Once again he woke up uncomfortably; his own wiry hair brushing against his cheek.
“Mrrraahhh,” he grumbled to himself, “I gotta stop leaving the window open. Goddamned mustache.”
He had asked his agent many times if he could shave it, but always got the same answer. It took too long to grow back. It was too tied to his identity. What if he got a gig tomorrow? What would Nintendo say?
Waluigi’s outfit. Every day.
But the thought of gigs did not excite Waluigi the way it used to. Everything just seemed so predictable now. Mario Party games and the occasional sports title was all that ever came his way. Wario got his own game ages ago, so Waluigi felt gypped. He had also paid his dues, so when would he get his chance?
“Mrrraahhhh,” he grumbled again and stumbled to his feet, leaving his purple comforter in a mess at the foot of his king-sized bed. “Not that I ever get to use that extra space,” he muttered to himself.
The lanky man gave the impression that he weighed far more than his unhealthy 125 pounds as he plodded down his unnecessarily long hallway to his luxurious bathroom. His extravagant home used to be a source of pride for the pseudo-villain, but nowadays it just made him feel lonely. He had intentionally avoided looking at the time as he woke up, but habit could not be broken and he glanced at his bathroom clock. Shit. Three o’clock. Why did he have so many clocks in his house, anyway?
He glared in the mirror, trying to not hate what he saw too much. He pulled at his skin and adjusted his hat, realizing the fact that he had slept with it on yet again. Maybe a shower would help him get a fresh start. Maybe a shower would bring him back to his days of wide-eyed optimism and unadulterated enthusiasm.
But pinning large hopes on small deeds had not worked for Waluigi in the past and it was not about to change today. A long shower and a stroll into his walk-in closet full of identical sets of sweaters and overalls did nothing to soothe the storm in his soul.
With the day already wasted, Waluigi did the only other activity he knew how to do while sober and called his agent.
“Wal? What’s up, man?”
“Jerry, I can’t do it, Jerry. I need a gig.”
“Oh not this again,” the wary voice on the other side managed, “look, you just did Mario Party 9 and you know that I’m trying to lock down that Nintendo Land cameo.”
“No. A real gig. I’ve been around for twelve goddamned years and still haven’t even appeared in the Smash Bros lineup.”
Not as confident as he looks.
Jerry seemed to be struggling on the other line. He had bigger aspirations than representing C-list Nintendo characters, but nobody saw him complaining about it. He used his old standby line.
“Bu-but you’re Waluigi!”
“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?! MRRAAAHHHHH!”
Instead of calming him down, the mention of his identity sent Waluigi into a rage. He threw his phone against the wall and ran up his spiral staircase, flailing his arms wildly. He stomped into his room, ripping the posters from his wall.
“WHO AM I?!” He yelled, looking at his own tiny image on the Mario Party 7 poster before crumpling it in his hands. He ran back into his bathroom and ripped the hat off his head. He glared back into his eyes. If not now, then never. Then he grabbed an end of his ridiculous mustache in each hand and pulled. Blinding pain seared through Waluigi’s face, but he grit his teeth until he had pulled the hair from his face. Then, seeing his own bloody reflection, the lanky man passed out.
Who knows what time it was when he finally came to again. He was too scared to get up and look back in the mirror. The world was falling down around him. For over a decade he had been so wrapped up in being “Waluigi: Luigi’s Rival” that he had forgotten who he was. He had forgotten what gave life meaning, and he was not sure he could find a way to remember.
He crawled out of the bathroom and down the stairs, ignoring the throbbing he felt where his mustache used to be, but unable to ignore the taste of his own blood that had dripped into his mouth. He made his way to the kitchen were there was still a functional telephone. He keyed in the only number he had memorized that was not Jerry’s.
“Yes, Birdo? I know. I miss you too. I’m sorry.”
