1.
If I were a pro-wrastler, the Sigma Select Screen Theme would be my entrance music.
It captures the arrogance and the swagger of a conqueror. This music puts across the peculiar charisma of authoritarianism. You get a sense of why people would grovel before such a ruthless character as Sigma. You can see all the other robots cheering and howling at vast hate rallies wherein Sigma would give jokey, long-winded speeches about how he’s the Risen Robo-Christ, and how all robo-journalists are fake news, and anyone that disagrees should be disassembled.
Maybe I would even shave my head and modify my body with robot parts. My pro-wrastling name could be something like ‘Roid-Bot DX: Death Xtra.’ My backstory could have something to do with being an experimental cyborg entity who was accidentally dropped into a vat of Neo-Steroids, and when I swam back to the surface I was overcome with a desire to become a champion pro-wrastler and I would let nothing stop me from that day forward.
Pro-wrastling is all about celebrating the Stupid.
I think I could swing that.
I know about the Stupid.
2.
Now, when you get to Sigma-the final boss-he sics his robo-hound on you. That’s what an evil bastard Sigma is-he wants to fuck with your revulsion at killing an adorable canine. I mean, there are people that are super-triggered by depictions of dog-death in movies. They won’t even blink if you mow down a bunch of human civilians in a Vietnam flick, or something like that. But kill one dog? Shit, if you even kick a dog, okay, that’ll fuck their shit all the way up into the stratosphere. And, I guess, Sigma knows that, so he tries to psych you out by making you fight a robo-doggo. So you’ve gotta deal with that.
And once you’ve dealt with that, Sigma himself steps out of the shadows, throws off his cape, and comes after you with a lightsaber. In retrospect, Sigma should have also had a glass of fine wine which he could have tossed aside with aristocratic disdain. Or, since he’s a robot, he could’ve had a glass of fine motor lubricant. I would’ve been satisfied by either one. But they didn’t do that. I had to wait a few more years for Castlevania: Symphony of the Night. But by then,well, I certainly appreciated the gesture. It was very sweet. But, honestly, I’d kinda moved on.
The music is driving and frantic. It’s a proper final boss battle theme.
There’s something cool about Sigma. He lives up to the hype of his Select Screen Theme. Sigma’s lightsaber is cool. It’s always cooler when a guy comes at you with a sword, even in a modern or-as we have here-a futuristic setting. Sigma’s putting himself at an intentional disadvantage against your Buster Shot. That’s how much confidence this Robo-Mussolini-looking motherfucker has in his fighting skill. There’s something cool about that. I wish I were that cool . . .
You and Sigma bounce off the walls. You bust off your shots where you can.
If you have the patience, and you can keep bouncing off the walls, you’ve got this.
You blow up Sigma’s body. His head is all that remains.
But wait, there’s more.
The head flies up to the top of a giant robo-demon body that has a kind of robot wolf’s head. Sigma’s head is a kind of crown upon the wolf’s head of the robo-demon body, which commands both lightning and fire to try to destroy you. Behold, Sigma, Master of the Elements, your Destroyer! Why not grovel and pray to Him . . . for a swift death!
The music is different, now. It’s . . . lugubrious. We are now on a grim march, one that’s losing steam. The wily drive and power of our first round against Sigma are gone. We are smaller than our newly re-bodied enemy, but we are quicker, and we leap onto one of the flailing hands of the robo-demon wolf’s head body, and, if we have patience, we steadily blast Sigma’s faces into robo-hell.
Sigma overplayed his hand. Sigma thought brute strength would win him the day. Sigma never considered the possibility that we would use his arrogance against him.
This is Sigma’s downfall.
This is the fate of the Robo-Asshole who thought he could never lose.
Adieu, Sigma.
Perhaps, we’ll meet again in Robo-Valhalla, or something.
3.
I’m still sitting here, thinking about my future as a pro-wrastling cyborg.
Have I been infected with the authoritarian fantasy embodied by the Sigma Select Screen Theme?
Do I desire to trade my humanity to be worthy of that ominous, arrogant music?
I know Enemy when it’s outside of me. Not everybody can see the Enemy of the Exterior. It’s not easy for everyone. And so many people live in the presence of their oppressor-Father, Mother, Brother, Sister, Boss, Deity, Religious Leader, Political Figurehead, Envious Colleague, Jealous Lover, Abusive Partner-because they find confrontation too traumatic. But bridge-burning comes naturally to me. This is a kind of strength.
But strength has its peril-the hubris of Sigma-in the blindness to an Enemy Inside. Festering within my so carefully up-armored body, showing no hint of weakness or sentiment.
Truly . . . if it came down to it . . . do I have the tears to stop ambition?
No, I’ll not fall into evil.
I’ll stop obsessively exercising and training in lethal forms of mixed martial arts and eating right, and sacrifice my hunky, diamond cut battle body that the world might be spared the evil and oppression of my Supreme Merciless Strength Form unleashed.
I’ll sit so hard, so long, so deep into this cushiony chair until the distinction between Me and Chair ceases to exist-much like the rope of the swing and the tree to which it has been tied.
I’ll resist the terrible power of the Sigma Select Screen Theme with an endless stream of frozen pepperoni beefsteak cheesy crust pizzas, two-liter bottles of Generic Cherry Cola, family packs of chewy chocolate chip cookies, tub after glorious tub of French Onion Dip, and all of this drizzle-drenched in sour cream, nacho cheese, and roast chicken juice-and just the juice. I find roasted chicken to have a rather vulgar texture. But I let nothing go to waste. I have the actual chicken delivered by courier to an abandoned house adorably squatted by a gang of rambunctious stray cats down the block.
(Sidenote: Did you know that you could dip your cookies in French Onion Dip? You’d be shocked at how good this tastes. And then you add in some pancake syrup-ooo wee! That’s good eatin’.)
For the price of Human Freedom . . . is the loss of my Beauty.
This loss . . . is the only ward against Global Cyborg Wrastler Dictatorship.
And so I give up my diamond cut battle body . . . gladly.
You’re welcome, People of Earth.
You’re welcome.
-February 2021
