R-Type III defies metaphor.
Is it an abusive husband? Well, yes, except it’s usually sober and really good in bed.
Is it the bad boy you bring home to your parents who just hate him, and he teases you uncontrollably but you can’t help but love him so?
Or is it the Drunken Master, who makes you do the washing and beats the ever-loving crap out of you in exchange for the mystic secrets of Kung Fu?
R-Type III is all of these things and none of them. It chews up your metaphors for breakfast and spits out rivers of free-flowing gameplay until you screw it up and turn off the taps. All you manage to extract is a few bite-sized chunks of crunchy, frictive gameplay and it’s all your fault.