Con came down last night, and stood for a minute in the TV room, drinking a glass of milk. He said he was taking a small break from gaming.
Note that he’s what I’d call a “quiet gamer”. He’s easy going and sweet, and not the type of kid you’d know games a lot. He doesn’t play online or anything, just enjoys grinding games when he has the time. And he plays a lot of games, just he’s not somebody who talks a lot about it.
So as he’s standing there, chilling and watching what I’m watching, I look up at him.
Me: Fun game?
Con: It was.
Me: (seeing a change in his demeanor): What do you mean it was?
Con: Well, the townsfolk in this game just killed a character I liked - a little girl. She was funny and she kind of grew on me. I know them killing her was obviously part of the game and all, but yeah… now I need to go upstairs and kill an entire town. (He shrugged.)
Me (laughing out loud at the matter-of-fact way he said it): Really?
Con: Oh yeah. Every one of them is going to die. Every. One. Of. Them.
Me: Really? Is it a game where your choices determine the ending? Will that hurt you.
Son: Yes. And probably. But I don’t care. You don’t hurt kids. You hurt kids you die.
So my mild-mannered son rinsed his glass in the sink, put it in the dishwasher, and headed back upstairs to deliver video game justice upon a town full of unsuspecting fools that don’t even know what hell is coming their way. It’s like the Russians, in John Wick, when Vigo’s idiot son kills John’s dog. It’s like the poor, doomed souls of Tully when Roland, the last Gunslinger, comes to their town in his relentless pursuit of the Man in Black. It’s like the gangsters in a hallway, staring at a hammer-wielding Oh-Dae Su in Oldboy. They’ve no idea the vengeance they’ve called down upon themselves. The painful, bloody retribution.
I write all this to say that I’m proud of my boy’s bloodthirstiness. Certain things are off limits, and children and animals always fall within that boundary. He very apparently gets this. And so, to paraphrase H. L. Mencken: sometimes you’ve got to spit on your hands, raise the black flag, and start slitting throats.
Hell is coming, and it’s always brought by the quiet ones.
