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There is something cathartic about shooting another human being, something satisfying about seeing his head
 snap back violently at the moment of impact, a mist of residue wafting into the air.

Which explains the success of "Shoot the Freak," the newest and best of Coney Island's arcade games. 

"It's the only game in New York City where you can shoot at a live human target and he doesn't shoot back,"
 Anthony Berlingieri shouted, drawing a crowd to his and Carl Monaco's "Shoot the Freak" booth on the
 Boardwalk.

Players rushed to hand Berlingieri cash in exchange for 5, 10, 20 or 35 paintball bullets, positioned
 themselves at air-rifles and fired away at the "freak." And this "freak" was fantastic! Clad like something
 out of "Road Warrior," he staggered backwards whenever he was hit as if he was part-man, part-Terminator,
 part-governor of California. He didn't even bother hiding behind the furniture, but kept trying to call for
 help on a wall phone. 

"That's one good freak," said spectator Peter Gerbasi.

Perhaps only in America could something so base, so wantonly violent and so unapologetically enjoyable even
 exist. In years to come, French philosophers may cite "Shoot the Freak" as evidence of American perversity and
 -- how you say? -- vulgarity, but Brooklyn novelist Ned Vizzini saw a powerful metaphor for our times.

"When you aim at the freak in that simulated living room, you're really aiming at your own sloth," said
 Vizzini. "And why doesn't the freak have a cordless phone? It's because he's a failure. You are shooting at
 that part of yourself."

Intellectual onanism aside, there's also the simple thrill of shooting a freak.

"It felt good to blow him away," said Lane Miccio, all of 10 years old. "He was really annoying me."

Hearing such talk from the mouth of a babe, I had second thoughts about the social ramifications of "Shoot the
 Freak." Berlingieri reassured me that this is really just wholesome entertainment.

"This will be a childhood memory for that kid," he said. "This is not just some picture you hang on a
 refrigerator."

Just to be sure, I made the obligatory call to forensic psychologist N.G. Berrill who put my mind -- and my
 itchy trigger finger -- at ease.

"Like all animals," Berrill said, "human beings have a reservoir of aggression just below the surface. It's an
 evolutionary endowment." (Oh, that explains why mine is so small). Berrill said that "reservoir" makes us lash
 out from time to time (come to think of it, I do sometimes say aggressively sarcastic things to my boss, but I
 assumed it was my upbringing, not 300,000 years of human evolution).

Life in New York only pushes us toward a meltdown, rather than giving us a safety valve. So "Shoot the Freak"
 isn't merely a curiosity, it's a downright necessity.

"It's a valuable way to let off steam," said Berrill.

Al Ramos agrees. The other night, Ramos was enjoying a few beers with his friends on the Boardwalk. The
 conversation got heated. Ramos took a walk.

"I said, 'I need to go shoot the freak,' " said Ramos. "It was great. I got the aggression out."

Later, the freak -- a guy named Matt Behan -- was finishing up another six-hour shift. I complimented him on
 his realistic freakishness, but he credited his classical acting training.

"I just graduated from the American Academy of Dramatic Arts," he said, sweating profusely and wiping paint out
 of his hair. "At least I'm not waiting tables."

--30--

gersh.kuntzman@verizon.net