Death Predator

“You should be called Death Predator,” my daughter said.

This conversation had started like most of ours. Don't get me wrong, my son and I have long and in depth conversations, but he's reached the age of reason. My daughter and I are still at the phase where we don't let logic influence our version of reality. (Anyone that plays vampire-zombie-Barbies has a loose grip on the social glue that binds our society together.)

My daughter and I were relaxing after a long day. We were both avoiding her homework, so the obvious choice was a round of Halo. (If you haven't experienced Halo, it's what's called a first person shooter. (I quickly learned this means the first person that sees me, shoots me. On the surface, this may seem like a stupid genre... Well, even in the middle it is a stupid genre.) The goal of the game is to kill other people. Usually, you work as a team and move around different maps. When you get killed, you get reborn and are back into the battle.)

“Which one are you?” My daughter asked as the game loaded.

“I'm WillowyFlipper.” (Before I get any more grief, this is the name the game gave me. I haven't changed it yet, and now, it's kinda a point of pride.)

“That's a weird name.”

“I know.”

“Wow, he shot you in the head.”

“I noticed,” I said as my character lay in a pool of blood.

“Did the same person just kill you again?”

“Yeah.”

“You should duck, next time. Oh wait, you're dead again.”

“Yeah.” (Ok, I was getting a little bitter by now.)

“I didn't even see the guy that killed you that time.”

(The sad part is, the time it took you to read that is how fast it took me to die each time.)

“You need a scarier name,” my daughter declared after my run of spectacular deaths.

“What? WillowyFlipper is a terrifying name.”

(This is where it gets embarrassing. You'll have to imagine an eight-year old blond girl who's had a rough day at school and is bitter at the world. (From what I understand, Friday spelling tests are the worse things in the world.))

“Oooooooh... I'm WillowyFlipper. I'm soooooo scary,” She said this waving her little hands around and in an entirely too sarcastic voice. “See? Not scary at all.” Said that way, she did have a point. But I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Did you just kill someone?” There was far too much surprise and disbelief in her voice.

“Yes! They are afraid of WillowyFlipper now!”

“Dad, he wasn't afraid.”

“But I killed him. Did you see?” I honestly didn't believe it either.

“But he wasn't afraid. You should change your name to what's that thing that eats others?”

I was impressed that I remembered to censor my first several answers... “Predator?”

“Yeah! That's it. You should change your name to Death Predator. That'll make them afraid of you and you'll kill them easier.”

I couldn't argue with her logic. And I certainly couldn't do worse that I currently was. “What about Intestine JumpRoper?”

That got me a thoughtful look. “What?”

“Intestine JumpRoper.”

“That not scary, that's just gross.”

“If I tore out your intestines and used them for a jump rope, that'd be pretty scary, wouldn't it?”

“It would kill me. You wouldn't want to kill your own only daughter, would you?” (She does have an annoying habit of playing the daughter-guilt trump card whenever it suits her purpose.) “And it's still gross,” she dismissed my awesome name. “You should be Death Predator. Did that hand grenade just blow your head off?”

I don't know what was more disturbing. That she knew what a hand grenade was or that she wasn't upset that her own father's head was completely blown off. Kids now-a-days are so inured to violence and death. I think maybe it's time to go back to wholesome vampie-zombie-Barbies.