Choose Your Own Misadventure: Tripping at a Costume Party
You promised yourself that this time would be different. You promised that you'd rein it in: Just have a few drinks, make some small talk, and then call it a night. This here is a modest Halloween party, homey, not some twisted Revelations themed boxing-orgy. That was last night.
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You promised yourself that this time would be different. You promised that you'd rein it in: just have a few drinks, make some small talk and then call it a night. This here is a modest Halloween party, homey, not some twisted Revelations themed boxing-orgy. That was last night. And quite frankly, you could use some down time after it (the girl cosplaying Fetish Pestilence really liked to work the kidneys). You were going to be nice. You were going to be chill. You were going to take it easy, but then the swarthy fellow in the Robin Hood costume had to go and ask if you got high. What were you supposed to do? Not follow him into the bathroom? Decline the mysterious concoction in the Sonic the Hedgehog thermos that he insisted was "some serious shit"? Not rip said thermos from his hands and take a defensive position on top of the toilet tank, fending him off with your feet while gripping the cylinder with both hands and desperately pouring the mystery contents down your throat, because socializing is hard? Well thanks for the advice, asshole, but it's a little late. You've already done absolutely every one of those thingsIf you try to reason with the Warrior-Ent, turn to page 2.
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"Me friend!" you scream down at the rabid dryad, whom you appear to be kicking for a reason that you can no longer remember, but you'll be damned if you're going to stop now and risk looking foolish. "Me cool! Me cool, bro -- some of me best friends am Ancient Forest Avatars!"
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Scandinavian folklore holds that some forest deities can be appeased by a sacrifice of three young maids wearing crowns of birch. Many proto-Germanic tribes believed that iron was the only thing which could bind the Fae. Some Native American tribes thought that creatures of the forest could not cross solid rock. That movie Aliens had those dudes that burnt some shit with flamethrowers.Remember that? That was rad as shit; let's go with that one. You heft your bulk back up onto your hands, then spring forward, pushing the monster back with your sick calf muscles (you got way into pilates there for a while; it was a thing). The forest spirit is surprised by your attack. It stumbles backward, and sharply contacts the counter with its head. It seems to be stunned for the moment, holding a wreath of protective branches in front of its mockery of a human face."Kkkkaaaaahhhmmm ddddddooouuuuunnnnn," it threatens."Is it getting a little fire in here?" you ask the monster, seizing the hairspray with one hand, your lighter with the other, "or is it just your face?"The pop and sizzle of burning sap rings in your ears, even after you slip out the side window of the uh ... the haunted forest, you guess that was? Weird that it had a toilet and all, but hey -- they're tree-monsters, not savages.
If you try to reason with the Sasquatch, turn to page 4.
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"Me cool!" you cry out, frantically waving your arms in a punching motion (to show that you mean peace, even though you're capable of such devastatingly powerful punches). "Some of me best fri-"But the hominoid either does not understand, or does not care about your intentions. It is too hurt, too frightened, and entirely too panicked for communication. In its sheer, blinding terror, it inadvertently shoves the spear deeper into its abdomen, until the weapon disappears within the wound entirely. It turns to flee, hooting in agony."Wait!" you cry, "I can pull that tiny thing out! I can help you!""Get away from me, pervert," it hollers back, in a remarkably normal human voice, "and it's not tiny! It's just cold out here!"Somewhere, you presume, the great ape curls up in a dark corner of the woods and dies, alone. And that's it: You've missed it. You've missed your one chance to have a Sasquatch friend.You sit right down and die of heartbreak, and also of a massive drug overdose.THE END.
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If you seek sanctuary at the stronghold, turn to page 6.
If you investigate the shiny thing, probably while jumping and clapping, turn to page 7.
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The fortress sits atop a craggy bluff, shrouded in a perpetual, chill fog. There is something alien to the stink of it; an exotic redolence that snakes throughout the shifting banks. It entrances you. Like a siren's song, you follow the smell through the impassable, labyrinthine haze, and arrive at an oaken door, heavily bound with metal straps. You struggle with the wrought-iron knocker, forged in the shape of a screaming skull, and eventually manage to raise and drop it. The deafening metallic clang seems somehow profane in the sacred stillness.
If you try to reason with the Witch, turn to page 8.
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"No, it's cool," you assure the hag, "some of my best friends are hideous death-bitches."The thing narrows its eyes in apprehension, but is soon swayed by your interpretive peace-dance. You don't want to brag - it's basically just a modified robot with a bit of cabbage patch thrown in - but it is totally serene as motherfucking shit. The crone turns aside, motioning you in with an inclination of her head. You cabbage patch your way into the dank and dusty passage beyond. Just as you start to work in a really sweet new move -- it's kind of a snake thing with the arms, but like, a sexy snake? It represents a communal bond that the universal lust for Appetite for Destruction-era Axl Rose imbues in all of mankind --the gate slams shut and the torches gutter out all at once, leaving you in complete darkness. From behind you, comes the soft, raspy laughter of the grotesque hag-beast."Stop calling me a hag!" It protests."Damn your blasted hag telepathy!" You reply, swinging wildly into the blackness. "Fair warning: I'm going to be kicking and punching over here, and if you walk into it, it's your fault, so you can't get mad!"PAGE 9
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You catch your foot in an errant root, and tumble head over heels down a rocky slope. The revolutions come faster and faster, until the whole world is naught but an unceasing blur of brown dirt and black sky. Or at least, that's how it started. But be honest: At this point you're kind of doing it on purpose, because somersaults are bitchin' fun. When you finally pull over for a quick barf-stop, you're too transfixed by the gargantuan, shining metal cube to continue your tumbling marathon."We'll come back to this," you promise Saul Summer, whom you've just decided is the pagan God of drunken somersaults, "but look how shiny!"He'll understand.You set your jaw grimly, find your center, and prepare yourself for the horrors that may await you within this bizarre, alien construction. Then you jog up to the door, clapping, and leap inside of it with a gleeful squeal.You were prepared for a shimmering dimension of color-people, the slick control room of an unfathomable space vessel, even a portal to hell. But you were not prepared for this ...This shag carpeting, and these -- what are these? Walnut inlays? All around you are orange beaded curtains, and green plastic drawer pulls. And nothing else. It is vast, vacant, and '70s as fuck.
If you try to reason with the robot, turn to page 10.
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Robots have no weaknesses. Save for ... love."I love you, robot," you whisper earnestly. Their calculating minds can detect falsehoods, you see, so you have to mean it. And you do. Oh God, you really do."I.I.WHAT.IS.THIS ... LOVE?""It's this," you say simply, and step forward, closing the unbearable distance between you. You throw your arms around its spiky steel shoulders, and sink your tongue deep into its yearning speakerbox. Time freezes, stars die and even music fails to deliver on the promise that your true and pure romance is making to the universe."I'm gonna fuck you, robot," you state flatly. The robot scans your statement. It detects no falsehood.THE END.
Click Here To Return to Your Place.
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"I come in peace!" you say to the robot, but what can stupid words convey that the language of dance does not put to shame? You begin the first steps of your conciliation conga -- well, that's a misnomer, it's mostly cabbage patch, actually, with a little bit of robot ... mixed ... oh. Oh no. Would that offend the robot? Is doing The Robot for a robot like putting on a minstrel show to our steel brethren? "I.I." The digitized voice stammers, skips, then finally catches. "WHO.AM.I?""You're a dang machine," you answer. Is it malfunctioning? Has it gained sentience through a wacky series of misadventures, possibly (hopefully) involving Ally Sheedy?"WHAT.IS.MY.PURPOSE?"And then, suddenly, an idea sparks like lightning through the cloudy meat of your cerebral cortex. It is easily the best idea you've ever had. Even better than that time you ran out of bread and made a grilled cheese with Eggos."WHAT.IS.MY.PURPOSE?" The robot repeats."Your purpose?" you answer, smiling. "Why, you're my fucking battle robot."PAGE 12
Outside the shimmering alien ship, a gathering of great and terrible beings is underway. Outside the ship, the forest itself has come to life: A copse of animated trees shuffle in place, each and every branch whittled to a deadly, splintered point. Behind them, the 'Squatch Marines are deploying, rolling up in their hooting primate tanks, wielding their terrible monkey rifles. A trio of ancient, haggard women stand in the foreground, holding hands. The electrical arc of mystical energy crackles like halos around their thin, straw hair. Outside the ship, they are ready for you.Inside the ship, you are ready for them. You nod to the robot, whom you have dubbed Dongbot 2.0. Dongbot, because you have drawn a crude penis across its chassis, ejaculating cartoon missiles. And 2.0 because, oddly enough, it's the second time you've done this. It's been a crazy summer.Dongbot 2.0 extends an already humming arm-cannon toward the exit portal, and you grimly follow his lead.
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You're not sure how you got tied to this chair, or whose foyer you're in, but man, there sure are a lot of furious people in torn and burnt costumes glaring at you. "Well, I don't know him," a man in a Donkey Kong costume, sans headpiece, is waving away accusations. "The freak tried to pull my goddamn dick off! I thought you knew him!""Me?" a remarkably pretty girl, dressed demurely in the style of Samantha from TV's Bewitched, answers incredulously, "Hell no! Me and Ted were just smoking pot in the garage when he banged on the door, called me an 'ugly bag of whores' and then kicked me in the stomach. Thank god I fell on the garage door opener; I thought he was gonna kill me!"
THE END.
You can buy Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, or follow him on Twitter, Facebook and Google+. If you choose not to accept that this beautiful journey is at an end, turn to page 1, and rediscover this rich and magical fantasy world all over again.
And be sure to check out Cracked's Page of Horror to read Brockway's 5 Popular Zombie Survival Tactics (That Will Get You Killed).
