Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice is a game about divination.
A long time ago I was a sailor. Some bombs pretending to be airplanes flew into a couple of buildings in New York, then this happened, then that happened, then next thing you know I was in the dirt. Such is life.
Everyone in the military deployed in the middle east called the middle east the dirt. For a few reasons, one, because you were never supposed to say where you were to anyone that was not in the dirt as well, and two, because there is a lot of dirt. Military people are not that creative.
Anyway, in between bombing the shit out of where we were, the powers that be would give us time to go and party in the general area of where we were bombing. I felt like that might be a safety risk, but what do I know?
My chief and gunny had hard and fast rules about how we should behave ourselves on these excursions. Don't drink, don't fight, don't disrespect the uniform or the people. Have any United States military personnel followed these rules? The world may never know.
I know I didn't. I was a whole monster at the time. Full of anger, at what? Myself, but that realization was years away. My shipmates were all the same as me, the only difference was that some were white, some were Hispanic, some from the Marines, some from the Air Force, some from Chicago, some from Canada. A UN of fuckin' idiots.
We would get bussed to these bars in the middle of these towns. Wouldn't take long before semen would snatch a waitress up, or some boat argument bout laundry day or sports team would grow into a full-scale brawl.
One time I got into it with a local bartender. A stocky middle-aged middle-eastern man with a long beard. Funny how you can perfectly remember the face of a person you met for under a minute sometimes.
I felt like he was taking too long with my drink so I snatched the bottle of Hennesey he was pouring someone else and hucked it at the bar mirror while yelling racial epithets. Yeah, I was that kind of monster. Know what my shipmates did about it? They cheered.
Security charges toward me and is met by my shipmates as I roll over the barback to assault the bartender, who is pleading with me to calm down. Like, praying at me. I was blackout drunk, so of course, I took that as an insult. Know what I did to that good man? I poured liquor on him. Know what my shipmates did? The same.
Took half the bouncers in the network of bars on the street to break things up. Contractor police were five minutes out and military police were eight, I knew that because some military police were already there. I decided to dip out the side exit, speed walk a few blocks up, and find a cab. I jump into a cab, to the driver's surprise, and just say "base."
The man said, "Ok, Joe."
During the ride back, somewhere between wild diatribes about things I knew nothing about, open critiques of what everyone not called me was doing wrong, and freestyle raps about jellyfish surgeons (I was going through the "Dr. Octagon" era of my rap career), I passed out. It was the only gift I ever gave that taxi driver.
I wake up to base police drawing on the taxi driver. Him outside the car, hands up. Broadway hot lights. Dogs nipping at his sandals. Large men yelling orders. That kind of thing. My first thought after wiping the drool from my chin? "Oh, we're here."
See, locals were not allowed to go anywhere near the base, but with me blacked out in the backseat, I left him the choice of ditching me in the desert, calling the local authorities, which would have sent him to jail or taking me to base where the reception he received was destined. Haze grey.
I get out of the cab and greet the MP's. The only perk about having the job I had in the military, managing guns and explosives, is that you end up getting to know everyone that handles guns and explosives. Which is pretty much everyone in the military.
MP says get in the box, which means go into the MP area and sit in the drunk tank, which isn't as bad as it sounds. They have water and tv in there, and everyone that was out that night is usually there. It's basically the afterparty. I'm like, "cool."
I turn to the taxi man and ask him how much I owe. I would have apologized for almost getting him killed, but that's un-American. He says, "Nothing my friend, just be well. You are a talented poet, you should pursue the craft." I had no idea what he was talking bout at the time. I was blacked out, legit didn't remember rapping at him for twenty minutes straight. Thought he was just saying some magical negro shit. Turns out it wasn't even a cab.
I jumped in some random dudes car, and he drove me to safety, for free. Out of all the things that could have happened, that's what happened.
Anyway, long story short. Nothing happened to me for any of my global crimes that night. Life just went on. The only lasting effect is the tectonic guilt I feel when lingering on thoughts of all the people I hurt for no good reason. But it's un-American to dwell on such things, so I carry on.
Watching the recent news has made me understand the wheel never stops turning. Now it's some other twenty-year-old kids turn to go somewhere to discover the worst version of themself. And there seems to be nothing anyone can do about it.
Mercy be upon to the citizens of player one and player two.
Oh, also Hellblade is an amazing game. I can't believe I held this in pocket for so long. Wow, great job Ninja Theory. Well, ok, those line up the sticks puzzles were doo doo, but who pitches a perfect game? Rip TC Rip TB Rip Tall-T. Love is wise, hatred is persistent but ultimately foolish. Get out there and do great things, we believe in you. Also Jobz.
The Protoculture Mixtape: Issue: People: Facere
