Gamers Con: The First Zak Steepleman Novel Read Online Free Page B

they were just sizing me up like a cut of meat for a barbecue.
    Well I guess that I would make a fairly decent barbecue, what with my rolls of fat . . . but they’d have to beat me first for that privilege.
    Our invigilator, it turned out, in all his dark-purple-polo-shirted glory, was named Harold. That was what his name badge read, anyway. He was going to make sure that none of us cheated. He would be the one with the final say in who got their hands on the All-Access Pass.
    As he brought us through to the plastic pod that would be our playing field, I glanced back over my shoulder to see that Dad had taken a seat on one of the steps back out in the concourse, and that he was back to his chess game.
    I guessed that—for him—this was something of a treat too.
    Back home Mum was always scolding him for constantly playing chess.
    Never letting his mobile leave his palm, except for chess night, of course, when he was actually playing chess in person with all his buddies.
    So I just left him to it.
    I know that—for some people—watching others playing video games is akin to torture . . . and, well, if that particular person doesn’t have a clue about what they’re doing, then I can’t say anything else except that I agree with them wholeheartedly.
    Harold had one of those spindly bodies, and I guessed that he was maybe in his late-twenties. His throat stuck out like an iguana’s, and he had lots of fluff all about his chin and neckline, and I guessed that—maybe—he was trying to grow a beard there, or something.
    As he led us through the wide variety of games we’d be playing, I noticed how he had a kind of booming voice, almost the complete opposite of what I’d have expected from someone of his body type . . . at least it caught me off guard.
    It turned out that the tournament would consist of a bunch of minigames: of slices of full games all stitched together. This was a specially prepared package, and not unusual at Gamers Con . . . though I did wonder whether they were putting too much effort into what was, essentially, a beginners’ tournament.
    We would play against one another, each of us with a gamepad the entire time.
    I guess that was the point where I felt my stomach sinking.
    If there’s one thing that I absolutely abhor , it’s single-screen—no matter how big that screen is—four-player mode.
    The reason is simple.
    Under those sorts of conditions—cramped on screen, and down on the floor what with everybody hunched together, their own controller in their hands—a strong element of luck gets thrown into the competition.
    And I don’t believe in luck.
    Not when it comes to video games.
    It’s all about skill.
    About how much you know about each game.
    Sure, there are those pro gamers who’ll get their panties all in a twist about bugs in games, and players who see their way to exploiting them. But, truth is, those are the sorts of pro gamers who don’t hang around too long because they obviously don’t know all the ins-and-outs of whatever game they just lost at . . .
    There’s no such thing as luck.
    Anyway, it seemed like I had no choice.
    It would be me versus these three fully grown men.

 
     
     
    7
     
     
    I DID IT.
    I’d like to say that it was tricky , that I almost came unstuck in places . . . but no .
    Truth is that all those gamers—if that’s what you could call them—were flat-average beginners.
    The funniest part was about halfway through when the screen announced that the next game to be played would be Footie Bonanza 500 . . . I remember overhearing a couple of the men there saying how they played it all the time, and then, with a slight nudge, and a muttered remark that Harold the Invigilator either chose not to hear, or didn’t hear—I’m guessing that the first one’s more likely given both men had some pretty sizeable muscles—they made a pact to take me out.
    To make sure I wouldn’t register any points in that minigame.
    So, guess they were a little