Duckie Nukem

For the Boots and I, the resurrection of Duke Nukem from inevitable and totally justifiable creative death is the ultimate expression of the bottomless pit of cynicism that now grips the big players in the gaming industry.

What does that decrepit old IP have that it can possibly offer a modern and go-ahead audience that demands either clinical SF or semi-realistic military settings from its shooters? Why would anyone want to step into the shoes of Duke Nukem when there are literally thousands of more interesting and engaging games out there?

The answer, in part at least, comes to me when I fall over in my parents’ kitchen. The irony is that the floor is perfectly smooth and level, but I have very little experience walking on tiles that aren’t smashed to buggery. So I fall over and hit my head on the counter. It’s a big hit: everything just goes blurred and prismatic. Colours, shapes, sizes, shadows, all jumble and turn in on themselves…

…and when reality snaps back into focus, I’m literally a fly on the wall in a casting agent’s office in San Francisco in 1977. Jacques Morali, flush with success from the first Village People album, is trying to put together a bunch of dancers to back lead singer Victor Willis. The ad in the paper says “Macho Types Wanted: Must Dance and Have a Moustache.”

The kid auditioning in front of Morali, Willis and some sallow thing from wardrobe doesn’t have a moustache. Though he does have reasonable pecs and biceps, a blond crew-cut and Ray-Bans.

“Mon ami, I don’t get it,” says Morali. “Which one are you supposed to be?”

“I’m the Commando,” says the kid, and aims an inexpert karate kick at nothing in particular.

“Then why are you wearing an orange… whatisit… singlet?”

“It’s not a singlet, it’s a combat leotard,” says the kid.

“I can dig it,” says Victor Willis, “he’s smooth, he’s fabulous. See? It’s all ironic, all queer and quirky. The bandolier with shotgun shells is really a saucy pair of suspenders. And the jeans! My god girl, you’ve got buns of steel!”

The kid smiles. He does a little soft-shoe shuffle and spins around. “I work out,” he says.

“Je ne sais pas,” says Morali. “I mean, yes it is a gay band, oui, it’s supposed to be over the top and camp and fabulous. But…” He sits back and sort of sums up the kid’s whole package with a flap of one wrist that’s part sneer, part fatherly concern. “How old are you, petit garçon?”

“I’m sixteen,” says the kid.

“Oh yeah babe?” says Victor Willis. “When, next Christmas?”

“Look,” says the kid. “I know I have what it takes to be a big star. And I know it’s our time, yeah? Queer and proud. The Village is going to be the new Haight-Ashbury –“

“What?” says Willis.

“- and I want to be part of the Village People. As the Commando. Give me a chance, you won’t regret it and other clichés.”

Morali slumps in his director’s seat and steeples his long and creepy fingers in front of his long and creepy nose.

“Okay,” he says. “There comes a time in every counter-culture music producer’s career, oui? When he stands in the last shadow of darkness before a bright new dawn and he must ask himself: it is possible for a gay pop band to be TOO gay?”

“What are you saying?” asks Willis.

“I’m saying he’s too gay. This kid, he is too gay.”

“I am not!” screeches the kid. “I’m butch!”

Morali shakes his head, kind of like a dog with a tick in its ear. “Non-non,” he says. “I am sorry. Too gay, I am sorry. That’s all. Thank you, thank you for your time.”

“This is bull-plop!” screams the kid. “I’ll show you! I’ll show all of you! The music industry is dead! Have you heard about these computer things? They have these computer things now! I’ll get on those computer things, in some kind of computerised entertainment. Yeah! Science-fiction! I’ll be so over-the-top butch you’ll kick yourselves stupid! Stupider! I’ll… I’ll have a ray gun and save naked chicks from aliens and say things like about how I’m here to kick ass and chew bubble gum and I’m all out of bubble gum! Then I’ll get old and fat and take steroids and sit around pumping iron and saying how I’m looking for some alien toilet to park my bricks in! I’ll be so stupidly macho I won’t even have to grow a stupid moustache!”

“Sheesh sweetheart,” says Willis. “Who gave you the acid?”

“He did!” screams the kid, pointing at the sallow thing from wardrobe. The sallow thing just makes an exaggerated kissy face, so the kid spins on his heel and minces out.

“You’re right,” says Willis, touching up his lipstick. “He really was way too gay.”

And when I come to, I think I understand a little of why Duke Nukem is getting another game, and which untapped market Gearbox thinks it’s targeting.