You’re always supposed to remember where you were for monumental junctures; JFK; 9/11; Shenmue III. Perhaps not. There was no frantic en masse hysteria jamming the telephone networks as relative scrambled to inform dearest. Water cannons. Riot vans. Plastic bullets. All obvious by there absence.Your Sega Apathy invigorates a sense of hatred in me for you, most likely. Shenmue III is the game - the only game - I want to play, ever. At that point in which the game falls in to my hands I will be complete, the perfect man. Human evolution will reach its pinnacle; we will all be perfect in form, shape and composition. Forget the day the monkey first grappled with femur, the moon landings or the wheel. Shenmue III is the day we become Homo Superior.Fittest survive, not the most elegant or graceful, the fittest. The Mona Lisa couldn’t stop a bullet, for that you need grey concrete. Shenmue is fragile; it needs its to be nurtured. Perhaps this baby is a mutant spawning not from its pedigree father - Suzuki-san – but from some unknown feeble womb of misconception? We cannot say.My heart raced and my palms began to perspire as my browser scrolled down Kikizo’s report, my brain cussing itself for its inability to process the photons pouring on to my eyes faster. Fever pitch. I picture myself, several months down the line, tapping credit card details in to Lik-Sang’s checkout. My mind spins on. The parcel in my hands. The game in my hands. Ryo Hazuki beaming in to my face. Rapture. My head spins and I hit the desk.I wake fifteen minutes later, wipe the spittle from my cheeks and wonder what all the fuss was about. ‘Ahh’, I say to myself, ‘Shenmue’.