Six points, dangerous dork. Most of the questions I answered "yes" to pertained to video game wrath, of which I have plenty.
One of my most vivid memories related to game-rage took place in the deserts of Call of Duty 4. I was on my tenth prestige and had had the same killstreak for over three months. Every time I came within a kill or two of topping it, I'd get over-eager and do something stupid that would result in my untimely death. I recognized that I was the one at fault, and I accepted it.
One game, however, proved to be a little too much.
I think it was on Ambush, and I was literally within one kill of surpassing my seemingly impassable killstreak. Determined not to make a foolish move that would result in my imminent, virtual demise, I crawled and crouched my way around the map, checking every corner for a camping n00b or perched sniper. I dodged death for several minutes, hiding behind walls to escape random bullets and jumping around corners to clear cleverly placed claymores.
For those few minutes, I didn't see a single member of the OpFor. I was at a complete loss, having slowly made my way from one spawn to the next without making a single kill.
On the verge of stupidity, I was about to take a place at an MG and start spraying when I spotted my victim. The victim. The idiot who would go down as being the chump to finally give me the satisfaction of beating my own killstreak.
I mean, he was just sitting there. Minding his own business, staring off into a corner, occasionally teabagging a rock. The guy was at a total loss, off in his own little world far-separated from the cold reality of Call of Duty.
Deciding to incorporate a bit of sass into my historic kill, I sprinted up behind the turban-clad warrior, intending to leap into the air and plunge my dagger into the soft skin of his darkly-coloured genitals. I closed the distance quickly, relishing the thought of beating myself at what I did best.
And then, out of nowhere, the screen flashed red and I watched in horror as my Marine's lifeless body was thrown through the air, arms flailing and head spinning. He landed with a rather sickening thud on top of a wall, back leg twitching and right arm sticking through a window.
I didn't know what to think. Had the Jihadist in the corner prepared a trap, setting down a satchel of C4 and waiting for me to take that one step too close? No, no. Nothing so devious as that.
I watched the KillCam, aghast, as a player clear on the other side of the map did a taunting little spin. He reached down below to the level of his groin, picked up a grenade, and raised it high above his head. With a strength reserved specifically for warriors of the Mujahadeen, he hurled it hundreds of feet, across a low row of destroyed homes, burning cars and a sabotaged tank. It bounced off of a high wall and landed, predictably, right at the feet of my soldier, exploding and ending his life in a haze of shrapnel.
Never before having been exposed to such a wanton and poorly-timed act of malice, I stood up, ripped my headset off, and let out a scream. Without thinking, I grabbed my controller and hurled it as fast and as hard as I could at the television screen, watching as little bits of glass and plastic danced across the floor. I was angry, and I had every right to be. My killstreak had been ended. My character was dead, lying supine in a windowsill. And somewhere, some child was going to grow up without a father.
Justice had not been served. Life as I had known it had ended.
