One of these days . . .

WOULD YOU EAT THIS FOR FULL HEALTH?  Because nothing says rejuvenation like a steaming plate of chicken found underneath a waste receptacle, not to mention, defying the laws of physics to not be flat as a pancake.

This will go on the growing list of “to-do” projects, such as finishing up my 2009 Nanowrimo story, among other things, but one of these days, I’d love to take a stab at sprite-editing, and hacking up a ROM of Final Fight.

My friend and I were discussing this one day, and it seemed like a fun and interesting idea to do.  In short, I would take my friend’s head, and put him on the body of Mayor Mike Haggar, who would suplex, spinning pile driver, and lariat all who stands in his path.  And since he’s my best friend, I would have to be Guy, since he’s Asian, and Cody is kind of a putz anyway.  Granted, I would be propagating all sorts of stereotypes being on the body of Guy, kicking, and “wa-taa”-ing my way through the game, but this is a two-man mission here.

Since we’re both raging bigot anti-Semitic racists, all bad guys would be sprites of various colors, but mostly probably black, but not ignoring those with dark skin tones, and Latino, Indian and Middle Eastern names.  Any bad guys that appeared to be white would have obvious names like Goldstein or Silverman, and I’d guess I’d try to edit their sprites to exaggerate their noses.  Oh, and defeating them would always result in bonus drops of money or jewels.

Found inside the various crates and barrels scattered throughout Metro City, which I’d probably rename “Washington D.C.” or “East Atlanta,” wouldn’t be lame items like salads, gum, or other rabbit food that grants back a little bit of health, but instead burritos, steaks, and other manly foods that revitalize ALL health, every time.  It would be kind of a moot point, because I’d certainly set the damage to the players to be minimal, since we can’t have ourselves actually lose.

But the best part in my opinion would be the re-writing of the entire plot, to some horrific, bastardized version of the original Final Fight story that would likely only amuse the two of us.

And this is the kind of drivel that I’m inspired to write while usurping off of a wi-fi hotspot at a Chic-Fil-A, on a weekday morning while I’m waiting for my car to be repaired.  But at least it’s one less reason to cause more of the alarming amount of white hairs sprouting on my head.

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