's exuberant greeting.

“Hey, Shaq-Man! How the hell are ya?!”

Shaq's relaxed baritone is much harder to translate.

“I'm good, Mr. Flenderson. This is Rodney, my associate. Please don't touch us.”

“Won't happen again, big guy! Now, follow me to the conference room. We'll get this whole thing finalized and inked.”

“All right.”

Heavy footsteps down the hallway. A door opens then shuts.

I exhale with abounding tension, get on my knees, and sign the cross. I pray to a higher power.

“Dear Batman, please bless me with the respect you displayed for Alfred, the guidance you offered Robin, and the ass-kicking prowess you showed every time you fought the Joker. Bat signal Off.”

With newfound courage, I rise to my feet. I wriggle the handle of the glass-plated door and grin wolfishly.

“Looks like someone forgot to lock the door. Heh, heh.”

In the conference room, Shaq and Rodney lounge on plush swivel chairs. A distance of roughly 15 feet away, Flenderson rests his duff on a polished desk made of redwood. The desk is flanked by a waste basket. Figures and pie-charts are drawn on a chalkboard behind Flenderson. He thumbs over his shoulder to emphasize a selling-point.

“That graph marks last year's tally of the best-selling fighting games, gentlemen--”

Flenderson stops as his ears perk and detect a calamity of glass shattering in tandem with the manliest grunt this side of the Mississippi.

“Whoa! Did you hear that?”

“No,” Shaq replies.

“Really? 'Cause I could've sworn I heard the sound of glass br--”

Rodney bolts out of his seat.

“Hey!” he barks, his fists balled. “Your biggest client just said—in not so many words—that he didn't hear shit! Now don't argue with Shaq. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Flenderson answers, meek and belittled. He clears his throat rigorously, loosens his tie.

“As I was saying,” he continues. “With the right touches of marketing and a little bit of good fortune, I promise you this: Shaq Fu is going to outsell Mortal Kombat.”

I burst through a glass-plated door again. Transparent shards rain on the carpet as I hit the floor. Flenderson gestates wildly. Shaq and Rodney stand in unison and in a heartbeat Rodney assumes the role of Hakeem Olajuwon by boxing out Shaq. The conference room resounds with shocked profanities. I groan miserably for a second before jumping to my feet. I yank a shard from my forehead. Blood geysers out at first and then seeps steadily. I point to Flenderson.

“This man is full of bull-crap, Shaq. He's a creepy shyster. Don't believe a word he says.”

Flenderson fumes in indignation.

“Neither door was locked! Jesus. What's wrong with you?”

“Shaq Fu is going to be a commercial and critical disaster. I'm telling you: It's not worth the money, Diesel.”

“Dammit. All you male prostitutes dressed like Nintendo characters are the same. Can't even wait 'til after noon to get high.”

“I'm not a male prostitute,” I declare. “You fool! You've been duped by a struggling writer from the future.”

“A struggling writer from the--” Flenderson chokes on his own acidic spit. He reaches for the phone. “I don't buy it, kid. Let's ask George for his take on the matter.”

Rodney pounds his chest once. Twice. He looks poised to trounce me.

“Na. I got this.”

“Hold on!” Shaq bellows. A moment later he's snickering, but with a trace of compassion. An odd hint of levity overcomes the hostility in the room.

“Come on,” he gestures to me. “Now, just to review: Pale Spud Webb over here just launched himself through two panes of glass, yapping about video games and how he's from the future. He's hurt. He's bleeding. You really think he needs a beat-down? That's whack. He needs a psychiatrist.”

I nod in slow repetitions. It strikes me that—regardless of its outcome—this mission won't be a lost cause.

“Mr. O'Neal, on behalf of those afflicted with mental illness everywhere...” I begin, my voice quavering. But it soon occurs to me that expressions of sentiment are wasteful at present time. “Forget it. Thanks for buying me some time.

“Listen, Shaq: You're just embarking on the start of a career that will span until 2011. You don't think I'm from the future? Well, get a load of this: You're gonna win four championships, but none with the Magic. As a free agent, you will sign with the Lakers for oodles of cash. You're gonna think your All-star shooting-guard is an asshole and he'll think the same about you, but you'll still win trophies; Phil Jackson will make sure of that. Later on you'll dunk all over Dirk and the Mavs to earn a fourth ring alongside of D-Wade.”

“Four rings?” he says with intrigue. He snickers. “Damn. Does my free-throw shooting get any better?”

“Shit, no,” I tell him. “Anyway, all this is to say that you're a legend in the making, and mark my words, Shaq Fu is far beneath the standard of excellence that you stand for. NBA Jam is a different story, though. It is NBA Jam—not this God-awful mess that will be even worse than Clayfighter—that will do justice to your Hall of Fame legacy.”

“Hmm,” Shaq considers, deep in thought. “NBA Jam. You know I'm in the arcade version of that game, right?

My reply is petulant.

“Yeah, Shaq. I get that, but I don't own an arcade machine, and I don't know anyone who does, either. Jeez. Not everyone's a millionaire or a winner on the showcase showdown.”

“What the hell is he babbling about?” Flenderson snorts.

Shaq swivels his head to address Flenderson.

“The Price Is Right, fool.” He turns back to me. “That was a solid pop-culture reference.”

“Thanks, Big Diesel.”

“No problem, Big Imagination.”

We bump fists.

Something occurs to me.

“Wait, you've played NBA Jam on the arcade, haven't you? Come on, man, you know that game is--”

“Insanely bad-ass,” Shaq finishes my sentence.

“Well, then what's the holdup?” I plead. “You know it's gotta be one or the other. Why can't you just say no to Shaq Fu?”

“For the same reason I'm gonna sign with the Lakers in a few years. The dollar signs. Plus I'm an individual. I conquer uncharted territory. I make bold decisions. Tack on the fact that I can play the arcade version of Jam. At home. 'Cause I'm a millionaire. There's your answer.”

My rhetoric is derailed. I'm on the brink of surrender until I catch sight of Flenderson's smug and triumphant smirk.

“This guy's a total weasel, OK? And weasels swindle people. Do you really want to sign that contract without having your lawyer read it first?”

“I already did, son,” Rodney chimes in.

Flenderson and I exchange looks of surprise.

“Wait. You're a lawyer?” we ask, united by bafflement.

“My lawyer-slash-bodyguard—yes,” Shaq says. “Rodney, tell these poor skeptics the definition of habeas corpus.”

“'A writ issued to bring a person before a judge or court in order to release that motherfucker from unlawful detention or restraint,'” Rodney replies, rife with righteous swagger. “Ya racist bitches.”

He points to the contract atop the desk and barks at Flenderson.

“Your secretary faxed me that shit yesterday. Get a handle on your business, ah-ite? On behalf of my client, pending his signature, we approve.”

Shaq grins wanly, but there is a hint of sadness in his eyes as he stares at me.

“Satisfied? Can we call an ambulance for you now?”

I bury my glass-slit face in my glass-slit hands for a moment. I reach into my pocket and grab hold of my last resort.

“It's a shame it had to come to this,” I say gravely.

I start to unbutton the shoulder straps of my green overalls.

“Are you undressing?” Flenderson wonders. “What's the deal? I thought you said you weren't a male prostitute.”

I reveal dinky fireworks strapped to my sweater. They're “Black Cats,” known to sparkle and cause very mild explosions. I spark the wick with my lighter and deliver my ultimatum.

“Decision time, Shaq! Tear up that stinking contract and I'll snuff out the wick. Otherwise, we all die.”

The bluff works on Rodney, at least. He gasps, screeches, and then charges past me with a shove that nearly knocks me over.

“Get the fuck outta my way, Unabomber!” he yells. “Security! Help!”

As Rodney rushes to the stairwell, Flenderson snaps out of his terrified stupor and ducks behind his desk.

“Sweet Jesus!”

Shaq merely sucks his teeth and shakes his head with equal parts mirth and disappointment.

“Unbelievable.”

He reaches across the desktop and tears off a few inches of Scotch tape from the roll. He walks up to me. With poise that almost seems eerie, he stoops over to unfasten the string of fireworks stuck to my torso. I don't try to stop him. He doesn't burn his hand as he rolls the Black Cats into a shape that approximates a sphere. He lets out a quick yawn as he applies the tape.

From a distance of roughly 15 feet, Shaq takes aim at the waste basket.

“Three, two, one...”

With that, Shaq heaves the lit-sphere aloft. It arches poorly and plops down three feet away from his target. The wad of Black Cats thumps on the desk—atop the vile contract for Shaq Fu.

The (oddly long) wick vanishes and an instant later the fireworks flare, pop, and shriek in a pyrotechnic frenzy that is somewhat impressive and entirely noble. The contract is set ablaze. It crumbles with advancing blackness and disintegrates into smoldering ash. Our ears ring with the sound of a flat-lined pulse on a cardiograph. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Flenderson pokes his head up from underneath his desk and wafts away a cloud of smoke. He gapes at me and utters obscenities that I can't even hear.

Shaq bends his knees and bellows with tremulous joy into my ear.

“My God! You're right about NBA Jam. How could I ignore the signs?”

Shaq fishes for something in his back pocket. It's a newspaper clipping of some sort. Flenderson wipes his tears and stomps over to us, fuming and flabergasted.

“No, no, he's not right about anything!” he hollers. “He's a lunatic and he's going to jail. Listen, we'll reschedule the signing for tomorrow, print out another copy--”

“Pipe down, Weasel!” Shaq reprimands. He turns to me and reads with boisterous glee. “My horoscope for today: 'An unexpected encounter with a stranger from a different part of the space-time continuum may change your life for the better.'”

I laugh like the lunatic Flenderson thinks I am.

“That's my horoscope, too. We have the same birthday, Shaq!”

We bump fists again.

“Horoscopes?!” Flenderson snarls. "Do you really believe that nonsense?”

“Uhhh...” Shaq begins, mockingly. “Do you really think now is a good time to dis horoscopes?”

“I know, right? Those things are...totally legit,” I say to Shaq. “Who talks trash about horoscopes? What a lowlife.”

“Lowlife,” Shaq echoes, nodding his head. “Such a pithy and biting derogatory term for a bad person. I like it, but don't overuse it.”

“I won't,” I lie.

Down the hall, we can faintly hear a stern voice exclaim warnings.

“Security! Drop your weapons!”

It must be George. Flenderson curses us feebly as he escapes the conference room.

“So, how 'bout it,” Shaq says. “You got an escape plan, McFly?”

I snap my fingers and point to him, my thumb raised like a trigger.

“Back to the Future. Nice. Well, uh, the trouble is, in 2011, time travel is possible, of course, but the whole thing is in its infancy. Ideally, I should have leaped back once you made the decision to appear in NBA Jam...

“Oh, and can you do me a favor and box out the security guard before he gets in here and pummels the shit out of me?”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

With the bulk of his backside clogging the oblong opening in the door, Shaq plants his feet, spreads his wingspan, and acts as a blockade. George, Flenderson, and Rodney surge and grunt from the other side, trying in vain to make Shaq budge.

“Thanks. Like I was saying, they must still be working some kinks out of the time machine. The scientists, I mean.”

“Pffft. Scientists,” he scoffs.

“Oh, they're so lame and overrated!”

“Couldn't agree more,” Shaq says. “Also, I think someone's zapping me with a tazer gun.”

“And why do they wear those stupid, white lab-coats?” I go on.

Electrons gradually begin to swirl and flash about my body. My skin flickers like a strobe-light gaining speed as it rotates.

“Hey! Here we go. Finally.”

Another zap sounds and Shaq lets out a concise but agonized cry.

“Yup. Definitely a tazer gun. Vision blurring...knees wobbling...can't keep this up for much longer...”

“By the way, Shaq,” I say, oblivious to his pain, “Years from now, if you spot someone who looks a lot like me accidentally spying through your kitchen window...go easy on him, will ya?”

Shaq scowls at me, on the brink of collapse, but his ire is soon chased off by a magnanimous smirk.

“Oh, Big Imagination. I can't stay mad at you.”

“Ditto, Big Diesel,” I say. “Ditto.”

His legs give out and he slumps to one knee. Three men storm past him with intent to pulverize me.

No matter. I dodge the first punch when I Quantum Leap.

###

4.) Back at the laboratory, I emerge from the time machine and shove past gawking and applauding scientists. I give the finger to photographers and snub the president. I speed on the drive home and pay no mind to Stop signs. I lock the doors, crank up some Beastie Boys, and two minutes later, my 16-bit Shaq posterizes 16-bit Karl Malone. The glass shatters with the force of the dunk. I pause the game and touch the wounds on my face. They were definitely worth the trouble, I realize, and for awhile I feel the same way about everything else, too.