In the Weeds – A Hot Streak Review

The smell was unbearable. It was a mixture of sweat and piss; the suit forever marked with the fluids of previous captives.

His eyes burned but all he could do was feebly rub his forearm around the eyeholes and wince through it. Looking up to the crowd, the weight of pity and doubt fell like a shadow across the field. Self-loathing and regret followed. Then the horn sounded.

Shit.

From a distance, all that could be seen was a bipedal hotdog learning how to walk. Hurley sputtered along the turf like a three-wheeled shopping cart scattering its contents. He wasn’t ready for the obnoxious bear from Glenbrook, the one they called Gobbler, and the shoulder caught him right in the ribcage.

A yelp of agony covered the sound of cracking bone. He spun around and fell to the ground as if he’d been shot.

It was a long moment before the black spots in his vision diminished and he had a sense of where he was. Hurley was heaving. Then Hurley was hurling. In addition to the sweat and the piss, there was now a scent of vomit and whiskey. He marked the suit just as it had marked him.

GET UP! GET UP, DUMMY!

Hurley couldn’t see the man in the crowd. He could only hear his insults.

He gathered every inch of strength in his body to get back up on his skinny hotdog feet. Before he knew it, he was stumbling forward in the direction of what looked like a finish line. Mum, the oversized British Royal of Queveland, was only a blur on his right as Hurley picked up speed. His heart raced. He could still taste the vomit, but it was intermingled with a hint of victory.

Hurley never saw the beer bottle hurtling through the air, but he certainly felt it crack off his meat dome and pop his brain like a can of confetti. As his vision faded once again, all he could make out was the toothless man in the crowd shouting.

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You ever wanted to play as clumsy mascots bumbling around in a footrace? This isn’t the game for you. In Hot Streak, players take on the role of the degenerate gamblers, you know, the lowlifes slinging insults and betting their rent money in a desperate attempt to even up with a loan shark.

This is a simple game, one amplified by attitude and passion. Once the horn sounds and the hooligans start humping it up-field, everything is out of the player’s hands. It’s much more Ready Set Bet than it is Heat: Pedal to the Metal. Each turn a card is drawn which specifies one of the four mascots and how they move. Sometimes they stumble forward. Occasionally they veer into another competitor. They often fall down. It’s a comical display that’s just as much about laughter and disbelief as it is about grit and determination. That’s a huge chunk of the game’s appeal.

The twist is that the central movement deck is not symmetrical. Before the footrace begins, a subset of cards is randomly selected from a large pool. This smaller group will constitute the entirety of the deck in play, with the remaining portion placed back in the box.

The subset is displayed faceup for everyone to examine. Often, things are lopsided. For instance, Dangle, the bloated fish repping the underdogs of Ashford, may receive only a single card. It could even be “Fall Down”. Dude shouldn’t have spent so much time pregaming Taco Bell.

Ain’t no one betting on Dangle tonight.

After seeing the spread of cards, players take turns drafting bets. These are explicit values displayed on large cardboard tokens. They list the payout for a specific racer to finish first, second, or third. As each mascot has betting tickets drafted, the payouts begin to decrease. This means that a particularly juiced competitor will present diminishing returns, while a neglected one may offer a more lucrative reward if they defy the odds.

It’s an interesting and straightforward process. Texture is added with the delightful side bets. Only one is presented each race, and they contain amusing options such as “will two mascots fall down at the same time?” Or “will Hurley finish in the bottom 2?” They’re often interesting and not at all obvious decisions.

Since bets are drafted out in the open, cliques form organically with players sharing interests. This leads to wonderful lines being drawn for the cavalcade of trash talking that ensues.

But wait a second, one more thing happens before the actual ballet of absurdity commences.

Each player has a hand of three movement cards. These are dealt from the main assortment before its returned to the box, and you can’t quite be sure of what anyone is holding. One is selected by each participant to add to the racing deck before it kicks off. This allows a modicum of agency, a way to shake up the odds. You can play the spoil and toss in a “Turn Around” card on a crowd favorite, or maybe you attempt to boost a racer with a weaker card selection. This decision intertwines with the betting rather tidily, allowing for just the right amount of influence to instill hope.

The race is slapstick. It’s loud, it’s fast, it’s uncouth. Your only hope to influence the competition is to yell louder than the fool sitting next to you.

But say you don’t yell. Maybe your people are as rowdy as the crowd at the 12th hole of Augusta National right before Tiger tees off. Hot Streak is not for you. You should treat it like an artifact plucked from the ruins of Chernobyl.

Without raw enthusiasm, without vocalized stupidity, without mirth, Hot Streak is the thinnest of experiences. There are no decisions beyond that one card and your two bets. You really have to enjoy shouting at a dude in a hot dog suit. It’s all spectacle. There’s nothing else here.

The spectacle is something to behold. It’s reminiscent of the collisions in Magical Athlete, one of the all-time stupid games. No, I don’t mean stupid in the pejorative sense.

There’s a central bargain to games like this. You have to engage in a level of commitment, but you have to do so without a sense of seriousness. There’s a thin line there that some people have no interest in brushing up against. This isn’t a serious game. But it is a hell of a good time.

One thing this type of experience offers is an emotional reset. It can cleanse the palate after playing something cerebral like The Gallerist or Arcs. It’s only 20 minutes, and it’s so engaging that you will likely have to play twice.

The excellence here is in the details. The premise is perfectly in line with the game’s ethos. The box is a hoot, with a plastic viewscreen allowing you to see the four mascots front and center. This is right on, as those four dimwits are the stars of the show. You’re on the outside looking in, an observer, and just happy to be invited and partake in the calamity.

The track slides out from the box like a roller shade. It’s an oddity, one that only adds to the farce. The box also functions as a podium, with the racers placed atop on their finishing position. Everything here is all in.

This is a bizarre callout, but if anything, Hot Streak reminds me of the spirit of a Saturday Night Live sketch. Specifically, David S. Pumpkins.

Stay with me.

David S. Pumpkins is maybe my favorite SNL bit ever. Really. This is primarily because Tom Hanks is absolutely committed to the role. He is dedicated in a way only an Oscar winner could manage. He is David S. Pumpkins for those five enrapturing minutes.

Hot Streak is similarly committed to its purpose. There are backstories for each of its mascots. Six pages of “life outcomes” which offer a glimpse into your future based on fiscal achievement. The physical product is passionately devoted.

It’s an outlandish affair, one that stands apart from most everything else we play. You can draw parallels to Ready Set Bet, Magical Athlete, and Long Shot: The Dice Game, but none of those things are this thing. Hot Streak is one of a kind. And it’s everything it wants to be. It’s the maximal version of itself.

NOW GET UP, YA DUMMY!

 

A review copy of the game was provided by the publisher.

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