Wario versus Mario
Wario is at least twice my size these days. He's probably gained about thirty pounds since I saw him last. There are so many broken blood vessels on the tip of his nose it looks pink against his pasty Italian skin. His purple overalls are taut against his stomach, which looks as rock-solid as a cannonball.
It's obvious he's been drinking again.
The last time I saw him, a green Koopa shell sent his Go-Kart hurtling off a cliff in flames. It landed in a river, and Wario shook his fist at me as I crossed the finish line. Yoshi was a close second, though Luigi somehow got stuck in 12th place. Someone kept hitting him with red turtle shells, so it makes sense that he had a bad race. But I wasn't thinking about that while I stood on the podium, hoisting the MarioKart gold trophy above my head.
After the championship tournament, I took a few months off and headed to Vietnam with Peach. We rented a bungalow a few kilometers down a deserted beach, and every morning I would peel off my plumber duds and go for a long, leisurely swim in the Atlantic Ocean. I wanted to forget about my other life in the Magic Kingdom. I wanted to leave it behind.
But one morning when I returned to our bungalow, our dining room table was broken in half and the window over the kitchen sink was shattered. Luckily I pulled on my boots before continuing in to survey the wreckage, because it was clear that someone had fought hard in this room. That's the thing about Peach: she may get kidnapped often, but she always puts up a good fight.
I pulled on my red sweater and took a long piss before continuing my investigation. These rescue operations tended to be lengthy affairs, and I didn't know when I was going to get the chance to use a bathroom again. When I walked out on to the porch, Wario was clutching a glistening beer and staring out at The Atlantic.
"Things don't change, do they Mario?"
I saw down across the table from him.
"No," I said. "They pretty much stay the same."
