So I figured I would grace you with an introduction to who I am as a person. I’m a geek, but I’m a goddamn sexy one. I’m one of the editors on this here fine site. I also write for Negative Gamer, and do the NGCast. I’ll generally be a “rants” writer because most things piss me off. Erik has informed me that all my articles have to be somewhat geeky, and or nerdy. If you wish to reach me, you can do so by email, AIM, or on Xbox Live. My Gamertag is RavenSan. May this be the start of a wonderful, glowing relationship with my fellow writers, editors, and yes, you readers.

P.S. My avatar is Action Hank punching a pony. If you know what that is, we will get along just fine.

Why hello thar good sirs and madams. McTool here, one of your illustrious hosts of What’s New In Animu. But I am not here to discuss matters of the weeaboo variety exclusively this time around. No, this time we venture into all realms of nerd-dom. Video games, figurines, nerdy DVDs that are not anime, nerdy DVDs that are anime, goddamn BOOKS, and even nerdy music is all up for grabs. Sometimes the things being reviewed will be travesties among mankind, and I’m glad I didn’t pay more than $20 for them. Other times, I would have happily paid way more than what was advertised, but don’t go telling the stores that. So, with the premise out of the way, let’s move onto this week’s glorious item!

Item in question: Killer7 (PS2) – Brand New
Price Paid: $9.99
Place Purchased: Best Buy

This. This is complete and utter victory in box art form.

Good lord, was this an absolute steal. Arguably one of the best “art” games ever made, Killer7 blends style, blood, and the most complicated plot line ever conceived into one gigantic piece of awesome. Is it worth $9.99? Hell yeah. I’d have paid over $20 for this sucker easy. The fact that we got it for so cheap is just a bonus. I actually owe it to one my co-hosts, my good friend tonberryx, who makes it a point (and I do now as well) to check the PS2 section of Best Buy every time we go there. On this particular trip, I see tonberryx come back into the anime section and wave a copy of Killer7 in my face. I take no time in practically sprinting over to the PS2 section to check if there was another copy, and, as luck would have it, there was.

“But McTool!,” your naïve ass cries out. “How does it play? What is this thing? I don’t pay attention to games that get loads of positive press but aren’t given huge ad campaigns because they were originally on the GameCube.”

What is Killer7? Killer7, as stated above, is art. You don’t play it so much as you do experience it, and you try to wrap your head around the psychology of the whole thing. Between the suicide bomber, blood-fountain Heaven Smiles and the deranged, heads-blown-off Japanese businessmen, Killer7 is something that is really difficult to get across in words. If you were to look at it from a gameplay sense, however, you’d see a rail-FPS-RPG hybrid. Simply put, you have seven personalities to choose from (the Killer7, hur hur hur), and each of them has unique abilities and weaponry. In turn, they each have stats (power, waver, speed, etc.) that can be leveled up. It is virtually impossible to level each character up to the maximum (the game will not let you), so strategy comes into play as to which characters you are going to focus your power up points into. How do you level up your characters? Killing the enemies in Killer7 with a precisely aimed shot yields a ton of blood that can be turned into serum that you then use to level up your characters.

How do I shot suicide-bomber-deranged-transformed-screaming-terrifying-grinning-clownish-zombie?

If you haven’t picked up on this yet, Killer7 is not for people who get squeamish at the sight of blood. It’s not as bad as say… Trauma Center, but if you’ve got an issue with blood everywhere or your imagination gets the better of you and you start imagining what the characters are doing with the serum in order to level up (Pulp Fiction, anyone?), you may or may not want to sit on the sidelines for this particular game. Perchance you would enjoy a nice round of Barbie Horse Adventures, hmm?

Insofar as being the PS2 port of a GameCube game, Killer7 is pretty faithful to the original. There are times when you can tell the GameCube controller was what this was made for (the big green button is SHOOT, the other buttons are irrelevant), and the fact that you can’t change the control scheme has actually been a source of major frustration on my part. For example, in the original GameCube game, your character could perform a “quick turn” by (while running with the A button) pressing the B button simultaneously. This was easy on a GameCube controller. It is not easy when you are running with the X button and the “quick turn” is Triangle, on the other side of the damn controller. MY THUMB DOES NOT WORK THAT WAY. Running and shooting couldn’t have been O and turnaround be X? This would work way better than O being the worthless map button. But can I change the control scheme? No. No I cannot. Way to go, Capcom. Another gripe is that compared to the GameCube version, the load times are increased. And since Killer7 has particularly headache inducing load screens (FLASHING BLUE LIGHTS. EVERYWHERE.), this can be a pain in the ass.

So, long story short, was it worth the $10? Hell yeah. Would I have preferred the GameCube version? Hell yeah. Is the GameCube version usually $50? Hell yeah. Did I spend less than $20 on a port of the best game of the Capcom 5? Yes. Yes I did.

An image of the dead rising from the grave is iconic, at least to this generation, and has been since Night of the Living Dead. But at the same time it is clichéd; same thing every time. Not to say I don’t enjoy watching some shmuck be disfigured, dismembered, and disemboweled by legions of the dead, (in fact, I may enjoy that a bit too much) but every now and then a reprieve from the norm is welcomed. So naturally I had high hopes for American Zombie, a documentary about the socially shunned zombie community.
The two directors of this documentary focus their interviews around four zombies, the average joe’s of their community. The story is completely void of any violence and gore until, at a Zombie Woodstock, the crew see a woman being ceremonially devoured (about an hour into the movie).
The good bits in this movie are commendable; the storyline as well as the deliverance is unique, and the characters are so colorful and unique; not what you’d expect from a zombie. The idea of a zombie movie without mass flesh-eating orgies, hordes of the feral and bloodthirsty, and horribly disfigured corpses seems pointless, but can still be a curious breath of fresh air.
That being said, WHERE ARE ALL THE FUCKING HORDES? Where’s the violence? Where’s the rotting flesh? This movie tried to label itself as “different” and “fresh” but really it just became a steaming pile of fail. First, let’s look at the zombies themselves; coherent, intelligent, useful members of society. They’re also fucking pathetic. Instead of killing, like zombies do best, they collect ceramic cats, enjoy scrap booking and draw ridiculous comics, among other things. Good God, that’s not just a step down, that’s’ a fucking 6 story leap into jagged rocks. And forget the absence of bloodthirsty hordes; this entire movie, save for two scenes, has no violence at all. The only ripping and rending and gouging we get to see is through a camera that’s obviously being controlled by a retarded toddler with cerebral palsy.
At least it’s suspenseful enough. Too bad that’s all it is; suspense with no sense of fulfillment at the end. And though I’ll grant that zombie movies rarely have a fulfilling end, what with protagonists being eaten and whatnot, American Zombie needed it, if nothing else. A good movie crescendos into a definitive climax, but this movie flat lines for over an hour then beeps as the climax comes and goes. The most exciting part of the movie is actually five minutes before the end when there’s an surprise attack. Now I’m all for scary endings, but this was more startling than anything. If a kiwi flies into my room, I would be startled (and perhaps a bit confused) but it won’t give me nightmares. And there’s a distinct line between unexpected and random. While I usually get such a kick out of someone getting his throat ripped out, it needs to be times right (like not 5 minutes till the end).
In the end, I liked the concepts of this movie, more than the actual movie itself. American Zombie has some kind of identity crisis; it felt like less of a zombie movie and more like a social satire made by someone who’s heard of zombie movies, but never actually seen one. Really there are better movies out there. If you want a Black Witch style zombie flick, go watch Diary of the Dead. If you want zombies without your apocalypse, your hordes, your chaos, your focus on survival, go watch Fido (a personal favorite of mine). Leave American Zombie on the shelf for when you’re trying to wean your mum into watching zombie movies.

This guy makes the movie worth watching

Interpret this as you wish

Hello Nerdfit community and readers, before I begin I would like to briefly introduce myself. My name is Lee H-K, or rather I would like it to be to make documentation related things simpler. Currently I am completing my second year of study in the field of chemical engineering at Worcester Polytechnic Institute. At the time of writing this article I am listening to this week’s Trance Around the World, and enjoying a delicious coca-cola. However that’s not what you all want to hear about, so now that the introductions are over allow me to explain why I’m here. I’m here to share with you my love of anime, to give us an opportunity for us to explore the deeper intellectual side of this fine medium. However since 90% of the online fan population doesn’t give a damn about that, it’s a hell of a lot easier to share with you my gripes with anime, the chip on my shoulder, the thorn in my side, a loathing so profound that it can be difficult to convey it through words.

You see, I love a lot of things about anime, and more over animation in general. There is just so much potential to tell fantastic stories that can’t be told nearly as well through other mediums. It give us an opportunity to visualize the profound or absurd ‘what if’s’ of life. Masterpieces like Jin-Roh can reduce us to man-tears while the breathtaking visuals of Miyazaki films leave us in awe. Films such as Paprika explore the inner workings of the mind, and films like Dead Leaves make us question the innerworkings of the minds of the people who made it. These films are truly works of art. Art in anime, however, is not limited to just films either; series such as Mushi-shi and Ef show us that an anime doesn’t have to follow a specific mold or pacing to be fantastic. Air and Kanon (2006) show us that harem/romance shows don’t have to be dry, carbon copies of each other, retelling the same story with different actors. Gurren-Lagann shows us that mecha does not define a genre, but is simply an element that can be utilized in a truly amazing show. Serial Experiments Lain and Noein show us that science fiction anime can be absurd at times but still maintain wonderful story telling. All of these are superb examples of art.

The unfortunate side to anime is that much like American television, and television around the world for that matter, is that for every one amazing show, there are twenty mediocre shows, and one or two true abominations. For every one Gurren-Lagann there are 3 Gundam Seeds. For every Mushi-shi there are 5 White Albums. For every Kanon (2006) there are 8 Shuffles. For every Noein there are 4 generic mahou shojo’s, and for all of these series there is one Akikan. I am aware that I said this trend occurs in all other mediums out there in the world, and the ratio of gold to crap in anime isn’t nearly as bad as something like oh say, videogames. However, it irks me particularly because people have proven that such a higher form of art can be created, and yet producers often opt out of taking a risk with a new and different series to produce yet another generic moe show (*cough*K-On*cough*).

Which brings me to my next gripe with current series; the Moneyhat. Yes, the moneyhat. For those who are unfamiliar with this term you either are a new fan of Nerdfit or are not familiar with the works of Erik ‘The Internet’ Ferris. A general definition of a moneyhat is an intellectual property or a specific type of intellectual property that has been proven to, and is guaranteed to make money. Take a look at the studios that lead the industry. Kyoto Animation, the people who brought you fantastic series such as  Air, which had fairly decent story telling, have quickly turned into a studio much less concerned with telling a good story, and much more concerned with printing moneyhats. So when KyoAni released Lucky Star and found that it produced a gigantic fanbase ripe with money, they found their formula. This is what I have a problem with, recently there seem to be less and less prodcuers attempting to break the mold, and there are more and more studios that are using tried and tested formulas for shows. Thus there is a dilution of the market with generic shows; shows with mediocre story telling at best, and that are absolute trainwrecks at worst.

I realize my views may not be too popular, and fair warning I am going to be tearing apart a lot of flawed series that tend to become popular for no reason at all. I have grown to hate a lot of new anime due to its cookie cutter nature. However, the point of these rants isn’t to start a flamewar, and by god if this site becomes popular will there most likely be one. I just wish that people could just open their minds a bit, to take a look at the medium on a larger scale. I want people to see what’s being force fed to you every ‘new’ season. Does the content of shows vary greatly due to the huge diversity of the audience? Absolutely, but to assume that all thirty something shows that air each season are all gold, is pure folly.

Take for example the tragic story that was ADVision.  If you recall ADV started out as a smaller licensing/distribution company. Then, when the anime bubble started to grow in the early parts of  the past decade, ADV began to license every anime it could get its hands on. What was the result? Well, as you know ADV is now hanging by a thread, rereleasing all of its old properties in the hopes to stay afloat. There are of course several reasons for the fall of ADV, hyperexpansion and a troubling economy are no doubt somewhere at the top of the list. However I firmly believe that one of the larger contributing factors was that ADV thought that the average anime fan will swallow anything they bring over. Go to your local Best Buy and take a look at whats on the shelf (before it liquidates it), then keeping in mind that it only represents a small percentage of anime out there, ask yourself how many series are, artistically speaking, truely outstanding. If that doesn’t prove that the majority of anime is not worth half its weight, then I don’t know what does. Of course on the flip side corporations like Geneon USA tanked even though they had some truly remarkable titles that busted up the mold a little, series such as Higurashi and Ergo Proxy. Of course, one of the biggest problems with Geneon and ADV was just poor business decisions, and the inability to adapt to a changing market, which I may or may not address in later article.

The takehome message that I’m trying to convey is that people need to take a look outside the box a little, take a risk on an unknown series, take a look back at some older films and see what made this genre as popular as it is today. Don’t just gobble down whatever someone decides is popular at the moment; because next thing you know there won’t be any more Mushi-Shis or Noeins, just countless carbon copies of Bleach and Lucky Star.

So what happens when nerds want to collaborate and celebrate their fandom outside of local colleges, high schools, arcades and the internet?  They do what every other nerd will want to do– they go outside of their local circles in search for a local event to check out and be a part of.  Generally, these are called conventions.

Celebrating by dressing up as their favorite characters, participating in events, presentations, masquerades and various forms of competitions;  these fellow nerds of various shapes, sizes, colors and IQs congregate to join similar-minded people in the fellowship of their fandom.   Many conventions are based off of their favorite Television shows, anime, video games, LAN gaming, dolls of various brands, rubber bands, their favorite bands, name it.  I’m sure they have something for it.  If they don’t, they will soon.

Hi, Billy Mays here, everyone!  My name is Glenn;  You may know me from various conventions or panels from Boston to Orlando, from Hartford to St. Louis and beyond.  I’m going to be going across the nation, one con after another, to give my fellow nerd brethren an in-depth report on how awesome or awkward it was to be a part of whatever convention I head to next.

Check back here for my reviews of conventions, my tales from the road and any other shenanigans we find on the way!

Oh, Nintendo, how I have hated and loved you over these many long years. You brought me, crawling on my hands and knees, to the world of sin without pity or remorse. You brought me joys I might have otherwise never known, and for that I am grateful. But I’m afraid we have come to an impasse, my dear.

It all started in the late 80’s with that kid. You know that kid, everyone does. The one who lived on your street and had all the best toys: the ride-in electric car with a real working FM radio, the clubhouse that you didn’t know the password to, the 10 speed bicycle, real Crayola crayons (as opposed to the shitty RoseArt ones that left greasy streaks of color in your knockoff coloring book), the swimming pool that didn’t deflate, the trampoline, and – yeah, THAT kid. I hated that kid, because I was poor, because they never shared a damn thing and, because I happened to live next door to them. That said, our parents thought it would be simply grand if we got to being friends, much to our mutual chagrin.

Seeing as that kid had a better version of every toy I owned and then some, we spent most of our sentence together at their house. And there, in the center of their temple of fancy toys, sat enshrined a television with a little gray box and offerings of little gray slabs strewn about the press-board alter. At last we meet, and come to know Envy. This was the late, great Super NES, a holy relic that I dare not lay a finger on for fear of besmirching its glory – not that I was allowed to of course. Like I said the little bastard wasn’t big on the whole “sharing” thing. But I didn’t care, so long as I could sit in the presence of St. Mario and watch him bring a holy reckoning to Goombas and Koopas alike. For the first time I was in love. Wildly I ran home to tell my parents of this great wonder I beheld, begging and pleading for one of my very own. They smiled and said how great it was that I had a friend.

Over the next few years I learned of patience, and the virtue thereof, but oh I could never forget Envy. One day my father comes home beaming with achievement, hands held awkwardly behind his back. My sister and I rush eagerly to greet him at the door, and still glowing he hands us a little black box. My heart welled up. Finally! After years of being the good and understanding child, I have one of my very own! And then I read the label: “Sega Genesis”. My world fell out from under me. “No,” my mind screamed. “No! This isn’t right! This isn’t whom I’ve kept myself for! Where’s Mario? Where’s the Princess? For fuck’s sake I’ll even take Tetris, just don’t leave me with this spinney blue rat”! I managed to smile and thank my well-intentioned father as I sulked away to reluctantly court Nintendo’s fat friend. Thus I came to know Wrath, and know it well, as I hurled little black bricks at the TV every time I entered Dr. Robotnik’s Lab.

I tried for a year or two to kindle a flame for the monstrosity. Overlooking its obvious flaws, saying to myself “Just give it time. You’ll love it eventually”, but to no avail. Seeing my obvious despondency with the arranged marriage, my parents cracked. On Christmas morning our divorce was finalized when my sister and I savagely unwrapped the final gift to find before us: The Nintendo64.

At long last! Destiny is realized and fate smiles upon me! A sleek, dark gray mass with futuristic trident controllers upon which rested so many colorful buttons like parade confetti, and an analog stick to boot! It was glorious. I sat there silently admiring my prize, fingers entwined around a black trident – sweeping over each cluster of buttons like Braille. The moment however, was short lived. My sister tore the controller away from me, and shoved a cartridge into the machine with brazen disregard causing me to wince. And as her chubby little finger reached for the power button, we came to know Greed. I swatted her hand away, face flushed and stammering, unable to alliterate that this, this moment, was the culmination of years of pining away, was better, sweeter than I had ever dreamed, and that I’ll be damned if I would let her rob me of that.

We stared each other down like gunmen at high noon – I took the first shot and threw her a Sega Controller as my fingers grazed the power button sending up the Mario Kart 64 fanfare behind me. I turned and watched the opening cinematic like Dorothy returning from OZ. “I had this dream, and you were there! And you were there, and you and you”! I hit the start button and waited patiently as the console directed me to the Character Select screen whence I felt the sharp crack of plastic land against my skull. I reeled about to find the Sega Controller had been returned, and glared at my sister as she plugged in a second trident. It was on. We entered two player mode knowing that this wasn’t just a battle for bragging rights, but a battle to win the hand of the fair maiden Nintendo herself! The race started, and we tore around the track with fierce tenacity – she to take that which I had wanted, I to defend Nintendo’s honor and virtue. I grabbed every power-up, unleashing a maelstrom of red shells and banana peels upon my foe, when in my arsenal I found gleaming, the mother of all power-ups: The Star. I felt I could weep. I activated Nintendo’s kind gesture of affection and blew through my final lap in 22.8 seconds in a wild blur of glittering colors crossing the finish line in triumph. My sister turned, and for her sake I will say she graciously conceded defeat as we both acknowledged silently that victory belonged to me. And thus I came to know Pride as I began my long and happy marriage with Nintendo.

It didn’t take long for us to expand the family, adopting such gems as Donkey Kong 64, The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, Gauntlet Legends, Rampage World Tour, Super Smash Bros., Clay Fighter, hell – even a Game Boy or two. The next few years I came to know both Pride and Wrath intimately. Pride as my trophy collection grew, as each secret was unlocked, as each game lay in defeat; Wrath every time the final boss mocked me, and every time a power outage wiped out two-and-a-half hours worth of progress in a dungeon with scant few save points. We spent many sleepless nights together, ignoring the world in pursuit of passing just one more level, of shaving another two seconds off of my time trial, of completing one more side quest for an extra 5 hit points. And this is how, my parents would say, I came to know Sloth and Gluttony. But we didn’t care – we were happy together.

In the middle of my adolescence Nintendo evolved again. She had lost weight, dolled herself up a bit and started using the name, Gamecube. Oh, be still my fluttering heart, the foul temptress Nintendo taught me Lust. I had to have one. The drive consumed me. Sure there were now others on the field: the sultry Xbox, and darkly seductive PS2, but I only had eyes for Nintendo. By this time, my parents had long since signed off the video game wagon stating that it was ridiculous to spend that kind of money every few years, so it was left to me to garner one for myself. In the first weeks of release my sister and I took a trip to the mall hoping to claim one, and after 6 hours of going to every electronics department within a 20-mile radius we returned home empty handed. This was shortly after Christmas, so we knew that a few lucky spoiled bastards would end up getting two for the holiday and the stores would have to have a handful of returns coming and going. Thus, we left our phone numbers with the clerks telling them to call the moment a Gamecube turned up.

As luck would have it, as soon as we walk in the door the phone rings: it’s ToysRUs. They have one. Our eyes widen and we fly back to the car. ToysRUs was located along the outside of our radius and on a normal day would take about half an hour to reach, which was time we didn’t have. We slammed the pedal to the ground doing well over 100mph, fondly reminiscing over our first Kart race and giddily singing, “I don’t wanna grow up! I’m a ToysRUs kid”! When we arrived, we launched ourselves over to the electronics department, and as we turned the corner our hearts sank. There in the middle of the floor stood a boy, no more than seven, with tousled blond hair cradling our Gamecube. Time came to a halt and I moved through the space detached. My gaze moving from the tears welling up in my sister’s eyes, to the haggard looking father obsequiously handing over his credit card to the equally haggard looking clerk, to the little boy getting dirty little fingerprints on the Gamecube. And then it hit me. My mind was flooded with images of little gray controllers with black stripes and red buttons being ripped away from me, of electric cars with real working FM radios, of trampolines and everything that was held over me as a kid. I didn’t care that he was seven, I wasn’t about to let that happen again. He was that kid. And it was on.

I boldly strode up to the register and smacked the father’s hand away from the cashier’s and somewhere behind me, I could feel my sister twinge. “Did you just call us”, I spat at the clerk and Wrath was born once more. “Didn’t we say we’d be here in five minutes! Do you have any idea the kind of hoops we had to jump through to do that! You seriously couldn’t just hold the damn thing! We’ve been all over freaking creation trying to get one of these and you just hand it off to someone who has absolutely no appreciation for what that machine truly represents! Damn you!” He stared at me doe-eyed and stammering something about policy as he ran the credit card through the register completing the transaction. We left the battlefield wounded and empty-handed sitting in silence on the drive home.

But all was not lost. A few days later a Wal-Mart quietly opened in our sleepy little town and hope was renewed. My sister and I made our way to the electronics section with trepidation, fearing that fate would once again have the last laugh. And there behind a glass case, gleaming in the flourescent lights was a wall of Nintendo Gamecubes. We fell to our knees, eyes wide and trembling. A clerk approached us asking if we needed assistance. We couldn’t speak but merely pointed at the case. “Which color”, the old man asked us and we turned to one another and breathlessly exclaimed in unison “We have a choice?” The man nodded absently clearly unable to comprehend our enthusiasm. “Purple”, I choked out and he unlocked the case handing us a box and a copy of Super Smash Bros. Melee. Without hesitation we dropped $300.00 plus dollars on the counter and left in a daze.

Though Nintendo had been very good to me in the past, over the next few years started to take my love for granted. Releasing weak titles or recycling old ones with a little glitter added to it, and for the first time I felt my flame for Nintendo waver. And I’ll admit I cheated upon her with mistresses Playstation and Xbox alike, for their tastes had evolved with mine and satisfied those needs. And finding excitement in these new encounters returned dimly to my Gamecube out of guilt, feeling unclean as it tried half-heartedly to keep my affection. Over time we grew apart and the torch I once carried for Nintendo petered out.

Nowadays when we see each other in passing, I can’t help but feel bad for the old girl as she embarrassingly tries to win back my favor calling herself “Wii”. And as much as her efforts are commendable, she’s far too changed from the simple girl I fell in love with. Every now and then, when I’m feeling a bit nostalgic I’ll return to my awkward lover and play Gauntlet Legends and a handful of other titles I’ve kept around hoping that it will console me as it once did, trying to re-capture the old spark. But I have moved on and though my passion lies elsewhere now, I will always hold a special place in my heart for Nintendo.

Welcome to ‘Erik a Week’, a review of old games with a twist….meaning that we add our beloved Erik Ferris into them. This weeks game is…

Dragon Ball Z: Budokai Eriko Ferris-san. For those of you who have played this, you know this game caused a insane amount of sequels and is in its 6th installment, with a name longer than most made-up words. This game was fairly terrible. It received meager reviews and was a button masher, to say the least.  “What could have improved this shitfest?” you may ask. Well, one thing–Erik Ferris.

Moving onto graphics, “ugly” doesn’t quite do justice to this skullfuck of a game. Gameplay is lacking. You could beat the game by mashing your face against the controller or just mashing the punch button. This game is not hard. The combos are ridiculously easy and the combat is lackluster. The story mode… well, story mode in a fighter game? lol. The move sets are easy to learn because there is not much to them–melee combo, some sort of energy ranged attack… yep that pretty much covers it.

Erik’s move set is similar to that of Hercule. He is unable to fly, but instead of a jetpack, he uses the sheer power of his farts to fly into the air. Most of his combos end with him panting for breath. He seems to be an afterthought by the programmers. Instead of energy attacks he throws rocks… well, what appears to be a dark brown rock. The interesting thing is, when these brown stones hit the enemy, it stuns them for a moment. No other attack in the game does this, mind you, so they did give him something useful. His super attack is by far the best part of this game, though that is not saying much. He sits down at a table, summoned seemingly out of nowhere, and begins to recount a tale of the time he went to Hideo Kojima’s house, took a shit in his toilet, and therefore inspired Hideo Kojima to make the Metal Gear franchise. These stories, while a nice departure from the rest of the game, seem a bit exaggerated, but the sheer amount of them make this game worth replaying for that alone.

So on the whole, this game gets a 5/10. It garners this many points simply for the colorful character that is Eriko Ferris-San. He is a breath of somewhat stale air… which is still more refreshing than the rest of this game.

Until next time, this is tonberryx.

Latest NFTV video is up!