After recuperating from my devastating defeat at the hands of the sinister Sevens, it appeared that a new plan was in order. I clearly wasn’t good enough to take on a serious challenger yet… or was I? Clearly, I had been called to this surprisingly verdant sports themed wasteland for some reason. Somewhere deep in my heart of hearts, I just KNEW I was destined to save this kingdom – or at least spend untold hours of my life chronicling my attempts to do so for a “fanbase” of less than 2,000 readers.
No. The more I thought about it, it was just impossible. I was great at tennis. My “D” ranked shoes, racket, and shirt, however, were not. They had abandoned me in my time of need. What I needed was “C” ranked gear. Gear that would appropriately “C”ompliment my prophesied tennis greatness.
Ah, the mysterious northern town! This had to be where I would find the racket of destiny. It was time for another pilgrimage. But to where? Germany? Finland? Maybe… Buffalo? Western Europe had been just a short jump from Chicago, after all. Regardless, I concluded that my quest would have to proceed northward. Whether it was German beer, Baltic herring, or hot wings, I was up for the challenge. So I started walking…
Through the foothills….
Through the fjords and the forests…
Over bridges and through more fjords and forests…
Between secluded sylvan streams…
Into barren river vall…. OH FOR GOD’S SAKE, WORLD COURT TENNIS! HOW COULD YOU JUST SHOW ME THE FRIGGING TOWN IN THE DISTANCE AND MAKE ME WALK FOR ANOTHER FIFTEEN MINUTES. I HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO, YOU KNOW! PEOPLE HAVE JOBS! I’M NOT EVEN FACTORING IN THE FACT THAT A MENTAL INVALID STOPPED AND DEMANDED THAT I PLAY TENNIS WITH HIM EVERY 5 SECONDS.
YEAH, NICE HAT PAL. REAL GOOD DISGUISE. THAT HAT CAN’T HIDE YOUR HIDEOUSLY DEFORMED ORBITAL BONES. I CAN TELL YOU’RE THE SAME DOUCHE THAT TOLD ME TO GO NORTH IN THE FIRST PLACE. I’LL ONLY RUN INTO COPIES OF YOU WITH CLOWN LIPS, A HOCKEY MASK, OR SUNGLASSES ABOUT 15 MORE TIMES BEFORE THE END OF THIS THING. WOULD IT HAVE KILLED THEM TO PROGRAM A FEW MORE FACES?
*ahem* Sorry about that. Got caught up in my passion for tennis there. Anyway… after questing through the wild nuclear forests of the North, I finally happened upon a town.
Since my journey had taken me in a generally northwesterly direction, I reckoned that I was somewhere in the middle of what the ancient ones called the Atlantic (you know, in the times before the great tennis cataclysm). My best guess? Reykjavik.
Good God! How?
Looked like sushi was on the menu. Most expert cartographers will tell you that east, or perhaps west, is the best direction to head if you want to get to Japan from France. Conceivably, I could have taken Santa’s Shortcut… but that would have required me to head northeast, not northwest. I was now convinced. I was in some sort of temporally distorted Pangaea that had somehow been filled with modern cities and populated with tennis playing lobotomite clones. Or maybe androids. It was the only explanation. The real horrors of Tennis Kingdom lied in the hidden truth of its origins. What had happened here?
Tokyo was a modest hamlet – far from the vibrant electric metropolis I knew it to be in my home realm. Six huts, a shop, and a giant lake. I was eager to hear what its inhabitants had to offer.
Fortunately, I got two of ’em. HA!
That’s a relief, I haven’t been vaccinated for that particular affliction.
I am quite happy with my size, and don’t call me “racket.”
Don’t try to butter me up, pal. I can tell you’re a member of the Sevens series of lobotomite androids. I’ll never forget that face.
Anyway, Tokyo didn’t have much to offer. It DID have a shop filled with “C” ranked gear, though. “C,” as it turns out, is far more expensive than “D.” I needed to acquire some more Tennis Yuan… and that meant more… well, tennis, what else?
I hurriedly left Tokyo, back through the fjords, forests, and valleys. My destination? Paris. If I needed to mug some tennis rapists, it would only be more enjoyable if they were French. After a solid 2 hours of tennis-assaulting some Gauls, I had amassed a princely sum of Tennis Drachmas. I warped back to Tokyo and equipped myself some beautiful “C” ranked gear. “C.” It stands for “Champion.”
While wandering around the Parisian wilderness, I noticed that there was a small peninsula to the east that I had not yet explored. My curiosity getting the better of me, I just had to take a look.
A tennis court. Literally, about a ten second walk from Paris. I silently cursed this Parisian, who had sent me on a ten minute death march towards the doom known as Sevens.
This court was inhabited by a gentleman named Witt. Like Sevens, he also possessed a pearl, which for some reason, I craved. What had happened to Tennis Kingdom? Who exactly was the Evil Tennis King? The answers – they just had to be buried under those pearls. It was time to show Witt just what a “C”hampion was.
Oh, what? You don’t have 15 minutes to spare to watch me drunkenly force my way through 8-bit tennis? Fine. Here’s the synopsis:
I had tasted blood. Sevens would know retribution.
NEXT TIME: VENGEANCE!