Choose Your Own Misery

by Mike MacDonald

  You get up, brush the snow off your pants, and pretend-limp over to Brad.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “I’ll be fine. But I think it’s a pretty nasty sprain.”

  Brad rolls his eyes.

  “Blitzer, grab the baby Jesus.”

  Blitzer yanks the statue out of the crib and tucks it under an arm.

  “Huh. I think it was nailed on,” Blitzer says, turning it over and displaying two long nails.

  “Good work, man,” Brad says.

  After that Brad drops you at home, where you ice your non-injured ankle in an attempt to justify your cowardice to yourself.

  • • •

  The next morning, you open Facebook. Maybe someone will have a good “Christmas puppies” video.

  Oh, Brad’s posted…a video of you rolling around in the snow like a fucking Pentecostal that’s just been touched by the spirit.

  Brad and Blitzer chuckle in the video.

  “What the fuck is he doing?” whispers Brad.

  “Besides looking like a fucking idiot?” Blitzer snorts.

  Jesus, you’ve never seen so many “likes” on a video before. And look at all those comments.

  Blitzer: Didn’t know we were going to a show last night

  Some guy named Jeff: Who’s the spaz?

  Julian: Did you guys get drunk with a homeless dude?

  Oh god, Brad: LOLZ

  You tear up a bit. Et tu, Brad? It’s going to be a long morning.

  Just as you’re about to click the window closed, you hear a beep. There’s a new comment on the video…from your girlfriend.

  Lindsi: Jesus, what a pussy.

  The End.

  “So?” Vampire raises an eyebrow. “We want to get started; this module outline estimates at least ten hours’ playtime.”

  “Sure,” you say, feeling lighter than you have in years. “Let’s do it.”

  “Great. Let’s roll up some characters.”

  “By the way,” Eyelashless says in a soothing voice, “class and race options are limited because the module’s pretty simplified.”

  “Total Christmas edition move,” Schlub says with a snort-laugh. You join in. Why did you ever leave this behind?

  “All right, well, I’m playing a female bard,” Vampire says. “And let me guess—you’ll be a half-orc rogue?” Schlub shrugs his agreement. “We could use a ranger. Or maybe a cleric.” He turns to you expectantly.

  You hate rangers—their play style is so simplistic—but you always wind up as some sort of cleric. You sigh. You’d kinda been hoping this would be your chance to go full-on Berserker.

  “I can be a cleric. High elf, I suppose.”

  Vampire smiles, nodding eagerly.

  “And what’s everyone’s alignment?” Eyelashless whispers.

  If you play it lawful good, like everyone expects, this will be the least exciting reentry into D&E ever…which is saying a lot.

  But playing chaotic evil, when it’s clear that Schlub’s choice of that alignment is already causing tension in the group, is a serious risk to take.

  * * *

  Be the good guy. The lawful good guy. Go HERE.

  MWAHAHAHAHA! IT’S FINALLY YOUR CHANCE TO LET OUT YOUR INNER DARKNESS! Go HERE.

  You have to let that go. You’ve moved beyond D&E. And since you have, your girlfriends have been rolling natural…well, twelves or thirteens, at least, in hotness. And they have modifiers, too. That’s not something you can turn your back on.

  You meander to the other end of the snack table. Awesome, there’s shrimp hiding down here! You hadn’t seen that when you first came over. You’re always too cheap to buy shrimp for your own parties; whenever you see it elsewhere you try to get your fill.

  No one approaches. After about ten minutes of concerted shrimp eating, you wander over toward Debby. She’s talking to Brad—perfect, this will be your in with him!

  “So, Debby, it’s been a while since—”

  “One second, Brad and I have to finish these parody Rudolph lyrics. SNRCK! They’re hi-lar-ious.” Debby’s nose is gumdrop red and she’s swaying into Brad, like one of those blowup car lot balloons, but wearing more red and green velour.

  “Oh. Where are you stuck? I could—”

  “It’s kinda our thing?” She smiles, then turns her back on you.

  Unable to find anyone else, and so full of shrimp even you’ve had enough, you see no option but to leave.

  • • •

  You wake up with the gorge already three-quarters of the way up your throat.

  You run through your apartment to the bathroom, but your hands are so sweaty you can’t get a grip on the toilet seat cover. Jesus, it’s coming. NOW.

  You vomit violently into the sink. A lone undigested shrimp floats atop the scrum.

  It’s like a murderer leaving a signed picture behind.

  All night you lie on the bathroom floor, writhing in agony, trying to find a cool spot on the tiles. After vomiting, you have about three minutes of feeling normalish…then five of feeling weird…then another five of feeling hideously nauseated, during which you pray to actually die…then you vomit again.

  The next day, you’re too weak to cook anything with the few staples you left in the fridge during what should have been your island vacation. The only options delivering to your area, according to Foodler, are Chinese places.

  The thought of eating Chinese right now—there’s definitely shrimp in fried rice, right?—is enough to make you vomit. Again. Into the bucket you’re keeping at the end of your couch.

  The End.

  You leave the party, embarrassed and annoyed.

  The first thing you do when you get home is Google Kwanzaa. You are not going to get humiliated by another Brad at another party.

  You open the Wikipedia entry.

  Really, 1966? That sounded so implausible. And apparently Swahili is a language, not a country, which makes that sentence structure more logical. Good thing you kept your mouth shut there. Wow, Kwanzaa actually does mean “first fruits of the harvest.” Brad was right…about all of it, in fact. Even the seven core principles—or as he called them, Nguzo Saba.

  Dammit! You’d thought he was being a douche, but he was actually just that much more culturally aware than you. Yet again, Brad proves he’s cooler than everyone else in the room.

  And now he probably thinks you’re going out for the Klan.

  You’ve wrecked any chance you had of becoming real friends with Brad, possibly forever.

  Fucking Kwanzaa…

  The End.

  The errands take even longer than you expected.

  After several hours you’re nearly done. The last stop before you can head home is that ridiculous specialty eggnog farm stand.

  As you’re waiting in line, someone behind you punches your arm.

  “Look what the cat dragged in!”

  “Excuse me?” Who is this strange, balding man with the ridiculous smile?

  “It’s me, Wayne. Wayne Parrish?”

  Who the fuck is Wayne Parrish?

  “You know, Parkdale High?”

  Oh, that Wayne Parrish. You’ve fallen so out of touch that you don’t even think you’re Facebook friends. Maybe because you were never friend-friends.

  “Wayne! Great to see you. How are you?”

  “Doing great. Married Anna a few years ago.”

  Who?

  “She’s the best,” you say.

  “Why don’t we grab a drink and catch up?”

  How can you catch up with someone you never knew?

  But there will be booze…

  * * *

  If you want to beg off and head home, go HERE.

  If you want to head out with this former “friend,” go HERE.

  You’re too guilty to even enjoy this third beer. Reluctantly, you head home.

  It’s only 8:00 P.M., but the house is pitch black. Presumably everyone’s asleep.

  You fumble around in the darkness,
looking for something to eat.

  There’s a note on the refrigerator from Lauren, addressed to you:

  Where did you go? You could have at least told us! Please be more considerate or else you’ll completely ruin Christmas for Otto and Harrison.

  You roll your eyes. How is it that you’re related to this person again?

  * * *

  If you may as well go back to the bar, go HERE.

  If you want to make this up to Lauren and the kids, go HERE.

  After three more beers, you start to feel full of Christmas cheer.

  An attractive blonde with impossibly long legs opens the door. She flicks a cigarette out before entering. You haven’t smoked since college, but who cares? Smokers always get along with smokers.

  “Can I bum a cigarette?”

  She looks at you like you’re a piece of animated shit.

  “Here,” she says, passing you one without looking at you again.

  Burn. Still, you might as well smoke it. Cigarettes feel awesome when you’re drunk.

  You step outside. Fuck, it’s freezing.

  You could probably crack a window in the bathroom and smoke it there. The bar seems seedy enough that no one will mind.

  You grab a pack of matches from the bar, walk into the bathroom, and light the cigarette.

  KNOCK KNOCK.

  “What’s taking so long?” someone yells from the other side.

  You chuck your cigarette in the trash can and start frantically waving your arms through the air to push the smoke out the window crack.

  “Just a minute,” you shout.

  You’re looking for a secret can of air freshener when you realize smoke is pouring out of the trash can.

  You turn on the tap, cup your hands under it, and try to splash the bin with water. It’s ridiculously ineffective. Maybe you should close the window so the fire doesn’t get even more oxygen? How does a person put out a trash fire?

  It’s getting bigger. If you just leave, will they know it was your fault? Flames lick up the wall, which immediately bursts into flame. At least you’re not trapped in a room full of asbestos. You run to the door, but it’s stuck. You can’t get it open, no matter how hard you pull.

  Wait, didn’t Lindsi say her self-defense teacher told everyone to scream “rape” instead of “fire”? No one ever responds to “fire,” right?

  It’s too smoky to think of another plan.

  “Rape! There’s a rape in here. Seriously, RAPE!”

  You keep screaming “Rape!” at the top of your lungs. No one comes.

  Eventually, the whole wall catches. You cough, choke, then pass out on the grimy, wet bathroom floor.

  * * *

  Click HERE to continue.

  You need to talk Harrison off the ledge before he full-on loses it.

  “It’s a battle wound! It’ll make you look like a tough customer.”

  “But mom always says…”

  “Oh, forget your mom. She has a massive stick up her ass.”

  Harrison’s eyes go super-wide.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “What do you mean?” On the plus side, Harrison’s completely forgotten his cut lip.

  “She can just be a little…uptight at times. Which is why we maybe don’t have to tell her what happened? It can be our fun little uncle-secret, ’kay?”

  Fun little uncle-secret? Sounds a bit rapey….

  “After all, she doesn’t need to know everything.”

  You can actually see the lightbulb go on over his head. It’s almost nerve-wracking…

  * * *

  Click HERE to continue.

  “Look, cuts to the face always bleed a lot. They seem worse than they are.”

  Harrison doesn’t look reassured.

  You try to examine the gash, but you need more light. You shush the boys and lead them into the house to take a better look at Harrison’s lip.

  Hmmmm…it might actually need stitches. But you don’t know how to do stitches.

  You remember reading about soldiers in Vietnam using superglue on flesh wounds. That could work, right?

  “Harrison, where’s the superglue?”

  “In the pantry, bottom right. We make balsa wood models of wine vessels with it. We’re on the Sauternes glass.”

  Jesus, there’s absolutely zero hope for these kids.

  You grab the tube and get to work.

  “Hold your lip from both sides and squeeze it together,” you say, readying the superglue. Your hands are still pretty cold, but there’s no time—you have to act fast. Easy does it, now…

  The glue squirts everywhere, coating Harrison’s fingers. He tries to pull them away, but they’re stuck.

  “Aaalp,” he splutters.

  You immediately panic.

  “Just pull your fingers off your face fast. Like a Band-Aid. It will only hurt like a Band-Aid. I promise.”

  Harrison rips his fingers away.

  “AHHHHHHHHH!” He shrieks in pain.

  Chunks of lip are attached to each finger.

  Blood gushes everywhere.

  Fuck.

  * * *

  Click HERE to continue.

  You head inside, patting your nephew on the head rhythmically so he doesn’t start bawling.

  “There, there…”

  You open the door to the house and start taking off the kids’ snow gear. You do your best to keep quiet, but the noise of zippers and tromping boots rings through the empty house.

  A light in the upstairs hallway comes on.

  Lauren walks down the stairs in her robe and slippers.

  Your heart starts racing.

  “So…Harrison had a very, very minor accident,” you start, voice quivering. “It’s my fault; I thought sledding would be fun. I should have known better. But I don’t have kids. What do I know?”

  Maybe preemptively blaming yourself will steal some of Lauren’s inevitable thunder?

  “But really, it’s fine. He’s fine.”

  She shrugs. “It’s just a cut lip. He’ll live. Kids aren’t made of glass, you know.”

  Oh thank god. Also, extremely unexpected.

  “Anyway, I think it’s nice that you took them out and did something fun. You can be their fun uncle.”

  Has she been drugged?

  Better not to question it.

  “Now, why don’t we all have a cup of warm milk and you guys can tell me about tobogganing with your silly old uncle.”

  Wow. That sounds lovely.

  * * *

  Click HERE to continue.

  Gregory’s flopping around the ice like a Japanese kid that’s watched too much Pokémon.

  “I used to be a fierce defenseman back in Salzburg. It must be these crummy skates.”

  You feel embarrassed for him. But you try to ignore it, jumping onto the ice and tossing a puck out.

  “Top corner!” you yell. You lower your head and focus on the puck. At that moment, Gregory pushes off the boards and glides slowly, inevitably, into the line of fire.

  SLAP!

  The puck hits square in his mouth. He drops to his knees, gushing blood. A few teeth clink against the ice.

  “SCHEISSE!”

  “Fuck. Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry…”

  “AAAAAAHHH!”

  • • •

  “There’s no one at that office, either,” you say, ending the call.

  “Keep trying until you find someone,” Lauren snaps back.

  It’s Christmas Day and you’re on the phone with dental office number seven.

  “Ummmmm,” Gregory mumbles, pointing to a bowl.

  Your sister places her spoon in the mashed apricots and spoon-feeds him. It disgusts you on multiple levels, but now is definitely not the time to mention that.

  “Can we open presents yet?” Harrison wails.

  “Not until your uncle finds a dentist that’s open today.”

  “Come OOOOOOOONNNN!”

  “Maawwww, preeeeevv,�
� Gregory mumbles.

  “Why did he even have to come?” Harrison asks, pointing at you and stomping away.

  “You guys can open one present each until your uncle figures this out,” Lauren yells. “Just be quiet while he’s on the phone.”

  “Dr. Reid’s is closed until the twenty-seventh,” you say, hanging up yet again.

  “Dr. Reid? I heard he isn’t very good,” Lauren says. “We want the absolute best dental surgeon money can buy…your money.”

  You were planning to pay for this, but hearing Lauren demand it infuriates you.

  She sticks the spoon back in the mashed apricots and continues to feed Gregory.

  You hear a loud shriek from the living room. Lauren jumps into action, sprinting toward her wailing son.

  “AHHHHHHHHH! MY ANKLE!”

  “YOU BOUGHT MY SON MOON BOOTS?” she screams from the other room.

  Awesome.

  The End.

  Gregory’s flopping all over the ice like a one-man horizontal cucaracha dance.

  “I used to be a fierce defenseman back in Salzburg. It must be these skates. They’re antiques!”

  Gregory struggles to stand, skates backward a few feet, then does half a reverse somersault, smacking his head against the ice.

  WHACK!

  He doesn’t move. Jesus, you haven’t even gotten your left skate on and he’s nearly killed himself.

  “You okay, buddy?” you yell from the bench.

  No response. You jump onto the ice, one foot in a skate, one in a shoe.

  “Looks like you bonked your head pretty good. You might need to put some ice on it,” you say.

  The joke’s lost on the half-conscious Gregory. He lets out a loud moan.

  “I bit my tongue pretty…” Blood splatters randomly, like he’s some Pollock of the mouth. “Badly.”