Chapter 1: The Realm of BakaB
The air in BakaB was an intoxicating blend of teenage sweat, static electricity, and the sweet scent of grape bubblegum. Neon lights, in a perpetual flicker, bathed the walls with a purple and lime green glow, making every corner seem like a portal to another dimension. The constant hum of machines, the clatter of buttons being mashed, and the chorus of victory shouts or cries of defeat formed a chaotic symphony that, for PolloLoco, was the soundtrack to his own nirvana.
PolloLoco, whose real name was something as mundane as Pedro, but who had adopted his nickname with the devotion of a monk to his faith, was immersed in his throne: The King of Fighters ’98 machine. His fingers flew over the joystick and buttons with an agility that belied his broad build. Every movement of his character, Kyo Kusanagi, was an extension of his will, a dance of combos and specials that left his virtual opponents on the ground, humiliated.
Hours dissolved in BakaB like sugar in hot water. For PolloLoco, time was an elastic concept, malleable to the will of the game. It could be three in the afternoon or seven at night, and he would still be there, eyes fixed on the screen, mind in a whirlwind of strategies and anticipations. The outside world, with its responsibilities, school assignments, and insistent calls from his friends, faded into a distant murmur.
His phone vibrated in his pocket for the tenth time. It was Zico. PolloLoco ignored it. Then, another vibration, this time from Don Dramas. He also disregarded it. He was in the zone, in that state of flow where player and game become one. Kyo launched a final “Orochinagi,” and the giant “KO” flashed on the screen. PolloLoco sighed, a mix of relief and a strange melancholy for the end of the round.
The phone vibrated again, this time more insistently. It was Zico again. PolloLoco, with a snort, finally pulled it out. “What’s up, Zico! What’s going on? I’m in the middle of an epic battle for the survival of the universe.”
“PolloLoco! Finally! I’ve been calling you for ages! You know? I was here, thinking... have you ever philosophized about the way lagoon water adheres to a girl’s skin when she comes out of bathing? It’s not just physics, PolloLoco, it’s art. It’s as if every drop tells a story, you know? A story of purity and... and other things my perverted mind can’t quite process, but which are fascinating. It’s a dance between gravity and sensuality, a... PolloLoco! Are you there?”
PolloLoco had already hung up, with a grimace of disgust and amusement. Zico and his “philosophies.” Just then, the phone rang again. Don Dramas. PolloLoco hesitated for a second, but answered.
“PolloLoco! It’s the end of the world! I saw it! I saw it with my own eyes, PolloLoco! Cinthia! With Tito! They were laughing! LAUGHING! And I’m here, my heart in pieces, like a porcelain vase falling from a skyscraper!” Don Dramas’s voice was a whirlwind of laments and hyperboles.
“Oh, Don Dramas! This again? You know Cinthia is Tito’s girlfriend. It’s not the end of the world. Calm down.”
“Calm down?! How can I calm down if my soul is shattered into a million tiny pieces, PolloLoco?! It’s a Greek tragedy, an opera of pain! And you, so calm, playing your little games! You don’t understand my suffering! My heart bleeds like an open wound in the desert!” Don Dramas continued, with a groan PolloLoco was sure was exaggerated.
PolloLoco sighed, rubbing his temple. “Yeah, yeah, Don Dramas. I can imagine. Cry a little, vent, and then have some hot chocolate. See you later.” And without waiting for a reply, PolloLoco hung up on him too.
It was then that he saw him. Across the arcade, at the Street Fighter II machine, was El Tuerto. It wasn’t the first time their paths had crossed, but it was the first time PolloLoco had truly noticed him. El Tuerto was a skinny guy, with greasy hair and an intense look in his one good eye. The other was covered by a black patch, giving him the air of a video game pirate. There was a kind of aura of defiance around him, a tense stillness that contrasted with the bustle of the place. PolloLoco felt a pang of something that wasn’t fear, but competitive curiosity. El Tuerto was a Street Fighter player, a different game, but the way he moved his hands, the concentration on his face, told PolloLoco he was a worthy rival. A comical, almost palpable tension formed between them, a silent rivalry born of mutual respect for thumb dexterity.
“PolloLoco! Master! My leader! It’s super late! Your mom is going to scold me if I don’t take you home, and I don’t want you to get scolded!” Tragadientes’s squeaky voice pulled him from his trance. Tragadientes, a thirteen-year-old boy, short and thin, with black hair and light brown skin, stood next to him, with an expression of absolute loyalty and a hint of desperation on his face. He had been waiting for him for hours, sitting on a bench outside BakaB, imagining the combos and characters that PolloLoco, his idol, was mastering. Tragadientes had no console at home, so every visit to the arcade was both torture and ecstasy, always hoping PolloLoco would share a bit of his glory.
PolloLoco turned, with an apologetic smile. “Ah, Tragadientes! Still here? I thought you’d gone to look for a tutorial on how to be as cool as me!”
“No way, PolloLoco! I’m waiting for you to learn from you! And, by the way, see if you can lend me some coins for Metal Slug! That way I can practice and be almost as good as you, my leader!” Tragadientes replied, his eyes shining with hope and unwavering admiration.
PolloLoco ran a hand over the back of his neck, scratching. “Uhm... I think I’m out of tokens, Tragadientes. I got carried away and... you know. My fingers have a life of their own when there’s a joystick nearby.” Then, with a quick gesture, he gently tapped Tragadientes on the head. “Stop fooling around, Tragadientes! Asking me for money? What insolence! If you want coins, go wash cars or sell gum! That’s how you earn things in life!” It was his usual excuse, spiced with a touch of drama and a paternal scolding. He always got carried away. He always ran out of tokens. He always left Tragadientes wanting more. It was a vicious cycle of addiction and disappointment, but Tragadientes, with his unwavering loyalty, always came back the next day, hoping for a new opportunity or, at least, a new funny scolding.
“It doesn’t matter, PolloLoco! Another day will be! There’s always another day for glory! But, are we leaving now?! Your mom is going to turn me into fried chicken if you don’t get home soon! And I don’t want to be an accomplice to your disappearance!” Tragadientes insisted, tugging lightly on PolloLoco’s sleeve, with a mix of urgency and unconditional support.
PolloLoco glanced at the wall clock, which read 7:45 PM. Holy cow! He had promised to be home by 6. His “trauma” with arcades was real. Once he started, it was as if an invisible force anchored him to the machine, erasing all notion of time and space. It was an addiction, he knew, but a glorious addiction. An addiction that, sometimes, cost him his peace of mind and his mother’s patience.
“Oh, man! It’s super late! My mom is going to skin me alive and use my hide to make a rug! Or worse, she’s going to make me wash dishes for a month! A month without touching a controller!” PolloLoco exclaimed, finally aware of the time and the terrible consequences. He hurried out of BakaB, with Tragadientes hot on his heels, almost like a loyal shadow.
Colonia 23 de Noviembre, a naval compound in Isla Mujeres, Quintana Roo, was an absolute contrast to the vibrant chaos of BakaB. The streets were impeccably clean, the houses aligned with military precision, and the silence was only broken by the distant murmur of the sea or the chirping of a cricket. It was a generally quiet and orderly place, walled, which gave it a sense of security, almost like a bubble. A place so tranquil that the mere sound of a sneeze could be considered a seismic event.
As they walked through the streets lit by streetlights that cast long, dancing shadows, PolloLoco tried to come up with a credible excuse for his tardiness. “I’ll tell my mom I stayed to help an old man carry some bags... of gold! No, that’s too cliché. Better... that I got lost chasing a cat... a talking cat that was telling me the secrets of the universe! And it told me that the secret to happiness was to play more King of Fighters.” Too childish, and too fanciful for his mother, who had a built-in lie detector and was also allergic to talking cats.
“PolloLoco! Those combos you did today in King of Fighters! Incredible! It looked like your fingers were pure magic!” Tragadientes exclaimed, his eyes shining with admiration. “Next time, I’m going to try to do them too! I’m going to practice until they come out as cool as yours!”
PolloLoco burst out laughing, patting him on the back. “Oh, Tragadientes! Don’t dream so big! You always get killed in the first minute! You finish faster than gum on the street! But hey, if you want to try, go ahead. Just don’t cry when you get beaten up.”
Suddenly, a tall, thin figure appeared out of nowhere, hands on his hips and an indignant expression on his face. It was Don Dramas, who had earned his nickname honestly. He was sixteen, the tallest of the group, and his brown hair fell over his eyes, giving him a perpetually melancholic air, as if the mere act of existing was an unbearable burden.
“PolloLoco! Finally! I’ve been waiting for you on the corner for half an hour! Half an hour! My mom is going to punish me for being out so late! This is a tragedy! A true catastrophe! My life is crumbling like a house of cards in a hurricane! Worse! Like a soufflé deflating in the oven of despair!” Don Dramas exclaimed, in a tone that suggested the end of the world was near, and that PolloLoco was the main culprit of Don Dramas’s impending personal apocalypse.
PolloLoco sighed, trying to suppress a smile. Don Dramas was his right-hand man, his most loyal friend, but also the most exaggerated and dramatic. “Oh, Don Dramas! It’s not that big a deal! I was just a little late. They’re not going to send you to Siberia for being late! At most, they’ll make you wash your brother’s socks for a week!”
“A little? A little is the time it takes you to say ‘hello’! This is an eternity! The eternity of my punishment! And all because of you, PolloLoco! Now I’m going to have to wash dishes for a month! A month! It’s the end of my social existence! My Instagram is going to cry tears of blood!” Don Dramas retorted, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, but very well acted, worthy of an Oscar.
Tragadientes burst into laughter, infected by the spectacle. He loved seeing Don Dramas in his dramatic mode. “Hahahaha! Don Dramas, you sound like a soap opera! Relax! They’re not going to take away your internet, man!”
PolloLoco rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright, calm down, both of you. Don Dramas, you look like a Mr. Mime with how skinny and crazy you get. And Tragadientes, you look like Dito, that ugly blob with mongoloid eyes. Let’s go home before it gets later and my mom decides it’s time to send us all to a military boarding school... where there are no arcades or internet!” The last part was enough to silence them both.
As the three walked together, Don Dramas’s drama dissipated a little, replaced by familiar camaraderie. They arrived at the neighborhood park, a green space with some leafy trees and a couple of benches. It was their meeting point, their headquarters. They sat on one of the benches, under the faint moonlight.
“You know what?” PolloLoco began, his voice taking on a more serious tone, but with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “One day, I’m going to be the best arcade player in the world. I’m going to go to international tournaments, I’m going to win all the prizes, and my name will be legend in the arcades! I’ll even have my own machine with my face engraved and a statue of myself made of tokens!”
Tragadientes nodded fervently, his eyes shining with the same vision. “Yes, PolloLoco! And I’ll be your manager! Or your assistant! The one who carries your tokens and brings you sodas! And if you get tired, I’ll massage your thumbs! I’ll even polish your joystick if necessary!”
PolloLoco looked at him with a raised eyebrow, an expression of comical disgust on his face. “Massage my thumbs?! Oh, Tragadientes, what things you say! That sounds very gay! Don’t make me think weird things about you, Tragadientes! Are you going to be the next Juan Gabriel? You’ll end up dancing like a butterfly.”
Don Dramas let out a loud laugh, pointing at Tragadientes. “Hahahaha! Yes, Tragadientes! I already see you in your tutu and sequins! The Juan Gabriel of Gamers!”
PolloLoco laughed even louder, elbowing Don Dramas. “Hahahahaha! Oh, you two crazy guys! You two are a lost cause! Between Juan Gabriel and the pervert who watches porn! What a team I got!”
PolloLoco smiled. These were his dreams, shared with his friends in that park. Big dreams, perhaps a little naive, but they gave them purpose, a spark in their teenage lives. The scent of grape bubblegum from BakaB had faded, replaced by the fresh salty scent of the nearby sea. The chaos of the machines had been replaced by the soft murmur of the night. But the essence of PolloLoco, the player, the dreamer, remained intact, waiting for his next game, his next victory, in the realm of pixels and buttons.
With laughter still echoing in the night air, the three friends got up from the bench. “Well, it’s time to get moving,” PolloLoco said, stretching. “Let’s go to the neighborhood, see what gossip awaits us there.” And so, between jokes and dreams of greatness, the Gamers headed towards the quiet streets of Colonia 23 de Noviembre, ready for whatever fate had in store for them, be it a new video game, a love drama, or, without knowing it yet, a mystery to solve.
