
Anyone who says video games don’t cause violence has obviously not played Mortal Kombat. As a kid, I remember attempting to uppercut my best friend David after throwing a cup of ice at him. He countered with a clumsy leg sweeping move, which only succeeded in him scuffing my Keds. This was a common scene when you lived two blocks from Keystone Pizza, the only arcade in town, and they had just installed a brand spankin’ new Mortal Kombat Arcade game. We made a small fortune scrounging for quarters under couch cushions, in our dad’s pockets and mom’s purses, under car seats, and in junk drawers, spending every last one each Saturday afternoon playing match after match. When we were broke, we sat and spectated our friends’ matches until our mothers drug us home for dinner. Mortal Kombat had burrowed its way into our hearts and brains, starting a love affair that had been long forgotten, until I picked up the latest Mortal Kombat for my PS3.
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