Introduction
We here at 2 Generations Gaming have floundered mostly as a page that only caters to our friends and family. Once upon a time, I wrote the second most visited Pittsburgh Steelers web page on the internet. However, I struggle to understand this new online world and how to generate clicks. I found a tiny bit of success on YouTube, but haven’t been able to even capitalize on that very much. But, for this year’s Mario in March, we secured an exclusive interview that will hopefully jump start our popularity. We bring to you an interview with the first Goomba.
How did we get such an exclusive interview? Well, as a small friends and family page, we don’t have a ton of connections. So, one day while checking out some of my favorite gaming pages, I saw him scheduled for an appearance at one of the local comic book conventions. I went, saw him sitting all along at his table, and approached. Two armed goons cut off my approach. “Where do you think you’re going?” Goon 1 snarled. “Yeah, pal, where do you think you’re going?” Goon 2 repeated. I looked between the two of them to the figure at the table.
What I saw chilled me to the bone. In those eyes, I saw evil. An evil only whispered about around campfires. The kind of evil that kills without regard. Over and over. Then, the evil in those eyes locked its gaze with my own. I felt myself being drawn into that evil. Tried to fight it as it wormed into the dark recesses of my brain. I shuddered in fear and broke my gaze. Before I could look away, he smiled. A mirthless tooth filled grin that told me he knew that I knew what I saw and it spooked me. He saw the fear in my face and he enjoyed it.
The Pursuit
That first encounter ended there. The goons refused to let me through. A handler, perhaps a doctor, ushered him away and I thought I lost my chance. I came back home and told the story to my family. My wife, glad I survived the meeting, begged me not to pursue it any further. My kids, fans for their entire lives, secretly hoped that I’d find a way to meet him again. Perhaps even bring them along. I know that could never happen. Need to separate that part of the job from the personal life. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to them.
So, I secretly reached out to the handler, who I found out is a doctor of sorts. It took three weeks of searching. Three weeks with no online fingerprint. I had to reverse engineer the search through previous appearances and other near misses by journalists like me. When I finally found him and reached out to him by phone, he explained the situation. He specializes in hypnotherapy to rehabilitate serial killers. This one proved to be his most difficult case. Before allowing me to sit down with his patient, he needed me to know. The Goomba doesn’t kill because he likes it. He kills because he needs it.
I agreed to all of their stipulations. No recording devices. No photographs. Not any questions about specifics. His memory isn’t so good due to the repeated blunt force trauma to the head. Probing questions only serve to anger him. He will shut down and the interview, all interviews, will be over. We will sit across from each other at a table bolted to the floor. A sheet of plexiglass separates us. Two orderlies will be in the room at all times with a sniper on call just in case things go–wrong. I signed all of their wavers. What follows is my interview with the first Goomba.
The Interview (Background)
Three days later, I kissed my wife and kids goodbye, hugging them tightly and maybe a little too long. They had to know something was up. I tried not to look them in the eyes. I’d betray the confidence somehow and I couldn’t let that happen. I was so close. The directions led me to what looked like an abandoned hospital on the outskirts of town. I went through the front doors, through the metal detectors, two searches, three sets of locked doors and down a hallway to a windowless room. He sat at the table, smiling that unsettling smile through the plexiglass. “Come.” he said simply. “Sit.” HIs voice, soft and measured. The situation left me no chance.. I complied and showed my empty hands. “I need my notebook and pen.” According to the script they provided. A voice came over the intercom, accompanied by static. “Allowed.” I placed the notebook and pen on the table and sighed.
2 Generations Gaming: Thank you for meeting with me. *a barely perciptible nod is his only response* First, what should I call you?
*his eyes glaze over as he ponders the question* Many just call me “The First”.
2GG: *jotting that down in my notebook* Okay, what’s your earliest memory?
The First: *chuckles sardonically* This is going to be that kind of interview? Had I known that, I’d have never agreed. Tread carefully.
2GG: I apologize. I’m merely trying to paint the picture for those who may not be aware of your–exploits.
TF: Are there any? I suppose I’ve never considered it. When you reach this level of fame–of noteriety–perhaps it warps your sense of self in some ways. How can anyone not be familiar with “The First Goomba”? Very well. What was the question?
What is your earliest memory?
Ah, yes, my earliest memory. A flash of light. The briefest feeling of being alive and then the urge. *pauses* The urge to walk. Overwhelming, controlling, as if fulfilling an ancient desity. So, I walked. Then, just as suddenly, I stopped. That feeling of life extinguished, but the light, the light remained.
The light…remained?
That time, yes. That time the light remained. During subsequent times the light flickered. Sometimes it went off. An hour, a day, years, decades. No way to know. One time the light returned. The urge returned. But, something changed. I saw him. Also walking. Towards me. Vaguely foreboding. I knew he meant me harm.
You mean Mario.
*he nods. smiles. chuckles as he says the name.* Mario Mario. So simple. So stupid. Just like the man himself.
What do you mean?
The mustache. The overalls. The entire ascetic. Do you know that’s not even his real name? His real name? Jumpman. *he laughs hysterically. the sound has no mirth and echoes in the room as a remnant of his disdain.* Jumpman *he whispers softly* Yes, all of it. Just so ridiculous. Is there any wonder why I do what I do?
So, you do know. You know why you’re here.
Of course I do. They may think I’m insane and maybe I am. But, I’m not stupid. Not like him. I know what I’ve done. And, if they let me out of here, I will do it again. It’s what I’m programmed to do.
The Interview (The Killings)
This surprised me. The matter of fact was that he approached the subject. How he doubled down without being provoked. His assertion that he’s programmed to kill. I tried to dig deeper. Needed to know more.
2 Generations Gaming: How many times would you estimate?
The First: Another clumsy question by a fool. But, I understand. The people who read this. They want to know. They want a number. A number gives them a frame of reference. But, I truly don’t think you’re ready.
2GG: Try me.
TF: Very well. Millions? Billions? Trillions? Whatever number I give you will only be an estimate. Know only that number will only grow.
I tried to process the number. Past a certain point, numbers cease having meaning. He saw me struggling and the smile returned.
The Interview (Closing Statement)
2GG: How does that feel? That the number only grows?
TF: How does it feel? *he tilts his head, contemplating the question* How does it feel to breathe? To blink? To know the sun will rise? You don’t ask the rain how it feels to fall.
But you’re not the rain. You’re–
What? A creature? A monster? Whatever name you call me won’t change what happens when the next one comes walking.
The next–player.
Victim? You wanted to say victim. The next victim. Or is it the next killer? It all depends on your perspective.
That’s convenient for you.
Convenient? Yes, I suppose. Also true. What else is true? They’re inevitable. They walk. Some jump. Some make it. Many don’t. *the smile returns* They’re just a statistic. Just a number. Moments in a seemingly endless existence.
Cold.
Again, a value judgement. It’s honest. Would you like me to pretend otherwise? Assuage your and your audience with my penance. Finish it all with a redemption arc that ends with me teary eyed and admitting that I regret them all. I’m willing to turn over a new leaf.
It would make for a good story.
Alas, stories rarely have a happy ending. And, I promise you, this one isn’t ending at all.
The intercom crackles. “Time!” Is the only word spoken.
The orderlies move to collect The First. He gives me one last parting statement.
The First: The next time you find yourself in that place, remember this conversation. Remember what I said and, maybe more importantly, what I didn’t say. It just may save your life. *I stand and turn to leave*. Oh, and tell your wife and kids I said hi.
I turned to ask him how he knew, but he was gone. I saw only my face, eyes wide, mouth agape in shock and horror. As I left the room and made my way back to my car, that final statement echoed in my mind. I knew this wasn’t over. Maybe he was right and it never would be.