Even though we’re all unique, one thing that remains constant among us is our need to express ourselves. Part of being a human is finding something you’re passionate about and using it as a surfboard to ride the wave of life and further define yourself. Think of anything anyone could ever be passionate about, so basically, think of almost anything: art, stamp collections, music, reading, writing, exercise, food, movies, video games, video games or video games. People need to do stuff that makes them feel right, whether that’s writing a novel or cleaning the streets of Arkham City with my fists and the assortment of high tech gadgets at my disposal.
Artists, think of the state of mind that you’re in when you’re applying that first vibrant brushstroke of paint to the naked canvas. Alcoholics, when you’re five beers in and reaching for another to kill off that Hoegaarden sixer on a Tuesday night, don’t you feel perfect inside? Hikers and musicians need to summit mountains and compose masterpieces, look back at their accomplishments and know that they were true to themselves. Afternoons, I need to hand out unregulated beat downs to incarcerated thugs and super criminals who are locked in Arkham City with me. They are my canvas, my fists are my brushes, and I paint only in red.
When I release my fury into the faces of Gotham’s goons via xbox 360 controller, all is right in the world. A jeering crowd of 12 villains approaches the Dark Knight sporting a medley of armaments, but I am calm and ready. All these fools are going down. I quickfire the Batclaw at the guy with the gun, simultaneously disarming him and bringing him in for an epic clothesline. Do you see what you guys just got yourselves into? He was my biggest threat and look how I handled him.
I begin pummeling the two to the left so as not to get myself surrounded, and two more lunge at me from behind. Not today. My double-counter leaves them sprawling over each other clumsily; they’re out of the fight for now. My combo multiplier has reached 7, and I take advantage. I rush to some criminal halfway across the room who was totally not even looking and take him out with a single technique. No time for details; his arm looks like a broken and mangled chicken wing by the time I’m done with him. There are still eight more thugs.
I vault over the broken, useless body at my feet and stun the closest with the weighted tips of my Batcape. Are you ready for your beatin’? While he’s dazed I thrash him soundly about the face and chest. He is retreating, trying to recoil, but there is no escaping my brand of dark justice. My finishing strike – an uppercut – lifts his body from the floor. If you’re lucky the impact of your head slamming into the unforgiving stone floor will grant you release from consciousness. My pulse gun is fully charged and I fire it into the mass of remaining assailants to temporarily stun all of them. One escapes the field and swings a sloppy haymaker my way, but the backfist of my counterpunch completely flattens his nose and he drops without a sound. Now for some fun. I dash into the midst of the remaining animals, still stunned, and unleash a barrage of vengeance. Each strike only strengthens my resolve, the impact of my knuckles so rudely displacing their features quickens me. You scum. The first one flies away like a broken toy and I focus on the next. Now the other three have come to their senses. Flanking me, they simultaneously attack. Surely they have me now! If I was anyone else, they’d be right. Here comes a triple-counter.
Using his inertia, I pick the closest delinquent up in a modified Fireman’s Carry and spin his feet into the faces of his cohorts. I can’t hear the teeth hitting the ground but I’ll watch my footing just in case. Now all that’s left is to mop up. The single cretin left standing is treated to both of my Batboots liquefying his jawbone. Hope you like eating soup for the next six months. I spring to one of the remaining three who is still on the floor and land square on his chest with both knees. I feel a rib crack but I blast his skull into the pavement just to be sure. He won’t be getting up anytime soon.
The others have gotten to their feet and have their hands up defensively as though that makes some sort of difference. I finish the first with an overbearing overhand left cross. Terrified, the last hoodlum charges recklessly, headfirst into the trio of razor sharp Batarangs that I launched in his direction a second ago. They carve ribbons out of his face and he falls, clutching his head in his hands. My work is done…for now. Now, down to the Batfridge for a Batbeer. I bound the stairs as gracefully as a man wearing a bathrobe can and arrive in the kitchen. In a single motion my hand pops the tab of the Batbeer with a mind of it’s own. I raise it to my mouth and a take a hearty swig; in my hastiness some Batbeer splashes on my face. I wipe it from my face with a snarl, ready to bound back upstairs and administer more beatdowns.