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!

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!