“What will Mom say?”
“I really don’t care.”
You gather your things and practically run to the car.
God, how could you have been with someone so morally disgusting and not even known? Not even had a hint? What does that say about you? Do other people feel the way Lindsi does? Is humanity really such a disgusting cesspool?
You make it back to the city with plenty of time to head to the soup kitchen, but you feel too bitter and revolted to do anything. Fuck Lindsi for making you feel this way. Fuck Christmas and its “do a good deed” bullshit. It just teaches you awful truths about people. You hate this stupid fucking holiday.
The End.
You’ve made it too far to stop now. Plus, with the size of the hold the rental place put on your card, you’re not certain you can afford another charge.
You drive through the darkness. After an hour, the lines on the road start to get wobbly. You blink hard, but that just makes them disappear entirely.
You feel your head nod against your chest. Should you pull over? The GPS says you’re only forty minutes away.
Yawning, you plow ahead. Before you know it, the car has taken off into the air and is driving itself on a black strip of sky! This is amazing—you barely need to steer; the vehicle knows what to do. Maybe if you wish hard enough it will grow wings and—
THUMP.
You jolt awake. Fuck, what was that? You screech to a stop.
Behind you in the dark roadway you see a mound.
Please don’t be a person. Please don’t be a person.
It’s only slightly better. It’s a dog. A big, beautiful golden retriever whose tongue is lolling out of its uncrushed head like it’s happy to see you, but whose entire torso has been destroyed by the car.
It could have been feral, right?
Though feral animals don’t tend to wear dog-sized reindeer antlers…
You look around, but don’t see anyone. Terrified, and unsure what to do, you run back to the car. There’s blood and some hair smeared on the cracked front headlight, but otherwise things look good. You grab some snow from the roadside, wipe off the blood, and drive—finally fully awake—the ten miles or so to Lindsi’s.
When you get there you feel so morally disgusted you can’t speak. Her parents frown—can they see what you’ve done?—then usher you to the room you’ll be sharing with “cousin Jimmy.”
The room smells like death. Or is that coming off you?
“Do you prefer the right or left side of the bed?” Jimmy, Lindsi’s gangly-thin, acne-ridden teenaged cousin asks without inflection. “I am indifferent.”
Seriously? They expect you to share a bed with an innocent child? You, a dog murderer?
“I do not believe you to be a sexual predator,” Jimmy adds, staring straight at you. “Besides, it seems unlikely you would attack me so soon after we’d met, even if you were.”
You’re not, but it feels like he’s seen something fundamentally true about your disgusting, grimy soul.
* * *
If you’re taking the floor, go HERE.
If you’ll share the bed—things can’t get worse than they already are, after all—go HERE.
If you don’t stop, you might kill somebody. Or worse, yourself.
You pull into Local Motel and park near the lobby.
Inside, a lone attendant sits behind a desk that’s all peeling veneer. His hair is greasy, whether from his acne-blanketed skin or vice versa, it’s unclear.
“Could I get a room?”
He sighs exaggeratedly and holds a hand out. Eventually, you realize he wants your credit card. He runs it, grabs a key from the wall, and walks outside. You follow him down a narrow strip of roofed sidewalk.
You reach the room. A long stripe of something brownish is smeared across the door, stopping abruptly at the doorknob, as though whoever cleaned figured wiping down just the doorknob was enough.
“Ice is through there.” He points languidly. “Vending machines too.”
You thank him, and he leaves, sighing again.
You’re struggling to get the door open when you hear footsteps. You turn to see a massive, muscled man with a handlebar moustache towering over you. He’s wearing a John Deere hat and flipping a coin with his right hand.
He’s looking, however, straight at you.
“Nice to have company,” he says.
“Mmm. Uh, yes. Company,” you sputter.
He laughs wheezily, but doesn’t move. Unsure what else to do, you open the door and rush inside.
You don’t hear him leave.
And it seems your fumbling with the key has broken the lock. There’s just a flimsy chain between you and this man. And maybe his friends?
* * *
Stop being a pussy—he was just trying to make conversation. Go HERE.
Fuck that, you’re getting a different room. Go HERE.
“Of course, let’s go to mass. I’m so happy to share that part of Christmas with you,” you say, ignoring the ominous bubbling in your guts and the fact that you haven’t showered in…is it three days now?
In the last thirty hours, all you’ve eaten is Combos. On the plus side, you didn’t go hungry, since you bought at least a dozen packages. On the minus, you’ve eaten a dozen packages, even the Seven-Layer Dip Tortilla flavor.
As you walk into the church, your stomach cramps painfully. You grimace, shaking the hand of the elderly woman Lindsi’s introducing you to. Maybe if you sneak to the bathroom now, you’ll be able to relieve some of the pressure?
But there’s no time; the VanWhittingtons are ushering you to their “traditional pew” near the center of the chapel. Dammit. If you were at the back, you might have been able to duck out during the homily.
Your stomach feels like an overinflated balloon. You heave a shuddering breath out.
You’re barely five minutes into the service and you feel like you’re going to die. You have to take a shit like never before…or at least fart.
You can’t do that, though: you’re in church.
Though presumably a churchgoer wouldn’t call you on it. And the majority of the congregation has to be over seventy; don’t olds lose the ability to fully control their bowels? You remember visiting your grandma’s as a kid and tracking her through the house by the toot-toot she made with nearly every step.
Another cramp grips your stomach, squeezing so hard you’re afraid you might vomit.
You have no choice. While everyone’s standing to give the responses, you let the tiniest fart slip out, hoping the noise of a few hundred people will cover it.
It does. Unfortunately, you were wrong about a crucial element.
Sometimes a fart is a gamble. And sometimes when you gamble, you lose.
You’ve lost. It was a shart.
The responses are over. People will sit back down any second. And that clammy feeling on your cheeks tells you sitting would be like doubling down…
* * *
If you want to stay standing, go HERE.
If you want to sit into the shart, go HERE.
“You know what? Go on without me.”
Lindsi’s mother sniffs and raises an eyebrow.
“Really, I’m not feeling very well—I haven’t had any real food in the last day or so—and I don’t want to make myself sick by pushing too hard.”
“Okaaay,” Lindsi says, rolling her eyes. “I guess you can just hang out at the house, then.”
“Great. I’ll see you in a few hours. If I’m not already conked out by then!”
You’re the only one who laughs.
Still, it was the right decision. Not only is the Combos shit you have at the house utterly terrible—that strange mix of chemicals and organic rot really does penetrate a space—there’s only one bathroom on the first floor. Think if you’d had to do that with someone around? Or hold it in through a church service?
You’re drowsing on the couch, flipping through channels in the hopes of finding somethin
g other than a televised church service, when you hear it.
THUD.
It sounds like it came from directly overhead. Like, the room where Lindsi explained you should leave your things.
Is someone burgling the house? Through your window?
You creep up the stairs, but you don’t hear anything. Summoning all your courage, you push open the door, screaming to throw the intruder off guard.
“YAAA!!!”
No one’s there.
No one except the family dog, lying on the ground, motionless.
It’s clearly gotten into your leftover Combos. And—you go over to check for a pulse—oh yeah, it’s definitely dead. Why did you eat so many of these things?
You hear the sound of boots tramping inside. There’s no way you’ll be able to hide the dead dog from the family.
But you could hide the evidence…
* * *
If you want to confess about the Combos, go HERE.
If you want to hide the Combos and play stupid, go HERE.
The drive to Lindsi’s house is utterly uneventful. After all, Lindsi cursing you out under her breath has never really qualified as an “event.”
You head downstairs the next morning, but the only person up is a permed, heavyset woman in a teddy bear Christmas sweater who you assume is Lindsi’s mom. Her mouth pinches into a tight, judgy little smile at the sight of you.
“I’m surprised to see you up so early, since you got Lindsi out of bed in the middle of the night.” She narrows her eyes. “I’m Lindsi’s mother, by the way. Call me Mom.” You’ve never seen a less motherly expression accompany that phrase.
“Sorry about that. I told Lindsi last night, I got a ride from the bus station, but the gentleman driving the car made me really nervous. I had to get out for my own safety.”
“Hmm. Poor judgment and an overactive fear response,” you hear her mutter. That’s awkward. Not wrong, just…who says that?
Mom flips on the television and turns her back on you.
The morning news is on. They’re running a story about…wait a second, “Local Man Finds $50K Radio Prize, Planning to Donate Half to Charity.”
That’s the guy you hitchhiked with!
Which means he wasn’t lying about the clues…
He appears onscreen.
“I’m planning to give my half to charity, of course, since I was guided by spirits to the location of the golden ticket. But I was traveling with a nice man who must have been confused about where we were turning off, and I promised him half the prize, since we were going to search it out together. That offer still stands!”
“What a Good Samaritan,” Mom says. “Just one look at him tells you he’s trustworthy.”
Now, in daylight, with TV makeup, he does seem like a pretty nice guy. The fact that he’s offering you $25,000 doesn’t hurt either.
“You know what’s weird—” you start, but Mom cuts you off.
“It’s too bad you couldn’t have caught a ride with him. Not only would you have been $25,000 richer, you wouldn’t have had to be afraid. I mean, who could be nervous around that face?”
“Yeah…”
“What were you saying?”
You think back to your hasty departure, your terror, Lindsi’s mom basically calling you a pussy just now…
“Nothing. He just looks like someone I knew in high school.”
At least if you don’t claim it the money will probably go to charity, right? You wonder whether you can write that off on your taxes…
The End.
You pass between the outcropping and the barn, eventually reaching a little covered bridge—it has to be the point of that bridge clue. On the other side, almost totally hidden by snow, is a sign next to a tiny footpath.
“Holly Berries for Sale.”
The third clue was just a choral rendition of “The Holly and the Ivy!” You sprint down the path…there, at the end, is an old, falling-apart shed covered in ivy leaves. You open the door. The ground inside is soft, like it’s been dug up recently. You spot a trowel hanging from the wall, much too shiny for this abandoned shack.
You dig.
About six inches down you hit something hard. It’s a cheap plastic treasure chest, covered in stick-on gems. Inside are three dozen KWAL Radio! stickers and a shiny gold piece of paper with Redeem at KWAL headquarters! printed on it.
Fuck, the driver was telling the truth. About everything.
You pick your way back to the main road, walking in the direction of the car.
It’s still there. And he’s still slumped over, exactly where you left him.
Double fuck. You’re pretty sure he’s breathing, but you’re no expert on what permanent brain damage looks like…
* * *
If you want to leave the ticket as a “sorry” to the injured man, go HERE.
If you want to keep the ticket—it’s not like anyone knows you were ever in that car—go HERE.
You bolt out of the cab, slamming the door behind you.
Luckily, you kept your suitcase on your lap. Unluckily, it feels like it’s packed with cinder blocks, and you’re literally running for your life.
Running for your life is hard. Like, really hard. You’re barely a block away from the scene of the inevitable—or at least potential—crime, and you’re already considering taking a knee.
You cut through a few back alleys at what you think is still a pretty good clip.
You’re safe now. Probably.
That was a close call. Probably.
Where exactly are you?
You wander the streets of Kingston aimlessly for hours, hoping you’ll come across a Starbucks, or even a McDonald’s. Unfortunately, you see neither. You’d ask for directions, but you can’t bring yourself to trust anyone. Not after what just happened. Probably.
God, is it hot.
You’ve got a horrific case of swamp-ass and you can feel your skin attempting to peel away from your body. At some point, you’re going to have to trust someone to give you water. Wait, can you trust the water here? Why did you not research this place at all?
Another hour passes. You might have to part with your suitcase soon. It only makes you a bigger target.
BEE-BEEEEEEP!!!
A car pulls up beside you.
“This is not your hotel!” shouts the driver.
It’s the same cab as before. Seriously?
Sunburned and dehydrated, you resign yourself to the fates and slouch back in.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You’re sweating so hard you can feel your ass sticking to the seat through your underwear, but…nothing happens.
You drop off the first interloper, pick up another, and stop by a jerk chicken stand—which you try; it’s so authentic—but eventually, after several hours of detouring, the driver deposits you at the hotel.
Unfortunately, On the Beach isn’t as advertised…on that piece of handwritten copier paper.
It’s in the back of an inner-city alleyway. There’s a strip of filthy sand running around a tiny pool out front, but it’s got too many needles floating around it for your liking.
“Keep the change.”
The cabbie nods, like it’s his fucking due. Dammit, you should’ve asked for the change.
“By the way, On the Beach…” the taxi driver pauses dramatically, “isn’t safe.” Then he speeds away, cackling.
That was disconcerting. But where else can you possibly go now?
You check in with an especially shifty-looking receptionist, though to be fair, that’s probably because of the glass eye. He said he had one, but you’re not sure which is which. They’re both twirling separately, seemingly at random.
The minute you close the door to your room you look around for the safe. You need to stuff as many of your belongings as possible into it.
There isn’t one. Fuck. At a loss, you start sticking things in random places: the pillow cases, between the mattress and the c
oncrete slab the mattress is on, inside a plastic bag in the toilet tank.
You hear a murderous scream in the distance. That must just be the cries of all the hungry street cats, bellowing out in unison, right? Sure. That’s logical.
Night starts to fall. You feel your stomach lurch…then liquefy. You really should have stopped at one helping of street chicken.
You run to the toilet and explode. The minute you feel capable of shuffling back to bed, you need the toilet again. Eventually, you just commit to staying in the bathroom.
Around 2 A.M. your stomach quivers again.
Sighing, you hoist yourself onto the toilet.
Sitting there, not quite sure if you’re done spurting yet, you hear the door to your room creak open.
“Hello? Who’s there?” you call out, mid-dribble. “Hello?”
The bathroom door cracks open. Jesus! If you weren’t already shitting yourself, you’d shit yourself!
The cabbie’s face peeks around. He holds his nose delicately. Like you didn’t know you’re being fumigated by your own filth right now.
“I told you, On the Beach isn’t safe,” he says with a laugh.
He closes the door. From the banging sounds on the other side, you guess he’s robbing you blind. You could chase after him, but your pants are down by your feet, like ankle handcuffs. Also you’re a coward.
The rest of the night you huddle inside the bathroom. The door is paper-thin, but at least it’s something between you and other potential robbers. Not that you have anything left to rob.
The next morning you peer out to assess the damage.
Yup, everything is gone. Everything except for your passport. Good thing you stuck it in the toilet tank instead of your goggles, as originally planned. You grab it and run to reception.
“Get me to the airport!”
The End.
Choose Your Own Misery Page 5