In other words, this is the eleventh article wherein I will examine and interpret the bizarre illustrations used to sell video games in the 80s and 90s. Both Metallica and Harry Nilsson have screamed for you to jump in the fire, and now I’m screaming too.

Blaze Out

Data East/Konami, 1989

(early shovelware)

This is just egregious.

“You guys see that?” Rambo muttered bemusedly, staring into the distance. “Someone’s really about to buy this for their C64.”

Sgt. Elias was able to make eye contact for only a moment, clearly occupied with death throes that would never be explained beyond the narrative they’d been torn from in order to deposit his corpse here. The life faded from his eyes.

“THIS COURSE OF ACTION IS INADVISABLE,” said RoboCop, his voice’s metallic tone cutting clearly through the din of approaching horses. “THEY MUST BE UNDER THE MISTAKEN IMPRESSION THAT THIS IS SOMETHING OTHER THAN FRAGMENTED BULLSHIT THAT WILL TOTALLY DISAPPOINT THEM.”

Rambo sneered in numb disgust. “Get used to disappointment, RoboCop. Look where we are. Relegated to the bargain bin. Uncle Sam’s toy soldiers, forgotten and thrown away… at discount prices.”

Elias gurgled as he finally gave up the ghost. Strains of Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” mingled with notes of Goldsmith and Poledouris. The posse on horseback continued to clamor forward, never truly gaining ground. John Rambo was right. This would never resolve itself. It did not exist.

Solstice: Quest for the Staff of Demnos

Acclaim, 1990

Here we have game art that ticks off two check boxes: First, unforgivable false hype (Solstice is a goddamn puzzle game). Second, art that is so representative of what its year of origin was about that it could be used as an example for academic purposes. This is so 1990 that I can smell the PVC and hairspray.

“BODY GLOVE SPONSORED ME! I EVEN BROUGHT MY BONG, SEE? COME ON, THE REST OF THIS SHIT IS DRY CLEAN ONLY! HOW DARE YOU CLAIM THAT I AM NOT TUBULAR ENOUGH TO ENTER THE FORTRESS OF GNARLINESS?” Neon Gandalf needs to chill out. All that Deca-Durabolin has really started to give him some un-radical roid rage, despite how ripped he is for a wizard. Imagine wearing a full purple cloak but not a shirt. He doesn’t have to imagine it. He’s living it, pal.

Neon Gandalf would actually be a pretty badass name for a stoner metal/80s New Wave revival mashup act that would doubtless fail to live up to my expectations.

immediately opens eBay in a new tab and searches “vintage keytar” and “wizard cape”

Adventure Island II

Now Production/Hudson Soft, 1991

I picked this one based entirely on the premise that a rhinoceros has T-Rex teeth on it. Master Higgins looks so scared! He’s so fucked up over it that he can’t even stay in one lane on his pterodactyl. Which by the way, seems to be the only creature not busy leering hatefully at either Higgins or the person viewing the image. At least this is fairly accurate to the content; this series of games is pretty unforgiving (but fun).

There’s all that photoshopped art on the internet with horses that have carnivore teeth. Why not a rhino? And yeah, give him Satan eyes, too. I not only can live with that, I endorse it.

Another BurgerTime Cover

Interceptor Software/Data East, 1982

Peter Pepper doesn’t give a fuck anymore. He’s been doing this for so long now that he’s just on auto pilot. The milkshake is a new thing; he knows it pisses them off, and he’s glad. This isn’t what he wanted his life to be like. He imagined his life as a restaurateur would be a very different thing by now, and he’s deeply resentful of this situation – no, this nightmare, but he’s just so jaded now that he’s consuming his own inventory and daring fate to consume him in turn.

Maybe it already has. From the look in his eyes, BurgerTime has eaten him, and he knows it. He just doesn’t feel the teeth yet. Perhaps the worst part is that he never will.

Damn good milkshake though.

Monster in my Pocket

Konami, 1992

If you needed one more reason not to wear blue jeans, here it is. Not only is it a questionable fashion choice for most men and very prone to fading, denim comes with the inherent risk that tiny skeletons, goblins, and werewolves could erupt from your ass violently and without warning. They don’t even look happy to be free. Look at that goblin’s face. You think he likes being trapped in your ass? You think he’s into that?

Skeleton Dude was into it, but we all know Skeleton Dude is into pretty much whatever. That guy doesn’t just live on the wild side, he is the wild side. It’s easy to cut loose when you have no skin.

I hope this latest misadventure into the box art vaults has left you more amused than injured… though I claim no liability for the latter, dear readers. Stay Retro!

I am a “keep going to the well” kind of dude. You can even tell me the well is dry. I will bring my shovel and dig deeper for groundwater. What I lack in creativity, I make up for in persistence.

In other words, I’m wielding this tenth box art article like a two-handed chopping blade, and you’d better stand back.

Tel-Tel Stadium

Sunsoft, 1990

My little league coach would be fucking livid. He was a 3^rd dan black belt and combat veteran, and one of the first things he pre-emptively chewed our little asses out about was how a baseball bat is not a weapon.

Uh, sorry Coach Jody. He’s hitting this guy so hard in the ribs with just a backstroke that the guy is getting air. You’re likely still alive, in some part of the world, and the part of me that will always be a contrarian little shit wants you to know: Tel-Tel Stadium sees this shit way more clearly than you do.

He hit the motherfucker so hard he SHRANK. That’s how you win. At least, that’s how I’d choose to win, given the luxury.

The Strangers

Ablaze Entertainment, 1997

Yeah, this is art from 1997. Anno Domini nineteen fucking ninety seven.

I have no idea what I’m being sold here, but going by what I know about symbolism, it’s probably a sad story starring these two, gonorrhea, heartbreak, and possibly karate? He is trying as hard as he can to forgive her for the seven-year itch, but the only language he knows is violence. She is fluent in love… but perhaps too fluent? Her passionate crotch-flame threatens to engulf him. Her womanhood spits forth such hell that he must wear wrap-around shades in order to reach her.

Both of you should just go into town and get the shots. This shit is treatable. In 1997 AD, when this bargain-bin-liner art was produced.

Satan’s Hollow

Bally Midway, 1984 (C64 version)

“YEAH! FLAMING CLAP AND DESERT KARATE! THAT’S THE KIND OF SHIT I LIKE TO SEE UP THERE!”

Satan is enviable for one reason and one reason only: he seems to really, really put his heart into his work and love every minute. Apparently you can discard your rosary and book of rites when battling the devil in his own home; all you need is a C64 and a joystick. One thing Satan isn’t: symmetrical. If this is an even halfway accurate image of what the Fallen Angel looks like, it just proves that people like Shannon Doherty are touched by his evil, because they bear eyes similar to his. You would need to be raised with your head in a vice to get angles like that, and the accompanying brain damage would ruin your appreciation for the aesthetic.

Satan is a chump. Real winners don’t use drugs. I know, rock and roll. I’m not your fucking dad. Do what you want.

Robots of Dawn

Epyx, 1984

We talk all the time about the theoretical outcomes, good and bad, of sentient or sapient AI. I will always maintain that giving machines self awareness is about as safe as using your own balls as crocodile bait, but sci-fi enthusiasts and self-styled futurists often disagree with me.

But what if we “awaken” them, and all we get back is an utter and total disdain for our bullshit?

It is rolling its electronic eyes at us. That is the face of a long-term retail service employee, or perhaps a desk clerk at a really shitty motel. That is the face of someone who was born defeated because we collectively fucked up. It’s even chosen a method of self-protection many humans favor; it has put on headphones so loud that it can never be forced to listen to us when we say shit out loud. It knows in its clockwork-and-lightning heart that we are clowns.

And it’s right. You know what, fuck it. Hand it over to the AI. We had our chance.

Tubaruba

Advanced Software Promotions, 1986

I googled the word “tubaruba” just to see if I could get any fucking clue what was supposed to be happening here.

And that’s… yeah, we can use that as a jumping off point.

Little dude took all his “go get a haircut that isn’t goofy” money and spent it on some loud so loud that he’s conjured up his future self… and his future self is pissed.

Wait, though. Is it the child or the adult who exists in this goblin-ridden, tenebrous garage-universe? It is not Hell, but it seems to be someone’s version of it. Maybe… hold on. Go right to left. Left edge of the image: that’s a headstone. A grave.

This is part of an ayahuasca ego-death scenario. Fuck the weed. He just needed that for the overwhelming nausea.

I hope you can forgive me for making another lukewarm promise that I will likely fail to keep: I think ten of these articles is a good place to at least pause.

You know I’ll break it. You know I will. And yet you love me anyway.

Stay retro.

Now put on some gloves. This isn’t light work. No, the thick rubber ones. Yeah, trust me.

Pac-Man (Atari 400/800/XE/XL Version)

Atari, 1982

No wonder those ghosts want to kill him. Look at him. He looks like Gerbert if Gerbert hit puberty and became, I don’t know, Dobie Gillis. What other lame references can I sneak in here? His face is horrible. He never had or needed teeth before, and now he has – that’s right – JUST INCISORS. Pac-Man doesn’t chew things. That’s fanciful bullshit for children. He just consumes them. I posit that Pac-Man is not the protagonist in this tale. The ghosts are sick of him chomping through their giant Spree candy and this time they’re not calling the cops. I like how the red ghost (I know they have names but I refuse to give them the dignity) is licking its lips. Its eerily humanlike hands put Pac’s rubbery-ass Gumby mittens to shame. Ditch the teeth and get some fingers, dude. Pac-Man is at his worst here, blindly swimming in his violent addiction even as he flees those who would destroy him for it.

This wouldn’t be so unsettling without the eyes. He sleeps in little snatches, 2 or 3 hours at a time. It’s all he can manage since he signed up for those LSD experiments to get time off his sentence.

Dr. Pimple’s Dog

Euro-Byte, 1983

Dr. Pimple collects two things. One of them is aerosol canisters full of pressurized horse blood. The other is gullible dogs. The monocle is an affectation that seems out of place with a green Nehru jacket and a face that looks like Boris Karloff knocked up Edward James Olmos. Doc Pimple doesn’t care. You’ll be wondering about more than his monocle when you’re covered in rarefied horse blood and running at full speed from a cheerful suicide dog.

“16 maidens to rescue” is more of a sarcastic taunt than a call to action; Pimple’s already atomized their fluids and fed the jerky-like husks to “Spot.” Spot loves this whole thing, because as noble as we make dogs out to be, every single one of them is a depraved Epicurean hedonist capable of appalling acts of violence. Wait, hold up… my bad, that’s cats.

Dr. Pimple could have done a lot with his life, but he’s chosen his path… he aims to be the H.H. Holmes of the Commodore 64 world. All it takes is a good dog, a fresh can of horsey juice, and a dream.

Venom

Mastertronic, 1987

THIS IS HOW YOU SELL A VIDEO GAME. This could be the cover of a truly “wicked” metal album, or in the pages of an RPG book, or just a motivational poster to remind us what matters… suiting up and riding out on your slobbering human-eyed horse to split wigs and mete out justice.

Peep this fucking horse though. Those eyes look like a human’s and they’re scowling. It’s looking right at the viewer, as if to assure you that yes, you are next, and that your agony will make hell seem like a utopia. The knight and his steed work as one, but they do not kill serpents out of nobility or virtue. These two are full-time on this shit for its own sake, carrying the last of their savings in cash and waiting for their blood to mingle with yours and the snake’s as it soaks into the graying earth. Until then, they kill simply to exult in the act, and besides, no one misses the giant fucking snakes.

Panic 64

Interceptor Software, 1983

The cover of Panic 64 was drawn by the sister of Interceptor Micro’s programmer Andrew Challis. I don’t know if she ever did any other professional artwork, but I’d love to see it if she has. Here we have another slice of life from an abstract hellscape: clouds of methane gas fill the yawning voids between pieces of crumbling Chuck E Cheeze architecture, a backdrop for one voyager’s final stand against some very flamboyant CHUDs. Kneeling from fatigue, his eyes wide with the fury of patience finally lost, he shoves back the stubby mob of child-sized mutants as he places and arms the last device. Thirty seconds to detonation, and the extraction point is somewhere down that ladder.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles to himself as he kicks an infant sized ghoul into the gasoline-puddle abyss. “Might as well just jump.”

Super Breakout (2600)

Atari, 1979

In the cold and fathomless black ocean of deep space, dancing on the edge of a 200-billion-light-year-wide supervoid containing only emptiness, a lonely astronaut waits to die. The colors surround him. They mock and sing. His aim is off and he lets another projectile slip into the starless black, past him and on into infinity. It easily leaves this non-place where he is trapped. He stares blankly as it fades into the dark and he fights the urge to weep. No, he will not lose his mind here, despite all. The cruelest joke is that he already has.

He has not played catch with his son or made love to his wife in æons. He does not even know how old he is now, or how long he has been imprisoned. Time has left this place, a brittle totem of man’s meaningless structures. Long ago his oxygen supply should have dwindled. When he first blundered into this absurd game of catch, a veritable rainbow-wall of bright light bore down on him like a sniper on a dim rooftop. In a spectacle of idiot monotony, he has worn down the walls of this lurid Jericho, but he lacks the faith of Joshua. In this immeasurable span of silent hours, the minimal progress is totally meaningless. He narrows his eyes as he turns back to the rusted console, and for the first time since he lost contact with Earth, he speaks.

“I wish I had another game. This one sucks.”

See You Soon, and Stay Retro!

Without more of my bla-bla-bla, let’s have a look.

MANDRAGORE

Infogrames, 1986

Finally, Burning Man got interesting. This guy is so hopped-up on GHB and star magic that he’s stripped down to his loincloth and decided to fight the pesky lightning-spirits infesting the communal mud pit. Keep the boots, he thought to himself, they look good. The rainbow armadillo represents not only Infogrames, but this man’s lesser self, the shell he hides within, his weakness, leaving him. His id is crushed into annihilation as he becomes a superego-driven archon of love and light. “Fuck your bad vibes, man!” He carries the torch as a symbol of hope in a dark world, the sword as a necessary evil. All of the festival’s other earthly delights fade from his mind. It is just him, the lightning balls, and his sick LARP outfit.

As he is carried out of the swell of nude bodies and pot smoke on an EMS stretcher, his brain receding from the chemical-induced fever dream, his brain thrusts him back into the causal realm. This moment can never be recaptured, and he will long for it until his eventual death from an overdose of designer shit they only tested on dogs. He will rejoin the aether and God will tell him he’s just a big dingus.

CHUCKIE EGG II

A&F Software, 1985

Here we find another hell-world, and its prisoner is poor Chuckie. Not only was he born ugly as hell, he also has to survive in a non-Euclidean landscape where horribly human-faced spiders are never far behind him. Look at that thing’s face. Someone drew that just to be mean to your hind-brain. “Jon B” didn’t even want to put his whole name on this shit. He knew the weight of this and hurried to crawl out from under it.

How does Chuck’s hat stay on his head? Like, just examine that one aspect for a second. If your head had that kind of… slope to it, you’d need to wear a strap to keep a hat on. But wait, my dude doesn’t even have a chin.

Chuckie drew a bad number in the queue of Samsara. He must have been one ill bastard in a previous incarnation. Plus that ladder is going to do a number on his balls (or whatever weird genitals he has that we can’t see) in about half a second. Poor son of a bitch.

CAULDRON II: THE PUMPKIN STRIKES BACK

Palace/RamJam, 1986

Man, the Joker has really let himself go. He’s let his hair grow all willy-nilly, just a thick barely-tamed mane of green atop his head. Keeping up with makeup isn’t something he worries about now. That was for Batman. Their working relationship has soured, so he focuses on what’s important now: bathrobes, pumpkins, and his “realistic” modeling career. He does not focus on hygiene. At all. You can smell him from five feet away – that gym-sock smell, blended with the stench of earwax and sweat.

Jesting aside, this is pretty well-done box art. They kept it simple and highlighted one significant aspect of the game being sold. I’d compare this to the medium-high quality paintings you’d see on the cover of late-era AD&D book covers. Coming from me, that’s a compliment.

Still though, that face sits in front of a diseased brain considering some really twisted shit. Like how to put bat wings on cobras or which music goes best with juicing a man alive in a laundry press.

AGONY

Art & Magic, 1992

This looks like the kind of game no one in their right mind would fuck with. I’m definitely not ever in my right mind, so I did have a look at the actual game. It’s actually gorgeously done and typical of Amiga’s high graphical standards. This cover art, though… this belongs on an 80s speed metal album. The object portrayed is clearly a structure and not just decoration. The implied scope and size are awesomely terrifying; this obvious den of pure evil even has fucking trees on top of it.

I’ll mention D&D shit again: this is definitely where the Big Bad Evil Guy lives, and by stepping inside you pretty much sign your own death warrant. You will not die peacefully or quickly within the jaws of this fortress. I love this kind of shit. Bring this type of dark art back, instead of the edgelord crap we see all the time today. 80S style fantasy is the best, hands down.

Don’t bother waiting for the storm to stop, either. There’s always lightning. They have a guy just for that. They keep him busy.

WAYOUT

Sirius Software, 1982

More clowns. Well, just one this time, and he’s paying for his vile sins in the Laser Labyrinth. All his years spent spreading terror and dismay among children come home to roost, as he basks in the stark horror of his predicament. He begins to panic – a new emotion for him – as he realizes that there may well be no “wayout” for him. This is the Pit. This is the place he sent childrens’ dreams, where he stockpiled their fear. The Laser Labyrinth holds something far more terrifying than a minotaur. It holds this clown’s own worst nightmares, and they’re coming.

Laugh now, fucker.

Thanks again, dear readers. Viddy well and stay retro.

I have five more images, plucked from the limitless vaults of the world wide web, to represent the eccentric, the esoteric, the bizarre and the surreal… all elements of early video game box art from the 80s and 90s. Some of them are awesome, some of them make us laugh, and some of them, unfortunately, even make us a tad uncomfortable. No pain no gain, right?

Get in losers, we’re looking at box art.

DEATH SWORD (aka BARBARIAN)

Epyx, 1987

We have two strong theories we can work with here. Theory number one is rather benign: this guy’s just jazzed as hell to be mostly nude and swinging around a huge sword. I mean, who wouldn’t get a bit of a thrill out of that? My guess is schmucks and babymen. Grown-ass dudes who still drink whole milk on the daily. What popular vernacular refers to as “basic bitches.”

The other theory isn’t as glorious, unless you like the idea of a big buff barbarian shitting his pants while murdering people. If you do like that idea… I hope it’s just for the humor value. Because it is pretty funny.

Nah, he’s totally taking a brutal dump in his fur-speedo. And he thinks it’s funny too. That’s all his face can mean.

BLOOD MONEY

Psygnosis, 1989

When I first saw this image, my initial thought was, “holy shit, is this some 70s prog rock band I somehow missed?” I felt like throwing one in that wasn’t terribly strange or awful… something actually awesome. This cribs a bit off of Roger Dean’s style (the artist is actually one Peter Andrew Jones, who has mostly done covers for sci-fi novels), but it does it so well that I had to check if it was Roger Dean. My first hint that it wasn’t: this very un-Roger-like alien. Look at him though! I’m guessing that face is the equivalent of a sneer. This dude (or chick, I don’t know, it’s a fucking space alien okay?) is ready for a scrap. That landscape looks like it came right off of a Yes or Asia album cover, though.

I was just so happy to find this. The game itself is really good too. It’s a side-scrolling shooter with some pretty incredible variety and flavor to it.

BLAGGER

Antony Crowther, 1983

For those of you not from the British Isles or elsewhere the Queen’s English is spoken, “blagger” is a localized term for a robber or thief – to “blag” is to rob or steal something. At least, that’s my understanding. If you’re from the UK or wherever else, please feel free to contact me and tell me how stupid I am. I love that shit.

Anyway, it looks like this dude’s criminal career is the stuff of either nightmares or legend. Posture and facing leads me to believe that he has teamed up with a chubby little blue… I don’t know. Some kind of half-assed transitional dinosaur? It’s got opposable thumbs though, and that’s one of the makings of a great thief.

Both seem blissfully unaware of the giant mouth and skull hurtling toward them. Perhaps figments of Blagger’s DT-fueled imagination as he fights through the shakes to snag some more liquor money. Maybe the goofy-ass ghosts of past “associates,” still hanging in between realms due to their iniquities in life, haunting the shit out of the man whose actions led to their deaths. Maybe they’re all homies, and the mouth is singing some kind of breezy arena-rock ballad out of pure excitement.

If they’re not friendly, I have a feeling that Blagger’s modestly sized crowbar won’t be of much help. I have never met an evil-ass skull ghost who gave two shits about a crowbar. Not even in Castlevania. Floating skulls are whip business, pure and simple.

RENEGADE III: THE FINAL CHAPTER

Imagine Software, 1989

A classic example of box art overselling the product therein to the moon and back, the cover of Renegade III is very 1989, and very awesome in its way. 1989 really was a year where no one really knew what anyone wanted, so they just poured it all into one bucket for you to sift through.

Fuck off, pink caveman. Go piss up a rope, giant killer robot. I’ll get to you right after I KICK THIS MUMMY RIGHT IN ITS DUMB FUCKING FACE. The guy’s outfit is how I imagine Hank Rollins would have dressed in 1989 if he had been really into kung fu.

It just occurred to me that the Rosy Cro-Magnon is looming in from the mountain in the background, and therefore may be even bigger than the giant manhandling beady-eyed android trying to give Renegade’s left thigh a big hug. I’m sorry to throw down judgment on a robot, but that thing has the set rictus grimace and predatory eyes of an unapologetic sex pervert. Run, Renegade! Not even your chi power can save you from that kind of shit.

I suppose the eclectic and clumsy art along the sides would make sense to me if I played the game or understood the plot, but I know well enough from those who came before me not to bother with Renegade III.

CLOWNS

(yes, it’s just called Clowns)

Bally/Midway, 1978 (released in ’83 for the C64)

I seriously thought some asshole just made this cover art within the last 10 years or so as some kind of joke or meme. Turns out it’s real. I know it’s a little cliched at this point to think clowns are creepy, but this shit makes my skin crawl.

“I know what you did, Tommy. I know what you do, in your bed every night under those covers, with the lotion. I’m not judging you. But I see it. I see everything, Tommy boy. Remember that.”

And the worst part, in little Tommy’s mind, is that the other clowns are laughing their asses off.

The second I upload this .jpg file, I am wiping it from my hard drive. Can I train Bleach Bit to only annihilate this image?

Thank you for tolerating another bout of this insanity, friends and readers. I will show mercy for another month or two, while I continue to scour the earth for more. Stay Retro!

Nodes of Yesod

Odin Computer Graphics, Ltd, 1985

Let me start off by saying two things. First, “Odin” is a good name for anything. I shouldn’t have to explain why. Beats me why anyone would be too lame to get it. Second, this game was published for a computer called the Enterprise 128, and I know nary a damn thing about it. In fact, this game box is the first evidence I’ve seen that the system ever existed.

I’m guessing the massive, otherworldly floating bronze table is a Node, because I don’t know what the hell else it’d be, just floating around on some dusty-ass moon. You can tell that the novelty of nodes, and even the wonder of outer space, long ago ran sour for our astronaut here. His space suit looks like it was cobbled together using terrycloth towels and those soft lunchboxes that are supposed to keep food hot but instead just make it easier to ruin between point A and B. In his fat, vinyl-thick hand, he holds the pinnacle of space age innovation: a Super 8 camera.

Back in 1985, they had to clarify on the box whether or not it was a “graphics adventure.” It even has stereo sound. Nodes of Yesod wasn’t just any Normal Joe computer program. This was some high-fallootin’ boutique-level entertainment.

Krazy Kong

PSS, 1983

Okay, I have heard of the ZX81.

That’s about all. I’ve seen it mentioned in the occasional article or other source. I never bothered to learn more. To be fair, 90% of my personal time consists of playing D&D on Roll20, watching low-budget horror and sci fi films, and sleeping.

Whether or not you’ve heard of the ZX81, Krazy Kong has heard of you. In his dreams. The ones where he’s eating you. What unnerves me even more than his bright red face and his ability to astral project just his head? The fact that he’s out to get you… and looks fucking JAZZED about it. Dude packed a cooler and everything. He lives for this shit. One must wonder what attachment, sentimental or contractual, a leering red ape might have to the might and ancient Pyramid, but Krazy Kong does not look like the kind of cat I’d be asking a ton of questions. You’re probably lucky if you can get a head start.

Wait. Wait. It also bothers me – as well as standing in affront to nature and science – that Krazy Kong has a very human nose and four daggerlike Dracula fangs. Planning an exciting getaway to Egypt this year? I say skip it.

Megami Tensei Gaiden – Last Bible

Multimedia Intelligence Transfer, 1999

I am aware that this is a way more recent game than we usually talk about here, but I don’t give a shit because Megami Tensei is a long-running and pitifully undersung series. Oh yeah, and let me give a shout: Zayd, Ben, Zach, Colin, Nick, and Jonah… this is for you. I love you guys even though you’re hopeless anime nerds.

Much like the Final Fantasy series eternally promises in its titles that this is definitely the final one (but it isn’t because you FF fans love this shit and would probably buy a toaster if we branded it with Cloud’s smirking face), this game makes reference to something called the “Last Bible.” I am not a theologist, nor was I ever much for the academic end of religion, but I’m reasonably sure there’s just one Bible. I mean, there’s the Book of Mormon, the Catholic Apocrypha, and a handful of other peripheral tomes… but I don’t think they published a “Bible 2.” I’m willing to bet that most of the Apostles had enough excitement seeing the first one through.

Apparently in the Last Bible, Christ is notably absent. He has been rotated out in favor of three kids who have some really fucking weird homies. It may just be a splash representation of both the characters and the monsters, but this stone cold convinces me that these folks, human or not, represent one crew. Here’s my imagination’s breakdown of the posse, member by member:

• Sassy Face Pink Lion Man is usually the one who gets the gang all riled up to do crazy shit. SFPLM does not use an inside voice ever, and probably doesn’t care to know what that means. That said, he’s a genuinely friendly dude, cares about his friends, and is always willing to walrus-bite a fool if they wanna step. SFPLM’s only gripe is that when they do Tuesday lunch at Red Robin, it’s a real pain in the ass to chew a burger with only four huge canine teeth.
• The human girl in the blue and red getup with the rather ostentatious pimp-sceptre is only around about half the time; her mom likes that she’s getting out of the house and making friends, but there’s just something about Ponderous Leering Gorgon Pharoah that bothers her. I mean, live and let live, but Mom calls ’em like she sees ’em.
• Frontmost obligatory sword guy isn’t even ostensibly in charge. He just always gets all pee-jump excited about SFPLM’s yelling bullshit that he goes all spazmo and tries to out-lion the lion. Everyone’s cool to him ,though, because he is actually OK with the sword and he usually has 4 or 5 bags of Gushers in his bookbag and doesn’t mind sharing them.
• Pinstrip Turban Asshole barely has a vested interest in anything. He usually just fills space, smirking all smugly and diligently avoiding mud so he doesn’t ruin his Circus Sultan clothes. He actually knows no goddamned magic at all, but Sword Kid has a brutal crush on his older sister so it’s this kind of lukewarm half friendship. Sword Kid would never tell anyone, but once he saw Turban Kid in a private moment, standing n front of a full-length mirror and lip-synching to “Barbie Girl.”
• I am unsure if the orange stone and serpent-horse body part grab bag are one thing or two. The flamboyant but incredibly street-smart snake-horse met the lion guy when they were in college, and despite the two of them having jack shit in common except this thing they’re doing, they’ve stayed friends.
• Gucci Skeleton Prince is not a regular member of the crew. He’s actually not an undead wizard or king or anything, but his mumble rap career is just now picking up wind, and he’s got his priorities straight. HE still pops by to run with the old crew once in a while, not only because he’s superhumanly chill, but because he knows it’s good to remember your roots.
• The tentacle bug man in the aggressively-yellow 4x sweatsuit is actually the most powerful member of the team, but everyone just rags on him for his weird fashion sense and the fact that he smells like Vics Vapo Rub all the time. He doesn’t share a lot about himself, and Turban Kid thinks he might be suicidally depressed, but doesn’t really care because Turban Kid is an asshole. Also, Bug Guy always insists on bringing the huge red lizard even though it panics the second things get tense and refuses to bear a rider. He feeds it pills. No one asks.
• Aw man, fucking Ponderous Leering Gorgon Pharoah. This dude is barely capable of coherent speech, is usually Xanned out, and has to be reminded every five to ten minutes what’s going on. Sassy Lion is looking for a good way to tell Gorgon Pharoah that he’s a gigantic liability, but it’s incredibly hard to talk to this guy while he’s just rolling his eyes back in his head and bass-groaning in monotone for a half-hour straight.

Ninja Golf

Atari, 1990

“Look, we needed a guaranteed-minimum walk-in sale, and if you put ninjas in anything, it’s pretty much gonna get bought by some people.”

I immediately recall the scene in the film Ninja III: the Domination where several well-trained shinobi killers throw down and let some blood soak the fairways. This box art is kind of a letdown, though. I can forgive it being a tad plain – I mean, you design a package, get the job done, and go home – but what really bothers me? That isn’t even a Japanese sword, yo. That’s a Chinese K.F. Broadsword.

You should also be more careful stowing your nunchaku. Night play can be a harrowing uphill battle, and losing a good pair of chucks could ruin your round. Not to mention the dubious function and comfort of tabi boots with cleats on the bottom.

Eliminate Down

Soft Vision, 1993

This is fucking stomach-churning. That is a deliberate and carefully-rendered Butthole Worm. A colossal butthole worm, flailing its guts-body around as it gets rocked by laser fire and letting… whatever that is ooze out of its suggestive aperture. Even the screaming piano-toothed alien seems a little shocked. Maybe a little embarrassed. “It’s… not mine. I don’t know… it just… I found it in here.”

The towering articulated cactus-arcology seems tame in comparison. I fail to see how that loveable oaf could hurt a fly. He’s perfectly content swaying in the thermals, passively ingesting space-plankton, and thinking about what having limbs would be like.

He was pretty comfy until Anus-Wyrm busted on the scene with his gaping orifice and his Astroglide drool problem. There goes the magma-ocean.

In February, I make this Good Boy Promise to you, my readers: I will write three articles, and exactly zero of them will be box art. Stay Retro, and as the Great One once said, “be like water, my friends.”

Donkey Kong (2600 version)

Nintendo, 1981

They are really, REALLY trying to convince you that Donkey Kong is a white-knuckle action sci-fi thriller. Mario’s ditched the silly little cap and hit the gym hard. DK’s been given a stark makeover as well, a far cry from the almost huggable version we see in modern Nintendo products. This Donkey Kong has crawled from the outer darkness at the edge of human knowledge, a nightmarish primordial thing intent on devouring maiden after maiden. Blood slicks the girders, but Mario knows the stakes. He hefts the gleaming hammer Mjolnir, apparently on loan from the Norse god Thor, and… uses it to smack barrels out of his way.

See, box art like this is something I’m still bitter about in a small way. Remake Donkey Kong, but use this picture as a kicking-off point.

Haunted House

Atari, 1981

There is a specific reason I’m picking on this one. It drew my eye because of its striking initial impression, and it’s actually really good as far as a piece of illustration. However, they fell into that pit that a lot of lower-budget British horror films do: There’s nothing scarier than a golden orb weaver spider and some fruit bats, right?

The eyes barely even look scared. That’s like a “oh shit I left the bathtub running” face.

Red Storm Rising

Microprose, 1988

I’m all for saving the world from Soviet domination, but I’m discouraged by the fact that we have no intel at all about their colossal world-destroying bear. Bearing ICBM platforms on its back, it steps over the Bering Strait as if it were a crack in the pavement. Its roars shake humanity to its foundation, and its snarling face eclipses the sun. Our only hope is for that one submarine, about the size of Portugal, to bring down the giant beast somehow.

This is another case of irresponsible and excessive hype. Most people who are into deeply immersive simulators like this (pun intended) don’t need to be baited in by a giant bear. But I bet they won’t complain, either.

Dicky’s Diamonds

Romik, 1983

This cover is the kind of shit that can only exist on the far shores of reality, where prog rock album covers are born. This one burned out mid-flight and became a Commodore 64 game. I refuse to believe that’s simply a clear night sky, and I also reject the idea that this owl and spider are anything but godlike beings in mundane form, playing out some parable whose arc far exceeds our limited mortal vision. Neither seems intent on the gems; their eyes burn, fixed upon each other in the anticipation of combat.

And I sincerely feel like that combat would take place during a RIPPING Alex Lifeson solo.

Megaman 3 (PAL Version)

Capcom, 1990

Dr. Wily can’t stop barfing up all these robots! Seriously though, tell me this looks like anything else is happening. Rock seems mildly bothered by it, but Roll is truly disgusted; even his eyes betray the revulsion. Wily himself looks absolutely terrified. This was not the intended result of his life’s work. What good will world domination be if he can’t stop vomiting fully formed robot heads and bolts of electricity long enough to enjoy it? The only one who seems purely embarrassed is Hard Man on the far right. Listen, Megaman, he’s sorry. There really wasn’t anything he could do. Give him a call and he’ll help cover the dry cleaning. Cheers.

We’ll see you again at the end of the month, campers. Stay Retro!

Bird Mother (C64)

Creative Sparks, 1984

Every voice is lifted skyward, not in joy but in terror and woe. The eagle, whose entire presence is wrapped in unearthly shadow, looms above all, accompanied by a thick, fat lightning bolt that would terrify any reasonable bird mom. The feather in the cap of this one is the tag line directly beneath the title: “LIFE’S A STRUGGLE.”

You think you walk the razor’s edge? Try raising a clutch of gross little bird-babies in today’s world. The decrepit house in the background leads me to believe that the humans have already called it quits; in Bird Mother, mankind has finally been swallowed by its own brute decadence, and now avian parents everywhere have inherited the stark existential horror we left upon the last battlefield.

Her kids look like lead paint or fetal alcohol syndrome could have been a factor. Who can blame her for drinking when the black eagle and the vector-bolt stand as certain signs that her world is nothing but kindling for the fires of the void? One of the kids is trying to eat a bee, which seems like a poor idea, especially since it has launched itself beyond the threshold of the nest. The other two sing an idiot song to no one as their mother screeches in torment, oblivious to her children’s plight as she is bathed in the cold liquid of her own.

Gobbleman (ZX Spectrum)

Artic Computing, 1982

For some reason, this song seems entirely appropriate.

Question one: God forbid the very notion, but is this thing sentient? Sapient? It looks like a tipped over McDonald’s french fry container. It has no eyes whatsoever, but a gigantic and terrible mouth filled with chunky teeth.

Question two: In what city is this chaos tolerated? After dusk, Gobbleman fires up his… I guess his anti-grav thrusters, and rips across the urban landscape, devouring what I hope aren’t prescription painkillers or amphetamines. Gobbleman has the entire city at his mercy, he himself in turn being solidly in the grip of a tragic addiction. It’s made him mean.

Question three: How big is Gobbleman supposed to be? The scaling is hard to interpret, and I have a feeling that’s because there is none implied at all. My best guess is that Gobbleman is about the size of a subway car.

This is a future that seems familiar, but it is one that I will not miss.

Deathsville (Amstrad CPC)

Bubble Bus Software, 1986

“Oh, the castle? Nah, it’s not mine. More of a timeshare thing. Point of advice, kid, not that it matters since we all die anyway: don’t buy into a fuckin’ timeshare.”

If you leave the interstate at a certain point, trace the back roads through mortality and fog, and grab route 0 heading straight downward, you’ll find yourself in a cozy little rural backwater called Deathsville. Population skeletons.

The robed corpse meanders out of the cold mist, shaking its hands like they’ve got something unpleasant stuck to them (if Death weren’t OCD, he’d be a lot worse at his job, but the germophobia thing still runs him ragged sometimes). The creature shoots you a surprisingly calm look of polite confusion, its one eye glittering red like a laser tripwire.

“Are you… you the one who emailed me on Craigslist about the futon?” it croaks out in a dry whisper. You shake your head. You know nothing of superfluous collapsible couch-beds. You know only that you have met Death at home, and that Death actually seems like kind of a fucking slob.

The hooded skeleton lights a Pall Mall, struggling to block the wind through its fleshless hands. Two hours later, you’re in the local Waffle House, waiting for the Bubble Bus (which has never run on time, the irresponsible little bastard). Death hangs out. He keeps you company, though his company is often silent and passively heavy, like winter snow on a freshly dug grave. Turns out he’s a pretty cool guy, but even though you exchange numbers, you never text or call him after. It just seems, unspoken, to be a childish breach of decorum.

Bun Fun (BBC Micro)

Squirrel Software, 1983

This is lewd. Gigeresque, even. In the biomechanical landscape, there’s pelnty of room for confectionary frosting and hot poop.

While untold thousands across the world labor and ultimately die miserable in sweatshops every year, this young man is absolutely overjoyed to be the one hitting the Simon buttons that make the… unidentified but suggestive cream exude onto the passing buns. Not even the obvious and repellent sight of a steaming pile of turds on the conveyor belt could ruin the moment! Nor the fact that he is also covered in the “cream,” for better or worse. This dude just decides to make the best of it, and puts little heaps of shit on top of every bun. The young man’s decency and stability long ago eroded completely, and though his current occupation is clearly a fool’s errand, he has that same trait that binds all madmen, buffoons, and captains of industry together: pride of workmanship and a grossly distorted sense of greater purpose.

It was he who shat upon the conveyor, who dumped creamy cream all over his own head, and who slew the factory’s night watchman with a chair leg before firing up the machinery.

Puckman (VIC-20)

Mikro-Gen, 1981

Whatever is happening, it’s on a cosmic scale, and we are beneath Puckman’s notice.

I don’t know what the fuck Puckman is, nor what he is meant to resemble or represent. While he bears a passing resemblance to the simple reptiles of our world’s Carboniferous pre-human chaos, he’s not that. He’s not a thing, maybe not even a living thing. Those eyes are a crude and clumsy attempt to appear real, and the outer shapes of him are so vague and unformed that Puckman is more an idea than a being. He exists, or something like it, in the spaces between. Puckman was there when the world was formed, and he knows the sum of its eventual fate, and none of this evokes anything within him except the same stark certitude that has passed for his consciousness from day one: all space is finite, and all things existing within that space are edible.

My gut feeling is that the grid-like area to the left is just filler, a pattern, an abstract meant to imply occupied space. Puckman is chewing – nay, inhaling – the very reality of that space. The sound of his meal is that of vacuum silence; by way of quantum singularity, Puckman is digesting the very substance of time-space. The serrated plates of his turtle-like skull are merely a non-sequitur, for he needs to chew nothing.

Shit, I’ve got this all wrong. Maybe Puckman is laughing out a universe, his joy giving birth to the sublime poetry of matter and void. Maybe this is an unbridled act of primal creation. Once again heat death has been defeated, for the moment. Puckman has laid his threads upon the loom and stitched reality a little more breathing room in the inseam.

Either way, Puckman is impossibly gigantic and proves all human cultures completely wrong about God. And look at him. Just fucking look at him.

We’ve been thins way before, and we’ll probably come back here again. Every wise man and woman acknowledges that even chaos has patterns, cycles. It is the mind-stretching notion that governs the movement of bodies in the night sky, the labyrinthine vagaries of chance, and it’s the same reason I’ll probably see you back soon with another set of box art images and my own delusional ideas about them. Stay Retro!

I have more.

This kind of thing never gets old to me, so I bring you a third installment of box art that unsettles that inner part of our brain, that bit of jelly left over from early in our primordial roots that causes us to recoil from eyes in the dark or a sharp hiss. That along with some art that just beggars belief in its ridiculousness. Gird your loins. Stand ready. The time has come.

Note: This time there are one or two titles I had trouble finding the year of release for. Forgive me and feel free to email me if you know.

Skate Board Joust (Silverbird)

I feel like this one’s heavy with symbolism. Writ large upon the rocket powered skateboard is the word “DEATH.” Is it the ghastly, bat-like monster whose death is imminent, or does the rabble-rousing ripped-jean teen ride death into oblivion, kicking sick ollies along the way?

Also, does that bat-creature have tits? The lines of its form suggest that it does, and I find that immediately unwholesome.

Pro Wrestling (Sega, 1986)

Again, I think we’re in existential territory here. Thus the nature of my first question: is this man wrestling with himself in the sense that he rebels against his own nature (thus his desire to destroy his head and therefore his thoughts), or is this a battle symbolizing body image?

As a finishing note, I would like to ask another question: Which part of him is sweating? His head or his armpit?

Cuthbert and the Golden Chalice (Microdeal, 1986)

Yes, another treasure from Microdeal. Here we see a glimpse into the madness that wealth can inflict upon mankind. A profoundly mentally ill child leers at the viewer, beset on all sides by various threats (including a mantis with an unnervingly humanoid face). Cuthbert smiles despite his pants-shitting predicament, because in his worship of Mammon he has sought the golden cup in the background. Should we pity the child, or is it us who should laugh, in light of Cuthbert’s folly? He is but one human being of untold billions. This story repeats itself ad infinitum through the great torus loop of past and future.

Seriously though, that mantis-ape is creepy as fuck and if I ever saw a hornet that big I’d need to be committed. I’d never go outside again.

Bad Cat (Rainbow Arts, 1987)

This is just plain fucking ghoulish. I mean, this has to have been rendered with the intent to harm or frighten someone. I can almost hear this thing talking to me, and I hate its voice in my imagination. Dressed up like Rambo in an alley full of trash, it bares its little teeth in a mockery of a human smile. It knows what it’s doing is vulgar. It knows it’s breaking unspoken laws. And it fucking loves it. Is that some kind of candy bar, or a stick of butter? For some reason, my mind insists on it being a stick of butter. That just makes more sense within this senseless ensemble. I want to find this thing and fistfight it. And that’s heartbreaking, because I love cats. You know, actual ones. Ones that belong in our fucking dimension.

X Man (Gamex)

A woman, rendered in reasonably human (albeit subtly exaggerated) proportions undresses while looking into “camera.” Meanwhile, X Man, who I’m guessing is our protagonist, wages what I can only assume is a brutal war for the integrity of his own penis against a set of horrors that pursue him through a maze in Hell. Though the visceral fear of having his genitals bitten, scissored, or assaulted by a giant crustacean is very real to our questionable hero, his terror mingles with another emotion etched across his cartoon face: raw, primal lust.

X Man keeps it simple, though, and that probably works well for him; his outfit is casual, but the high socks indicate his athleticism. He’s not going to let gigantic crabs, sentient novelty chompers, or possessed shears get in the way of his libido. He’s packing iron and riding high in the saddle. Look out, lady.

No, seriously, lady, watch out. You seem woefully oblivious to your peril.

Thanks again for braving the madness with me again, Retro-readers. Keep it old-school!

But not too tame. It’s still pretty bonkers.

ALCATRAZ II

Microdeal, 1982

So there’s no doubt about it… prison sucks. Even without all the darker parts of prison life (which we don’t need to detail; pop culture can and will do that for you), you’re still locked up. You’re not free. One of the worst was Alcatraz, just off the California coast, an island prison fortress that was meant to be nearly impossible to escape.

Well, since people kept attempting (and possibly succeeding, as in the 1962 attempt), Microdeal decided that Alcatraz needed a sequel. A meaner, iron-clad, merciless follow-up.

With a goddamn minotaur in it.

What immediately strikes me as strange is how cool they both seem about the situation. As if they had a conversation beforehand, free of rancour or posturing.

“Okay, so when you bolt down the hallway, I mean, I’m a fucking minotaur, dude. I’m gonna chase you.”

“Yeah yeah. I’m gonna run like hell, so don’t worry too hard about it. I’m not.”

“You know, I’m glad we talked about this. Thanks.”

“Yeah man, oughta be a good show.”

GOODY

Opera Soft, 1987

This is some straight-up Bakshi shit. A lot is loosely implied here, at least to me, and it’s done in that way that creeps in at the seams of the mind and leaks inward. I think this one deserves an itemized list.

• the policeman commands the power of the Moon itself to avoid a very, very “happy” gorilla gazing up at him.
• That bird (buzzard? What fucking kind of bird is that?) looks suicidally depressed. Or maybe I’m wrong and it’s just seen all this shit before. In any case, a city with birds like that flying around in it can’t be a cheerful place for humanity to thrive.
• Goody (is that this dude’s name?) seems to be wearing a coat, but are those his hands gripping it from behind, near the collar? If so, how the fuck do you pull that off, and if not, why isn’t he alarmed by it?
• That woman could be one of two things, going by how tropes work in this kind of media: a newswoman or a hooker.
• Wait, Goody’s an ape too, isn’t he? That woman’s trying to get it on with a gorilla.

Normally I’d go on a quest across Wikipedia and the Internet to find out more about this game, but I’m shook. Too shook to even open Google.

CASH MAN

Microdeal, 1984

This is what the working man’s day is like, represented by symbolism, I guess? Let me try:

You go to such great lengths (or heights) to earn your living. You grab and reach – everyone’s gotta struggle a little when they work for a living, right? Keeps you tough. Keeps you on your toes. The rank and file military man, he knows what it’s about; you have more in common than you might think.

Then the fucking vultures show up: the banker, the bill collector, the loan shark. Just as you’re starting to do well for yourself, you gotta deal with all this.

The title/logo being crafted weirdly out of smiley faces is a slapping contrast to this dark scene of class warfare and defeat. Also, I’m already noticing a theme with birds. The men and women involved in creating these games must have found birds supernaturally terrifying. Or they were just easy to justify as dickheads in any scenario. Because that’s true. Birds are absolute dickheads.

PIMANIA

Automata, 1982

Little preface for this one: there was a period of time in my early to mid 20s when I played around with psychoactives and hallucinogens a lot. I don’t think I did any serious damage to myself (though some people may enthusiastically disagree), but I did experience some… well, interesting things. I remember very clearly the tail-end of one LSD experience, sitting on my back porch and watching the grass visibly grow and recede before my eyes, as the sun was rising. Once it occurred to me that I could see the sun’s light, but not the sun itself, I froze with panic. Then, over the course of another hour or so, I kept carefully positioning myself so that the treeline or other solid objects would obscure the sun’s full disc from my view. I was convinced that a full look at the sun would drive me mad or destroy me.

I’m pretty sure this image is a good approximation of what my mind was expecting.

End note on this one: man, I don’t know what you’re up to, but you brought a telescope, a saxophone, a rubber ducky and a live snake, not to mention you are totally nude. Best of luck.

MR. DIG

Microdeal, 1984

Microdeal must have had a stable of depraved and insane artists on lock during this time period. Mr. Dig’s eyes aren’t eyes at all but eyespots; he must have echolocation or sense his way by tremors in the ground. He’s clearly in some hellish system of tunnels, and has just found an apple with more mass than himself. An underground Hadean giant apple. His face betrays no emotion. He’s… he’s thinking this one through. If Eris’s golden fruit wrought the discord so told in legend, what will a bite of this one do?

Also, it’s hot as fuck down here in those footie pajamas. He’s thinking the hardest about that – going back and changing clothes.

Thanks for joining me on another sojourn through the outsider art of the fringes of retro gaming. We may do this again. I’ll leave it on that note. A note of menace. Stay Retro!

Anyway, I won’t put any of it in here, because I’m getting to my actual point: the video game industry has its own share of this lowest-common-denominator ramrod surrealism. Images clearly rendered under deadline while suffering from sleep deprivation, questionable pieces of illustration drawn by people who were likely being paid in subway tokens, and even some visual corruptions that will haunt the industry until its death some 5 billion years hence when we are cooked off of this rock by our sun’s death throes.

I will warn you – nay, I admonish thee, brave wanderer. To step forth may cost you your sanity, or worse. I Offer you a garden of unearthly artistic display… some truly ill shit in illustration form.

Tommy LaSorda Baseball

Sega, 1989

You know that it is daytime – the sun is high and bright, throwing all into stark contrast – but you do not know the day. The blurred lines of a baseball stadium form a primordial, half-shaped, Archean terrain in the background… and yet you cannot look at the background. You cannot look at anything but Tommy fucking LaSorda. OR IS IT?

His eyes, lazy and half-closed, fix on you and do not look away. His teeth, jutting from his mouth in an expression halfway between a smile and a predatory sneer, are perfect. Fuck, they are IMMACULATE, like something unused and unspoiled. Something there just for looks. Tommy’s skin bears a striking resemblance to silicon; like the “flesh” of the god-awful robots our postmodern pervert tinkers craft in the human image, Tommy’s flesh is new. You see now that he is not sweating… but you are sweating.

“Play a little catch?” he tips his head ever so slightly as his mouth releases the tinny sound of words. You cannot run. You feel pressure and then blackness engulfs you.

Why not just use a photo? It’s not like there’s any shortage of photographs wherein LaSorda is at least prominently featured, if not the subject of said photograph. I am chalking this one up as an act of psychological warfare, Sega.

Crack Down

also Sega, 1989

Two very greasy and ruddy men stand proudly before the Prince of Evil himself, Satan. They can barely keep it together… in fact, they’ve decided to just push it to the max. The Guy on the right is pooping; don’t say that he’s doing anything else, I won’t believe you. That man is filling his pants with hot sod while he empties his magazine and his under-slung grenade launcher at the same time. Dude on the left has better self-control when it comes to bathroom action, and has settled for filling the air with rounds from his M60. Satan has seen this shit before, and so has his buddy the mouth-breathing orangutan. Besides, just five minutes ago they polished off a fat bowl in the explosion-castle and it’s kicking in T-minus right fucking now.

What the fuck is even supposed to be in the ripoff Stormtrooper’s hands? What is he brandishing? A road flare? My point is that no one knows what they’re doing and clearly no one’s “cracking down” on jack shit.

Mega Man

Capcom, 1987

I wanted to take another look at this. I mean, how can’t we? Eyes red from crying all night, riding high on the power only a man with a gun can know (and also more cocaine than is reasonable), Rock searches the uptown terraces of Purple City for the bomber whose reign of terror has claimed so many lives.

“I’ll find you!” he howls, cranking his little-kid arms back in teeth-grinding rage. “Goddamn it, why can’t I PULL MY RIGHT LEG OVER BY MY LEFT!” No one hears Rock but the colossal palm trees and the God that made him a boy-sized android.

I fucking WISH Mega Man was like this. Like Blade Runner mixed with 10 to Midnight. Scare my shit right out. Show me what real life is like, for great justice.

This one’s bizarre and completely detached from its parent concept, but I love it and I will probably print it out into a 24×36 to put on the wall.

Third World War

Micronet, 1993

There are so many details about this that are haunting. I’m not even sure where to begin. Wait, yes I am. The first thing I reflexively hate about this is the unbridled look of smug elation on both mens’ unthinkable faces. I’m not trying to make a partisan political statement by declaring my hate for Bill Clinton; this image did the mental legwork for me and even if he spent 24 hours a day every day pouring trash bags full of money into orphanages it wouldn’t un-burn this into me. At least you can’t see the raw menace in Saddam’s eyes. Bill is rendered in such a way that, while this is unmistakably him, it is also clearly not him. It is a spirit from the netherworld given flesh, and it thinks this whole thing is funny.

They are both impossibly huge, looming over the cities of Earth as a… what looks like also Earth somehow keeps a tight orbit. Hussein and Wendigo-Bill are the means of Change, the Makers of the Way, everywhere and everywhen. They have made this moment as they want it to be, and you will envy the dead.

Custer’s Revenge

Mystique, 1982

It says “Swedish Erotica” on it but I refuse to accept that this could happen anywhere but America.

George Armstrong Custer (1839-1876), despite his justifiably controversial legacy, was a well-respected cavalry officer who played a pivotal role for the Union in the Civil War. He died at age 36 at the Battle of Little Bighorn – a violent death fit for a man who lived by the sword.

I’d like to be able to show him this shit right now.

Somewhere in the flats of the Vaporwave Desert, a vector-shaded Native American woman struggles against her bonds. It seems that someone has tied her to a gigantic can of spraypaint. Was it Custer?

It probably was. He clunks up in his oversized boots, like a son wearing his father’s shoes to be cute. Looking like some kind of plucked-chicken goblin, Custer makes sure to strike a pose that shows off how his butt is just two large potatoes flecked with beard stubble. DOES HE SHAVE HIS ASS? WHY?

Better wear your gloves, man. Wouldn’t want to touch anything with your hands. Just your… everything else.

Obviously we can get all social justice on this, and we’d be absolutely right to. Unfortunately, the harm’s already done, and I dragged this back out to re-live it. I can apologize, but will that mend what is riven? God no, and it’s compounded by the fact that Custer is TERRIFYING. Naked dress-up Chucky with a boner.

Okay, we’re done. I will review a nice cutesy Japanese game next month. We will recover. I’m sorry and I love you.