Midnight Musings: Thoughts on HOTLINE MIAMI
Psst…I’m playing this game, right? It’s called HOTLINE MIAMI.
You should be playing it too.
Don’t ask why. I know you want to. But don’t. It’ll ruin it.
Just play it. Be the guy with the mask, with the gun, with the pipe, with the punch. Be the guy with the guts, get the glory. Be the guy who smashes faces with doors and saves prostitutes with a shotgun. Be that guy. Don’t ask why.
Ask when, maybe. When’s the next job? When’s the next time I get to bust in, unload a clip into the room, break that glass, jump a goon and slice his face in two with a katana? When’s the next time I get to stumble into a bar, half-beaten, adrenaline pumping, afterburners popping, the smell of gunsmoke and cocaine in my hair, get asked “where’s your girlfriend? Oh right, she died”, get a free pizza? Ask when.
And ask how, like RIGHT NOW. Ask how it feels to crush a skull with your boot, to feel it give way under the force of a kick, to watch it pop like a blood balloon and splatter on the wall, but to not watch too long because another goon in a white Member’s Only jacket is right behind you with a shiv. Ask how is it that you love that he has a shiv, even though it’ll slice your silly stomach right open and spill your fragile guts on the floor, but still means that if you beat his stupid face in first then you get the shiv and shove it in to some other poor bastard’s silly stomach and watch his fragile guts spill out on the floor.
Then maybe ask what. Like what the fuck is that guy doing with a horse mask? A chicken mask? An owl mask? Are they masks at all? What is that pizza for, anyway? Is there cocaine in the pizza too? What is a gang of white Member’s Only jacket-clad gangsters doing in Miami, circa 1989, armed to the teeth with shivs and shotguns and katanas, running a prostitution ring servicing only one PCP-amped Afro-American Badass and wiring doors with explosives? What the fuck are you doing driving the most badass car in the world, a DeLorean, through the slums of Miami, circa 1989, picking up free martinis, old VHS tapes, and taking phone jobs for? What does it mean that you always have to choose a mask to wear when you murderize a whole platoon of these white Member’s Only jacket-clad gangsters?
At the end of it, I guess you can ask why. Ask why you can’t stop dreaming about a disembodied horse-head mask. Ask why you can’t stop wishing you drove a DeLorean through the slums of Miami, circa 1989, beating the shit out of deadly, white Member’s Only jacket-clad gangsters. Ask why it feels so good to crush a man’s skull like a blood pumpkin against a pristine white wall with your boot. Ask why there aren’t more opportunities to round a corner, blast a guy in the face with a shotgun, bum rush the next guy with a shiv, and then bust through the door, slamming some other guy’s face in with it, and then hurl that empty shotgun into the face of the poor bastard standing in the middle of the room, just so you can pounce on his stupid face, grab your katana, and slice is stupid fucking head in two, spilling what little blood is left in his poor, stupid brain all over the floor after that shotgun you threw at him knocked him clean on his ass.
Maybe ask yourself, “Why aren’t I playing HOTLINE MIAMI RIGHT NOW?”