Pac-Man's Deathbed Monologue

by Cyrus Helf

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There's only two guarantees in life: death and taxes. Even for Pac-Men. (Well, not so much the second one.)

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This is not how I thought my days would end. Lying here in this hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the inevitable GAME OVER. This death shit really sneaks up on you, kind of like ghosts I used to know. Blinky, Pinky, Inky and Clyde. I wonder what happened to them. I’ll probably be seeing them soon up in the big arcade in the sky.

I used to be famous, you know. Still am in some circles. Speaking of circles, you wouldn’t happen to have any Pac-Pellets on ya? The doctors here won’t give me any. They say I had too many in my younger days and that caused my high cholesterol. I tried to eat better. Really, I did. But hell, you try eating a fucking apple a day when you’ve got four ghosts chasing down your ass!

What I could really go for right now is an ol’-fashioned energizer and top it off with a blue ghost or two. Yeah, that would hit the spot. It sucks they took those energizers off the market. Guess they didn’t have a choice once the government found out they contained speed and traces of arsenic. Man, I would give my high score for one of those babies right now.

I used to eat ‘em like candy, which is probably why I’m in here. For a while I had a four-energizer-per-level habit. Don’t give me that holier than thou look. Everyone was doing crazy shit back then. It was the 80s, for Christ-sakes.

Those were some good times, though. I was just a crazy Pac-Kid chasing a Pac-Dream and the occasional bunch of cherries. Quarters were coming in so fast I didn’t know what to do with them. My face was everywhere. Lunch boxes. Wallpaper. Hell, I even had my own breakfast cereal. I still remember the jingle…

“Pac-Man isn’t just a game you play, it’s a crispy corn cereal that’s coming your way, new Pac-Man, chomp-chomp delicious!”

Yeah, things were going great for a while there. And then I met her, the royal highness. What a bitch.

She looked all cute and sassy with that pretty little bow, but underneath that innocent exterior there was nothing but trouble. When we first met I was smitten. It was love at first sight. I thought to myself, here’s a girl I could spend the rest of my life with.

We had everything in common. We both loved chasing ghosts, we both enjoyed bouncing fruit, we each shared an extensive knowledge of mazes. It all seemed so perfect. But she got pregnant and everything changed.

Sure I was nervous, but hell, who wouldn’t be? We were both so young and I was at the peak of my career. The timing was just all wrong, man. I thought that having a Pac-Baby would jeopardize everything I had worked for. But that’s not what she wanted to hear.

She gave me an ultimatum: Either settle down and get married, or she’d walk through a warp tunnel and leave me forever. I thought about tying the knot, but my publicist advised against it.

“Yeah right,” he told me. “You just made the cover of Mad Magazine’s Man of the Year issue. ‘Pac-Man Fever’ is the number one song on the radio. There’s offers coming in for a Saturday morning cartoon show. And you want to blow it all on some Pac-Girl? You have to appear single to your female fans. C’mon, you know these celebrity marriages never work out.”

It made sense, or at least it did at the time. So we didn’t tie the knot. She stayed Ms. Pac-Man.

Things got rocky from there on out. She left and started seeing Mega Man. That little overcompensating boy-robot twerp. We all know what shortcoming that giant MegaBuster arm-cannon was trying to make up for. Turned out he was a violent drunk too. He used to beat her with his ThunderBeam. Big tough man, he was. So much for his goal to, one day, achieve "everlasting peace." That was nothing but bullshit, man.

I tried to talk her out of having the kid, but she didn’t listen. Baby Pac-Man was born premature by four months. It came out addicted to power pellets. The poor Pac-Bastard cost me a bundle in Pac-Child support, too.

He was a cute little dot-chomper, though. Cute enough to make me want to be a good father. But it was hard being a weekend Pac-Dad. Once he was old enough, Baby Pac-Man started running with the wrong crowd, popping energizers in strange mazes all over town. He even resorted to … pinball.

Neither of them have visited me yet here. I’m not going to lie. That hurts. Do I think about how things might have been different if I’d married her and been a better father? Sure. But there’s no use worrying about it now. I did have a few people stop in though. My real friends.

Donkey Kong got a day pass from the institution for a “supervised visit.” Ever since his third strike they won’t let him go anywhere alone. He even has to wear one of those sex-offender ankle bracelets so they know where he’s at all the time. I guess this state don’t look too kindly on giant apes who compulsively kidnap women.

Yeah, ol’ DK has some issues. Hell, I’d never let him around my daughter. But he’s a good friend. He just wants to be loved, is that so wrong? It’s not his fault he was ripped from the jungle by that Super Mario douchebag. That shit-covered plumber looking to exploit him for a quick buck. I’d go on a rampage too if that slimy mustached fuck locked me in a cage.

Super Mario got his, though. O.D.’d on a poison mushroom. The papers said it was no accident, a mob hit by King Bowser and the Koopa Kingdom. Nobody proved it, but everyone knew. His loser brother Luigi ended up doing gay plumber fetish pornos. Heh, heh. I think they were called “Manhole” or “Back Door Plumbing” or “Roto-Rooter for Hire” or something like that.

Nurse! I need the bathroom, nurse!

How pathetic is this? I need someone just to help me take a piss. Where is that damn nurse? Screw it I’ll just use the bedpan.

Psshshhhhsshshs...pshss....pssh.

Ah, that’s better. Look at that nice shade of yellow. Is that beautiful or what? I was that yellow once. This liver disease has made me more of a mustard brown now. This is no way to die, lying here like an invalid, pissing in a pan.

Frogger, now there’s a guy who went out in style. Pancaked in the middle of the freeway by a 100-mile-an-hour onrushing semi. Splat. That’s a death people remember, man! Seems like all of my friends are either dead or long gone. I wonder if anyone will show up to the funeral. Dig Dug will be there, that’s a given. Wherever there’s dirt being moved, there’s Dig Dug! He’s in for a surprise though.

I’ll let you in on a little secret of mine. I spent a little extra and got myself the Tetris Burial. Hey, you only die once - well, unless you score 10,000 points and get the extra life – so you might as well splurge on yourself, right?

That’ll look nice. All those beautiful Tetrominoes floating down from the sky to seal me up forever in my final resting place. Got me a nice plot too, northwest corner of Pac-Land cemetery. I love corners. That’s where you could always find the energizers.

I guess Ms. Pac-Man and Baby-Pac aren’t showing up tonight. That’s too bad. Maybe tomorrow. Hey do me a favor, will ya? If they do show up and I’m … can you just tell them I’m sorry for everything? I’m sorry.

I’m getting kinda tired now. I think I’ll close my eyes for a little while. You take care, pal. I’ll see you real soon, alright?

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Cyrus Helf previously showcased a dirty text message he received that made us all feel dirty, aroused, depressed, and anxious to hear how he responded. When he said he didn't reply, we kicked him in the throat. His piece can be found way back in Issue One. More recently, he is the creator of Aborto. Respect him mightily.