Minecraft Turned My Child Into A Monster

I knew this game was trouble. I just knew it. Note: This article is a parody written in response to a News.com.au article with the same title. Also: Mormons are cool. There’s nothing wrong with being a Mormon. I love Mormons.(new Image()).src = 'https://capi.connatix.com/tr/si?token=995c4c7d-194f-4077-b0a0-7ad466eb737c&cid=872d12ce-453b-4870-845f-955919887e1b'; cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "995c4c7d-194f-4077-b0a0-7ad466eb737c" }).render("79703296e5134c75a2db6e1b64762017"); }); Minecraft. The Craft part I could handle. Craft is good. They have craft at my son’s Sunday School. They make things there. They draw pictures of Jesus. Zaccheus. Animals go in two by two. I like craft. Who doesn’t like craft? But Mines? Mines are bad. They’re dark. Small spaces. Exploitation of labour.The Australian economy, so dependent on the loops of lucre, the endless shift of dust and earth, caving as it were to the spiritual weakness of men and their infernal machines. Mines are a gateway to hell itself. Minecraft. Mine. Craft. But I let my son play. Why wouldn’t I? All his friends were playing. Talking about it. I didn’t want him to be left out? Who wants their child removed from simple pleasures? Mormons. That’s who. I didn’t want my son to become a Mormon. So it was, on that fateful day, that I reluctantly handed my flesh and blood an iPad and told him to play. Play this game my child, or become a Mormon. That is your choice. He didn’t want to play at first. His bottom lip quivered. I picked him up by the hair, pulled him close, close enough to feel the flicker of spittle on his face as I screamed “SON, DO YOU WANT TO BECOME A MORMON? BECAUSE IF YOU WANT TO BECOME A MORMON THERE’S THE GODDAMN DOOR YOU MORMON LOVER”. And that’s when I threw him. Headfirst into the naughty cupboard and locked the door. I slid the spittle covered iPad ‘neath the door alongside a hand-written message: PLAY MINECRAFT OR BECOME A MORMON. I left him there, checking up every so often, just to make sure that that he was bathing in the white light of that devilish technology and trickery. He must become one with the world, lest he stumble down darker paths. So he played. I watched as his dead eyes flickered and danced beneath the lights of your so-called Minecraft. That game your children play, learn from. Is this what it means to be human? To raise a child in this broken world? I stroked my weathered beard ‘neath a furrowed brow and pondered the mysteries. Minecraft. Mine. Craft. Minecraft When willst thou unlock thy mysteries? How? Twas but three days later I began noticing the change. I unlocked the cupboard door, intent as I was upon feeding my son his daily dose of rabbit stew and minced potatoes. His hair was raggled, some might say taggled. These are naught but words, I’m merely trying to describe the chaos of my son’s hair. Such is the way of things, of human hair, matted as it was with grease, covering his face, betraying a dark secret. His teeth had grown, expanded in length, rendering themselves sharp, sharper than any human teeth I had seen. His demeanour too, had taken a shift for the worse. Lack of human contact will transform a man, make him wary, shatter his sense of compassion. This was different. More pronounced. More, what’s the word? Feral. I quickly shut the door, bolted it. I slumped to the ground and collected myself. I wandered towards the window and gazed n98 up at the sky in despair. I bathed in the orange hue of a waning moon. Minecraft. Mine. Craft. Minecraft? One week later. I awoke to the sound of growling. Animal growling, rattling commotion. I ran down the stairs, stumbling, regaining pp slot my balance in panic. Where was the noise coming from? What was that noise? Somewhere in some lost, dusty ventricle in my blackened heart I already knew. I approached the door that led to my son. That led to Minecraft. All of a sudden. The noise stopped. Silence. I creaked open the door. The soft white-light of Minecraft creeped through the gap. Breathing in the corner. The sound of slobber pit-pat-pattering. One deep breath. I flicked the switch. Light. A cupboard now drowning in light. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was this a hallucination? Some kind of strange nightmare? Before me, panting. Snarling, growling menacingly in the corner. My son. My son had become a werewolf. Minecraft turned my child into a monster. I’ve learned much from this experience. So much. I’ve learned that Minecraft has the unholy power to change children into beasts. To alter their genetic make-up to the point where the presence of a full moon transforms them into werewolves. I’ve learned much about its demonic powers. Where to now for my son and I? Who can tell what the future holds. My son is a werewolf and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I was foolish, wasn’t I? So foolish to think that I could stave off mormonism with the strange worldly allure of Minecraft. I was wrong. I was so very wrong. I sleep lightly now my friends. ‘Neath the feathery down of my midnight pillow lies a pistol. Loaded, cocked and super slot ready to fire. One silver bullet for my son, for Minecraft has transformed him into a monster. Top image by dylan613 This post originally appeared on Kotaku Australia, where Mark Serrels is the Editor. You can follow him on Twitter if you’re into that sort of thing.