Top Middle Bottom
Top (n): the highest point, level or part of something; the highest position (as in rank or achievement)
-Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed. (2014)
TW: Dark thoughts and self-harm. Proceed with caution.
Dear Diary,
Life in Smash Bros sure has been kind to me. I used to be a decent high-tier, but now—I'm the leader of the pack! The top dog, the best of the best! That should give these casual players something to chew on.
Using my skills as a leader and a fighter, I easily take down anyone who challenges me. I frustrate them with my short hop single and double lasers. I laugh off attacks with my "Shine" and my "waveshine". I'm also among the fastest characters in Melee, and it shows. I'm basically a blur, clobbering my opponents to kingdom come and sending them running off to God-knows-where, crying. Well—not all of them cry, but I think you catch my drift.
My advantageous matchups make me popular among the tournament crowd. Every night, I'm a VIP guest at swanky parties, or I'm hosting parties alongside my wingman, Falco. He may be my clone, but in my eyes, he's right next to me in the God-tier slot. Together, we saw the rise of "20XX", where we're the go-to Smashers to win an intense competition. The "blip" sounds of our Reflectors and our grunts of exertion soon reach memetic status, along with my taunt of "Come on!" and our cries of "Mission Complete!" when we win.
And nowadays, Falco and I live like freaking kings! We ride around in limos, and we've got our own personal Wireframes attending on us. Not to mention our new rooms, which look more like hotel suites! I've got a hot tub that can fit me and my buddies, a large widescreen TV, a GameCube, a comfortable king-sized bed, a small bar, and a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Smash World. And it's all mine.
As for the rest of the roster (except Falco), who freaking cares about them? They're all beneath me! As far as tournament players are concerned, I'm their god! I certainly don't need some red cap or some green cap telling me what to do and how to live my life! They can all just bend over and kiss my—tail. Especially Kirby, the pink runt. He's a low-tier loser, so why should I waste my time dealing with him? Life isn't unicorns and rainbows and cake anymore, and if he can't deal with that, then that's his problem.
Smash is like natural selection. The better you fight, the higher on the rung you are. Falco and I are the best fighters, so we're at the top of the rung. Kirby is childish and weak, and that's why he's at the bottom this time around. It really is as simple as that.
But man, it feels good here at the top. Falco and I are really enjoying the view!
I'll get back to you later; I have matches to fight!
Your confidante,
Fox McCloud
…
Middle (adj): equally distant from the extremes; (n): a middle part, point or position
-Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed. (2014)
Dear Diary,
They used to laugh at me. Throw things at me. Heckle me. Humiliate me. I was considered the worst fighter, even a joke fighter. Well, I don't see them joking nowadays when I gloriously Misfire into an opponent and take their stock. I don't see them mocking me as my wavedashing skills help me evade projectiles and escape attempts to pressure me. Through the crap I was subjected to, I didn't break down, didn't back down—I got back up and dusted myself off. I hogged the Training Area, practicing and honing my fighting style, even as my muscles started to protest. Here in Melee, my practice has paid off, and now I'm a viable mid-tier fighter. The jeerers have fallen silent, watching me juggle and combo my foes, and sweat and bruise and bleed down to the last stock. I drink in the looks on their faces. That's right, the laughing stock of the first tournament is kicking [bleep] and taking names. Who's laughing now?
But, as I've mentioned in one of my recent blog posts, a new Smash tournament doesn't wash the events of the old one away. What I endured still exists as marks on my heart. At night, they lurk in my mind like ghosts. Memories whisper to me with the gentle night breeze through my curtains; I feel them with my every breath and every heartbeat. Two years later, they're all over me, like fresh raw wounds from a carving knife. They tick along my brain like the tick of a clock. And I have to face the two main instigators of these unspeakable acts every second of every day.
I pass them by in the hallways. I sit with them in the cafeteria or in the lounge. I fight alongside them and against them on the battlefield. And whenever I see them, my hands clench into fists, and I grow hot all over. My skin flushes like a fever. Inside, I burst apart. And I want to scream at them, curse them out, tell the world what they did to me. I don't want them to ever live it down. I hear the echoes of their words and their derisive laughter day after day and night after night. And it's all I can do not to tackle them to the floor and punch them over and over, screaming profanities, questions and accusations at them.
Douglas Jay Falcon. Fox McCloud. Two people who took one look at a piece of paper and decided that their burgeoning friendship with me wasn't worth squat. Two reputable people who used that tier list as an excuse to expose their darker sides and call it "fun". Their names scorch my lips and make bile rise in my throat, their actions spread out before me like a criminal indictment. Sometimes, I imagine reciting those actions before them, watching their faces crumple in shame and their bravado fail them as they prostrate themselves before me and plead for mercy. I imagine repeating every name they called me, forcing them to recount every egregious injustice against me, forcing them to witness me, stripped bare, angry and wounded and betrayed and traumatized by their "fun".
And there are moments when the anger is so stifling that I can barely breathe, that the only remedy is to throw back my head and holler at the top of my voice. I find opportunities to do this in the heat of battle, especially when Falcon or Fox are the opponents. Studies show that yelling gets the blood pumping, after all. I look at them, standing across from me, and once Master Hand yells "Go!", the past presses a hot, sharp knife into my skin, and my rage roars to life, and I don't even try to pull my punches with them. I focus my aggression on ideal points on their bodies, the other sounds around me sounding subdued, and then my mouth opens, from it escaping a mighty shout. There's the smell of sweat and blood and dirt as we battle it out, my pulse pounding, my body flipping and twisting and dodging and dealing out brutal attacks, that old anger oozing out like my perspiration from the pores in my skin. I look hard into their eyes and I MAKE THEM REMEMBER.
But at night, when the adrenaline in my blood has cooled down into magma hiding just below the surface, I lay perfectly still in my bed, listening to the snores of the Smashers in the other rooms and the serene silence outside. My eyes memorize the ceiling and trace all sorts of patterns across it, and then begins the dance of the ghosts of memories across my brain, the recollections in the wisps of the wind. The words, the snickers, the giggles, the guffaws, the splatter of Maxim Tomatoes and other junk, every push and shove and bathroom prank, every time my shoelaces were tied together and—and the brawl in the lounge, set off when Falcon called me that NAME.
My breathing rattles and jerks, and huge, hot tears trace patterns on my face every which way, staining my pillow. I silently cry until my pillow is sopping wet and my face is totally sticky. And then I get tired of crying, because it's not going to change the fact that those two did what they did. I get myself a dry pillow, wash my face and swap my pajamas for a pair of stretchy gym pants and cycling shoes. Slipping my new iPod into my pocket, I silently sneak off to the gym, flick on the backlights, swing myself onto a spin bike, set my iPod to shuffle and start pedaling.
I don't even bother with a shirt. I enjoy the feeling of sweat sliding down my bare skin as I pedal faster and harder. Scenes of Fox and Falcon having fun at my expense flash before me until I crank up the intensity to the highest I can bear. With my mind occupied elsewhere, the ghosts settle into a dormant state. Nothing like a good workout to still your racing thoughts. Hardcore workout tunes from the late 90s and early 00s in my ears, the repetitive pedal strokes and rotations, the gears barely making a sound, my breath now in a whooshing cadence. My eyes close, and I imagine myself on a mountain bike, grinding my way through the tough terrain, blue sky all around and an ocean sparkling thousands of feet below. I pedal and sweat my way through the darkest of the night, and when I head back to my room, I simply pull of my pants and flop onto my bed in nothing but my briefs, pull the covers up around me and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Douglas and Fox keep telling me that they're sorry. They keep telling me that they're different people, that they've learned their lesson and that they hope I can forgive them. But when my mind keeps going back to what they did and how they tried to make my first Smash experience miserable, I ask myself how I can accomplish such a thing. Will I ever truly forgive them? The answer is a definite "no", because contrary to what you may think, people don't bounce back from stuff like that.
Which brings me to my next point. At least Douglas is making active efforts to get back on my good side. Fox, however, has conveniently unlearned the lessons from the first tournament. His mindset is, "Oh, we're in a new tournament now, and everything is hunky-dory and I can do the same stuff I did without consequence." And his new target? The little Star Warrior, Kirby.
It seems as if the spectators didn't learn anything, either. They've moved on from me simply because they smell fresh meat. After enjoying the second-place slot in 1999, Kirby experienced the misfortune of being kicked all the way to the bottom. When he told me of his poor performance in the first matches, I instantly knew what he was thinking. And once the tier list was released, I wanted Kirby to be ready. When I saw his ranking, I just raced to his side, trying to comfort him, trying to explain to him how some people could be so ruthless and uncaring. The days afterward have just been torture for Kirby. People dumping food on him in the lunchroom. Fight spectators calling him a "filthy casual" and tossing things at him. Essentially doing the same things they did to me, only worse. Despite my timid nature, I'm a fully-grown, strong man who could give a good fight. Kirby? He's just a child. Sweet and naïve and confused about why he's treated like a pariah nowadays. All I want to do is to protect and defend him, but—lately, he's started pushing me away, along with some of his remaining friends. That can't be a good sign.
As for Fox, not only is he considered the best Smasher, he also has a tier to himself! And now, he's looking down on everyone else except Falco, who's one tier slot below him and acting the same way. Every night, they throw disruptive parties, and every day, they harass and antagonize poor Kirby, leading the crowd in jeering and shaming him. It got to the point that the Lylat Disciplinary Council had to discipline them—not that it helped. Worse yet, Fox blamed Kirby for "getting him in trouble" and physically assaulted him one night! Then, Falco shoved a slice of cake in Kirby's face, and the two of them dumped the poor guy into a trash can! That act was juvenile for two pilots who swore to serve and protect the skies from Star Wolf and other adversaries! What would Peppy, Slippy, Kat and Krystal think of this? And poor James is probably turning over in his grave!
Fox McCloud hasn't changed. He's the same insensitive jerk he was in 1999, except that he's gleefully tormenting a CHILD, of all people. He's still blasting loud music when people are trying to sleep, still treating the Wireframes like his servants and still demanding special attention because of his high tier rank. And I thought he was bad when he was only in the "A" tier.
You want to know what I think? That he could've tried those same things on me, that he probably wanted to, but he didn't dare. He knew that I faced a reptilian menace alongside my bro and won. He knew of my pyrokinesis ability, my athleticism and of my stellar performance when it came to sports. He knew that if he attempted to "trash-can" me, or shove anything in my face, or use me as food disposal, or assault me in public, then it would've ended terribly for him. Watching me dish out the beatdown of a lifetime to his buddy, Captain Falcon, in that lounge must've been another factor, too. I thought Fox had more valor than that, but obviously, I was wrong.
Honestly, I hope Fox snaps out of this phase before all of his friendships tank, this time for good. I hope he sees how he's hurting Kirby with his little attitude. Judging by what it took two years ago, I'm not feeling very optimistic. But if anything happens to Kirby—if Fox's actions drive one of my newest friends to destruction—then there's nowhere in the Nintendo universe where that vulpine will be safe from me. Count on that.
Sincerely,
Luigi
…
Bottom (n): the lowest part or place; the lowest or last place in a point of precedence
-Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed. (2014)
Dear Diary,
Many days have passed since the tier list was put up, and each minute that ticks by is a struggle not to fall apart at the seams. Those who cheered me on two years ago have turned their backs on me. Pikachu—who declared his love for me as Melee opened—now can't give me the time of day. And Fox and Falco make it their mission to torment me, ignoring Master Hand's warnings and seemingly indifferent to any punishments doled out to them.
I still don't know what a "filthy casual" is and why they're calling me that in the stands. But I know that it sounds all wrong and that it hurts. The spectators show me zero respect, even when I win. By the time the matches end, I feel so broken. Are they right? Am I the hero Dreamland deserves, or am I just some greedy, immature puffball? Fox and Falco aren't any better. They incite cafeteria-goers to dump their food and drinks on me, and they ambush me and dunk me into any waste bin in sight. And recently—they, along with Koopa, Ganondorf and even Marth, who sat down to cake with us and said that he was "sorry", dragged me out into the backyard and used me as a ball. A ball! They were shrieking with laughter, like it was some sort of twisted game! When they were finished, they shoved me into a mud puddle and kicked more mud in my face before walking off like they made a huge accomplishment.
That's not even counting the physical assaults I've faced lately. Shoved, pinned against walls, knocked to the floor, kicked, stomped, punched and even Blaster-whipped frequently. They just make sure to do it when Master Hand isn't looking. They know I like cake, so they turn it into a weapon against me, forcing slice after slice down my throat and telling me that if I throw it up, then they'd make me eat it. Honestly, I don't know what's come over that vulpine.
The other Smashers do what they can to make me feel better. Ness and his friends invite me to play Twister and video games with them. Samus brings me along to one of her yoga classes. Link starts giving me ocarina lessons. When some Smashers decide to play some basketball, I'm among the first to know. It's great fun, but whatever peace I gain is quickly crushed by Fox's machinations.
One Smasher stands out in his attempts to defend me, and that's Luigi. He knows what I'm going through, because he's been there. But honestly, he had it a little better. He wasn't punched, kicked or Blaster-whipped—at least, as I can recall. I feel sick thinking about what could've been done to him behind closed doors. However, I know it was still degrading if one considers his situation in his home world. A man who puts in his effort to help his older brother fight a terrifyingly powerful adversary again and again, only to barely get recognized by the townspeople he defended. He joined Smash for a chance to improve his skills and become his own person, only to wind up at the bottom of that tier list and relentlessly dumped on because of it. At least back then, Fox was more of a background player while Falcon was the main instigator. But—being called "the last-place loser"—that's got to leave some lasting scars. I guess Luigi doesn't want the same fate to befall me, but it already has.
He's the one to pull me out of the waste bins, the one to halt the sadistic games of "ball", the one to tell the hounds to back off of me or else. He's more vocal than ever on our blog, and it's always such a pleasure watching him thrash my antagonists a thousand times over on the battlefield. But—they all ignore him. Why should they listen to Mario's little brother, right? I get what Luigi and the others are trying to do, I honestly get it. But they can't help me. I'm slowly falling to pieces, and I don't know if they can put me back together.
Why do I have that shard of glass in my drawer? I don't know, really. Maybe it represents a part of me that I lost, a part of me that I can't get back, a prosthetic, if you will. And late at night, when everyone else is asleep, I study that shard, as if I still hope to find something those monsters took from me. Their words and blows come back to me, and all I can think is that I need an escape, any escape from this Hell. So, I take the glass—and I begin to cut into my skin.
The throbbing pain is a welcome distraction, as is the sight of the blood weeping from the wound. So, I cut again. And again. I cut into wounds that have recently healed, just like Fox likes to do. Maybe we're not so different, despite being polar opposites on the tier list. We both don't allow injuries to develop scar tissue.
I've run out of places on my arms, so I find new places to cut. Places where I can easily conceal them, places where nobody will look twice. As the days and nights pass, I cut away a little more, my vision blurred by tears and the words floating before me. Pitiful. Worthless. Loser. Trash. Filthy casual.
Filthy casual.
I can't breathe. I'm drowning. I want this to stop. I want Pikachu. I want Fox back to his old, friendly self again.
I want to be whole again.
But I can never be whole again, even if someone gets this madness to stop. I've been cast as a joke character, a laughable character, and I'm not laughable. And I don't know what to do. I—I just don't know what to do!
I have to go.
Best,
Kirby
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