Choose Your Own Misery

by Mike MacDonald

  A storybook Christmas dinner spreads across the dining room table, the turkey golden and succulent, the stuffing dotted with dried fruits and moist with drippings from the bird, the mashed potatoes fluffy and creamy and drenched with melting butter.

  Best of all, the entire family is treating you like the guest of honor. Dad has just given you some prime dark meat, Lars keeps topping off your wineglass with “the good stuff,” and Mom has just been quietly beaming at you throughout the meal.

  And Lindsi is actually spoon-feeding you. Your hand is useless under all the swaddling, after all, and for some reason, none of the family members seem to find it off-putting or unmanly for you to be fed like an infant.

  Man, families are so weird.

  But really, is your family any less strange? Sure, you don’t have “provings” that, according to Lindsi, usually involve crossbow hunting but are sometimes swapped for “endurance of extraordinary pain” instead—wait, were you paying attention? She must have said something less weird than that, right?

  Even if she didn’t, though, who are you to judge? Your mom’s cousin once spent an entire Christmas dinner explaining how to get rid of a tapeworm orally. Your Aunt Edna has that entire room filled with taxidermied squirrels in traditional German dress. And didn’t Uncle Kenny once open his kindergarten-aged son’s Fritos before school, stuff a desiccated pig’s trotter inside, and reseal the bag with his “as seen on TV” thing? The school had the FDA on the line before they realized it was a joke. The worst fucking joke ever, played on a kindergartener.

  So really, even if there is a stronger emphasis on hand-to-hand combat and pain tolerance than you’re used to, who’s to say the VanWhittingtons are strange? They’re just…different. There’s nothing wrong with different.

  “Oooh, sweetie, it looks like you’re almost out of squash soufflé. But there’s none left. Do you want mine?” Lindsi actually looks pained for you.

  “No, I’ll just make another.” Mom gets up swiftly, smiling at you. She waves her bandaged hand in the air. “I’m more used to working around one of these than you are. And you deserve a treat after all your hard work.”

  Okay, deliberately burning yourself isn’t exactly hard work…

  …but Lindsi’s lifting a perfectly layered bite of turkey, stuffing, and gravy into your mouth. Forget all your ridiculous concerns about borderline psychosis; you could get used to this.

  The End.

  “Sorry.” You laugh as normally as you can manage. Is there a normal “you just accidentally discovered your son’s ejaculate” laugh? “I told Jimmy I’d help out with this.”

  “Why would you do that?” Luanne is looking at you with laserlike intensity. At least you’re not the only person in this family who thinks it’s weird for you to be sleeping with a teenaged boy.

  “Honestly? I remember how mortifying it was when this sort of thing happened. Your—I mean, ‘Mom’ already had me bunking with Jimmy, so I offered to help him out. He seemed convinced you’d be angry with him or something if you knew.”

  You laugh theatrically. If you play this right, you can probably shame her into being cool. After all, she can’t actually be mad at her son for having a wet dream.

  “I told him that was ridiculous, but you know how it is at that age, the idea of your parents knowing you have a sex drive is just…” You shake your head and roll your eyes dramatically.

  She shudders, then seems to gather herself.

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for helping out.” She’s still looking at you funny, but then, you are cleaning a pile of jizz laundry. It’s not a comfortable situation for anyone. Finally, frowning slightly, she leaves.

  The rest of the day, no one mentions the unfortunate incident. Phew. For once, you managed to get yourself off the hook.

  * * *

  Click HERE to continue.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so…” Correct? “Forward. I’m just saying the chances are extremely high that there’s a reasonable explanation for this. One that is perhaps…uncomfortable, but totally normal, especially for a teenage boy.”

  Everyone is still staring at you, though Mom has swapped her gape for a sneer.

  “I mean, I still deal with that occasionally and I’m past thirty, right?” You look at Lindsi’s brother Lars, whose eyes fill with pity, then at Luanne’s husband, who shakes his head and looks away.

  “Well.” Luanne coughs loudly. “I suppose that explains that. Let’s not talk about it again. Ever.”

  You finish the meal in complete silence.

  • • •

  The next morning everyone seems a little easier. Lars pats you on the back and asks, “How’d you sleep?” when you walk in, winking luridly at Jimmy. Luanne smiles tightly at you, as though to signal “no harm done.” Even Mom refrains from the death stare when she brings in coffee for everyone.

  You settle in around the tree and start handing out presents.

  “Jimmy, why don’t you go first,” Mom says, smiling at him indulgently. Oh sure, blame the messenger, not the actor. “I know you’re all grown up now, but you’re still my little grandbaby.”

  “Technically I have not been a baby in over a decade, no matter how liberal you are with the term ‘toddler,’” Jimmy says flatly, reaching for the present.

  He opens it. It’s a pair of boxer briefs. Ooooh, that’s a little awkward.

  “I just thought,” Lars coughs awkwardly, “you know, since you’re growing up now. Time to move past the tightie…whities.”

  Everyone forces a smile while Lindsi reaches for another box.

  “Ooh, Jimmy, this one’s from Aunt Josephine, out in California.” She laughs too loudly, trying to smooth things over. “She always sends the funniest stuff, she’s such a hippie.” Mom shudders at the word.

  “A book,” he says, setting it in the center of the room.

  …where it’s perfectly placed for everyone to notice the title: Your Changing Body and How to Love Yourself.

  Luanne represses a horrified squeal.

  “Here,” Lindsi sounds desperate. “Grandma Pearl—er, I mean, your great-grandma—sent you something. How nice! Probably she still thinks you’re about five years old, though.”

  “This water gun’s shape is ludicrous. Propulsion would certainly be compromised,” Jimmy says, tossing the dick-and-balls-shaped Super Soaker off to the side.

  Everyone clears their throats awkwardly.

  You just have to pray they overlook your gift at the back.

  Why in god’s name had you thought it would be funny to give the teenager the old “just in case” condoms you found at the bottom of your luggage?

  The End.

  Fuck if you’re going to apologize for being the only sane person in the room. You just let it hang there, ignoring Lindsi’s dagger stare, letting the silence thicken like a salty, milky, disgusting Jell-O.

  Finally, Mom sighs heavily. Everyone turns to her.

  “I suppose there’s only one option,” she says, looking into each pair of eyes in turn. They all nod one by one. Unsure what else to do, you nod when she reaches you. You’re starting to think that “we all just let this go” isn’t the option she’s going for.

  “Then we’re agreed. It’s time for the purification ritual.”

  “The purification…what?” you say.

  But she’s already pushing back from the table, her air of finality seeming to infect the rest of the family. There’s nothing to do but follow.

  • • •

  “Let him absorb the blandness,” Mom says, staring at the ceiling as she grabs a handful of unflavored Cream of Wheat straight from the pot and smears it on Jimmy’s chest, on top of the layers of skim milk and the unscented, unlabeled lotion. You suppose the order of the layers is so the pasta cooked in saltless water will adhere?

  Once she’s done, she moves to one side, where Luanne and her husband are waiting. She nods at…you.

  Fuck, are you really expected to do this? This is
nothing like your family’s holidays.

  She nods again, eyes bugging out expectantly.

  Sighing, you grab a handful of spaghetti and push it onto Jimmy’s chest.

  “The blandness,” you say, rubbing until a few strands stick.

  You’ve slept with a teenager, he ejaculated profusely, and you discussed it over dinner with his entire family, and yet you’ve never felt more perverse than you do right now.

  The End.

  You wake up the next morning and head downstairs.

  “Merry Christmas,” you say as cheerily as you can manage.

  Lindsi rushes out of the room, blushing furiously. No one else makes eye contact.

  No, that’s not quite true. Lindsi’s mom is staring at you like you just slaughtered the baby Jesus on the kitchen island.

  You all troop into the living room to open presents.

  “Here’s one for you,” Lindsi says, smiling too hard. “It’s from Lars.”

  You open it. It’s a pair of boxer briefs, with a model on the cover who’s all bulge.

  “I just thought every guy can use socks and boxers at Christmas, right?” He coughs awkwardly and turns away from you.

  A few minutes later Lindsi hands you another.

  “From Luanne and Michael,” she says, nodding to her sister and brother-in-law.

  “We should just say, Lindsi said you were into food and, you know, hipster things…” Luanne frowns.

  You unwrap a book about pickling. Dozens of long, plump cucumbers spread across on the cover, a few bulbous onions behind them.

  “Thanks,” you mumble.

  Cousin Jimmy comes over with a long, narrow box.

  “This is for you. According to the tag it is from Lindsi.” He hands it over, then sits down abruptly. Jimmy’s kind of strange. Robotic, even.

  Lindsi is fawning over a gift from her mom, so you start opening it without her.

  You pull out…a huge dildo?

  “Wow, okay, so that’s a massager. For your neck.” Even Lindsi’s earlobes are red, she’s blushing so hard. “You said you were stressed at work. It’s supposed to be a good model, I just…” She shakes her head and looks at the floor.

  Jesus. This can’t possibly get any more awkward.

  “Did you realize all your gifts share a phallic influence?” Jimmy says, voice utterly inflectionless. “This one is for covering your genitals, and this picture looks like genitals, and this object…”

  He continues droning on. You can’t hear him anymore over the roar of blood rushing through your ears.

  The End.

  “Oh, um, about these…” You wait for him to say you don’t need to explain. He doesn’t. “I was having some serious stomach issues during the service and…well, I made a mess of my underwear.” You hope he doesn’t make you explain sharts. “I thought I should make sure I don’t ruin my pants, too.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Are you okay?” He looks sympathetic, smiling at you with genuine parental worry.

  “I’m fine. More embarrassed than anything.”

  “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ve known plenty of strong men with weak sphincters.”

  You’re not sure how to respond to that, so you just smile, finish up TP-ing yourself, put on your pants, and head out with Lindsi’s dad’s arm around your shoulders.

  • • •

  It’s amazing what a good night’s rest can do for your insides. You come downstairs feeling fine—chipper, even.

  “Merry Christmas, VanWhittingtons!” you say cheerily. “Mrs. VanWhittington, could I trouble you for a cup of coffee?”

  Lindsi’s mom turns to you with a frosty stare, then glances at her husband and seems to relent.

  “Of course. And call me Mom. Everyone does. He’s Dad.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” you say.

  You follow them into the dining room, where a spread’s already laid out. You reach for a muffin.

  “Oh, no, no,” Dad says, lightly tapping your hand. Maybe they’re for the kids?

  You reach for some fruitcake instead. You’ve always loved fruitcake.

  “Not that either,” Dad says, shaking his head. “It’s filled with prunes. And fiber.”

  You frown, then reach tentatively toward the Crock-Pot of oatmeal.

  “What are you thinking?” Dad chuckles, but he looks deadly serious.

  Are you not allowed to eat? “I’m sorry, I’m confused about what’s going on.”

  “All those foods are too fibrous,” Dad says behind a hand.

  “Too fibrous?”

  Everyone stares as he leans over and stage-whispers.

  “You know.” You’re still not getting it. He frowns. “They’ll exacerbate your bowel control issues.”

  The End.

  What could possibly explain the fact that you’re making underwears out of church toilet paper?

  “I’m sorry you had to see me this way. It’s just that money’s really tight right now.”

  Really? That’s the best you can come up with?

  “So you’ve…run out of underwear?”

  “No, I just try to…save on…washing costs. When I have a chance. I flip socks inside out, too. It’s partly monetary, but also environmentally motivated.” That makes it sound slightly less disgusting, right? “I didn’t want to go to the laundromat until I had a full load of clothing.”

  “Ahh, I see. You’ve got that Depression-era mindset. You know my mom used to save on stockings, too. She’d draw a line up the back of her leg with a stick she’d rubbed in soot so it would look like a seam. Pretty clever idea.”

  You frown.

  “Not that you want to look like you’re wearing ladies’ stockings.” He coughs awkwardly. “You know, if things are tight, I could help out.”

  “That’s not necessary,” you say, shaking your head. The motion causes the toilet paper around your midsection to loosen. You grab at it hastily to prevent your dick from falling out. He frowns deeply.

  “Please. I have…fifty dollars in my wallet. I’ll take you to the store as soon as we drop off the family. I hate thinking my little girl might find you in pretend underwear.”

  * * *

  If you have no choice but to take the money, go HERE.

  If you feel obligated to refuse, go HERE.

  You just met these guys; it wouldn’t be wise to ruffle feathers. Plus, Eyelashless looks like the kind of DM who would punish you for ruining his plans, even if it is just a Christmas module.

  “I’ll play lawful good.”

  “Your backstory?” Vampire looks at you expectantly. Like you came with a character backstory thought out on the off chance you’d run into a D&E game?

  “I was kidnapped from my people—a wood elf clan who live mostly through gleaning and elemental magic—and taken by a rigid set of clerics at the tender age of thirty. Under their extremely strict training, any thought of rebelling against law, or rule, has been stamped out of me, though I still yearn, sometimes, for the wild ways of the forests I grew up in.”

  Apparently you did have a backstory on hand.

  “Kinda thin, but whatever.” Schlub snorts. Looks like someone’s vying for King of the Nerds.

  You start playing…but every time you try to do something interesting, even just turn water into wine to stretch the party’s supplies, Vampire is on you.

  “That’s not in accordance with your alignment.”

  “Not strictly, but…”

  “You can’t do it; your character wouldn’t do it.”

  Then he starts breathing heavily through his nostrils in a way that makes you so uncomfortable you just give in.

  Which makes the game almost unbearably boring. You used to love this, even the dumb stuff, like chatting “in-character” with tavern wenches. But seeing the other grown men getting so into it makes you feel…itchy. Like you hope no one is near enough to hear any of you. Like you’d rather be anywhere else.

  You used to love this game so much. Y
ou thought being a barely reformed geek was a defining part of your character. But this feels hollow, empty…embarrassing. Not because it’s too geeky; because you feel like there’s something deeply desperate about needing to get away from your real life this badly.

  The DM puts you up against a cave troll.

  You roll a fifteen, but manage to nudge it to a one before anyone notices.

  “Oh, man. Critical failure.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eyelashless says, blinking at you. “He crushes your skull. A lot.”

  “Oh well, guess I’ll get going.” You start to walk away.

  “I have a healer’s kit, I can…”

  You pretend you can’t hear Vampire’s wails.

  On the walk home, you feel strange. Adrift on a sea of personalitylessness. Who are you, if not the person you always believed yourself to be? What have you become since this went out of your life?

  What’s the point of it all? What’s the point of anything?

  The End.

  Fuck that, lawful good is every day of your life.

  “I’m playing him chaotic evil.”

  Vampire makes a sound of choking rage. You grin mischievously.

  “But you can’t do that. You’re a cleric.” Vampire is turning red, like he overate at his Christmas blood feast.

  “Of course I can. Look at the entire history of the church—clerics can absolutely be evil.”

  “But chaotic evil? Your class is defined by ORDER.” Vampire’s spitting, he’s so angry.

  “Fine, neutral evil.”

  “But lawful evil would—”

  “Nope, I’m out for me no matter what. Your laws mean nothing. I have magics.” Schlub snorts appreciatively. Vampire looks like someone’s punched him in the Adam’s apple.

  “Okay, if we’re ready to begin,” Eyelashless says, turning to his printout of the module. “Imagine yourself in the tiny hamlet of—”