What’s The Score, Dude?

CritShot groaned a grumbling, watery exhale, followed by a dry hiccup as he looked at himself in the corner of his monitor on his stream. Dead silence hung in the air, and by this point Crit was nearing blackout.

His face hung heavy, a faint sadness sitting in his drunk, empty eyes. His personality was on autopilot in this state, and he remained there in the middle of being the star of his own stream.

Crit used to be somebody in gaming, one of the early streamers of a popular competitive online game on a video platform. His “critical” headshot compilations and live reactions were beloved by the generation he grew up with.

He was a regular guy who found a certain level of success, but he never really had a plan and just kept going the same way he had since leaving high school. While his peers moved on, he stayed right where he was, still living in his mother’s house. She didn’t mind, especially since his father had been dead for years.

Time moved on, but for Crit much stayed the same. He still wore the same baseball hat and athletic leisurewear, a style that dated him without him realizing it. Now he streamed “in real life,” which usually consisted of him getting drunk at his computer in his room, with the occasional clip of his behavior spreading around.

“What’s the score, dude?” he quipped, his popular catchphrase, before leaning to the side with his eyes closed and breathing heavily through his nose. The stream had been going for over four hours at that point, the glow of the monitor filling the cramped space as he drank his favorite flavored liquor. His viewers were there for the spectacle. Messages rolled in — “I bet he’s gonna puke,” “drink more!,” “call a girl” — the kind of comments that fed into what they were waiting to see.

A loud pounding at the door cut through the room, drawing more attention from the viewers than from Crit himself. A second round followed, louder this time. “Police. This is a wellness check. We need to see if you’re okay.”

The voice barely registered. Crit’s closed eyes faintly squinted, but he didn’t respond. The door opened and a police officer stepped in with two paramedics, the officer flicking his flashlight on and off into Crit’s face. “Your mom let us in. Said you’re so drunk you could hurt yourself… C’mon, wake up, bud.”

Crit didn’t react. His eyes remained closed, his mouth slightly agape, too far gone to really respond, or maybe just unwilling to face what was happening. The paramedics stepped in and tried to get him to his feet, and after some effort his eyes started to open. Seeing that he wasn’t going to choke on his own vomit, they decided to get him into bed and move on.

They lifted him, his weight sagging between them as they steadied him upright. One of the paramedics took off Crit’s hat, exposing thinning, balding hair that the loose fit had managed to hide, making him look older than he let on. Crit swayed and stumbled backward into the space between his bed and the computer desk.

“Woah, woah. Let’s get back up,” one of them said, trying to pull him upright again.

“What’s the score, dude?” Crit muttered, his eyes closing once more.

The officer, catching sight of himself on the computer screen, walked over to the desk. He put his hand on the mouse, moved it, and clicked, ending the stream.