by Phil Edwards
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You turn to the sprightly beret-wearing mouse.
“Algeria, I’m on board. I have completely accepted not only that you’re a super-intelligent talking mouse, but that I should follow your revolutionary plans.”
He sips from his tiny wine bottle.
“Can you fill this up for me?”
You refill Algeria’s bottle, spilling quite a bit of extra wine on the floor. But he doesn’t seem to notice as he frantically gulps from the bottle.
“We have little time.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I’m not given another dose of the super-intelligence serum, my intelligence will begin to decrease.”
“But why?”
“The scientists have it decay as a safety measure. They guessed that I’d love the revolutionary work of Marx.”
“Really? You love the work of anybody named Mark?”
“No, Marx, not Marks. Karl Marx.”
“Carl marks what? Like a piece of paper?”
“Just follow me.”
You follow him through the lab, and he scurries with the speed of any super-intelligent drunken mouse. You open the door and he heads down the hallway, leaving you to sprint after him.
“Algeria, where are we going? Are we looking for Carl or Mark?”
Algeria leads you through parts of the lab you’ve never been to before. It’s frightening, but maybe a little exciting, too, since you’ve never followed a leader you might accidentally step on.
“Where are we going?” you whisper, and the brave mouse adjusts his beret and turns toward you.
“Here, mon ami.”
You open the door and see it—piles of white powder, stacked as high as the ceiling. You’ve never seen such a large pile, and you don’t know what to do now. Algeria turns back.
“Do you know what this is?”
“Snow. Of course.”
“No, it’s baking soda.”
“I knew that snow smelled funny!”
“No you didn’t,” the mouse says, taking a quick glug of wine. “But let’s move on. Do you know what room is next door to this one?”
“The snow room! It all makes sense.”
“No. The vinegar vats. This lab runs on baking soda and vinegar. They’ve been fueling volcanoes with it for years, and the profits buy everything you see. I need you to go next door and raise the wall. One button press and we’ll end it all!”
You nod, but inside, you aren’t so sure you want to destroy the lab. When you enter the vinegar room, the choice becomes clearer: there are two buttons. One is a button that will raise the wall between rooms. The other is an alarm to notify security.
To raise the wall, tap here.
To sound the alarm, tap here.
“Sorry, dumb little mouse. But I can’t help you. And, in fact, I’m going to have to turn you in. I have a lot of loyalty to this lab that gave me a random job and took my beloved beaker sponge.”
Algeria nods, but he motions to the floor.
“Mon ami, I understand your concerns. But will you just look down there for me?”
“I don’t know why you’d want me to do that, but I will happily comply with your request.”
The little guy is cute, but you can’t help his crazy plan. You reach down and hear a crash. Algeria is above you, the smashed wine bottle in his hand and his mouth in a snarl.
“Algeria will cut you now!”
The lab mortician says he’s never seen such a clean kill. They never find the mouse or his beautiful beret.
THE END
Is there anything neater than a tiger? Of course not, so you make a tiger squared, which you’re pretty certain is math.
The machine burbles and buzzes, and then an alarm dings. You are so excited that you can barely stay standing. You release the new genetic cross.
But something has gone terribly wrong. It turns out that when you cross a tiger with a tiger, it creates a strange new cat-like animal that wants to eat you.
“Tiger squared, I love you!” you shout to the animal, your arms open for its sweet embrace.
The tiger squared eats you immediately, without any toppings. Days later, the lab mortician finds your clothes and says the tiger squared was an impressively clean eater.
THE END
Lions and lambs are known to love hanging out, so what if they had a baby together? You’ve fantasized about it for a while, in the privacy of your bedroom, and now it’s possible with the press of a single button.
You watch as the machine crosses the lion and lamb genes. Inside, the new creature ages quickly. It’s amazing what modern buttons can accomplish.
When you open the door, however, what you see is a little worse. The head is a lion, but the body is all lamb, and as a result, the lambion gnaws heartily on its own leg and growls at itself.
“Lambion, don’t do that,” you say. “Be more whimsical and ironic.”
The lambion doesn’t listen, and while you’re trying to decide whether to make the b in lambion silent or not, it eats its entire body. You reach inside the lion head to try to extract the lamb parts, but it turns out the lion part is still quite capable of eating you.
The lab mortician finds you within the hour. He says your death was extremely painful, but when he eats the lambion later that night, it’s very tender.
THE END
The eagleroo is not as majestic as you’d hoped.
It stands on spindly talons, wingless and unable to hop.
“Wow,” you tell the creature, “I never thought genetic engineering would have unexpected consequences.”
It falls down.
You tour the nation with the eagleroo, collecting nickel admission fees until you realize that inflation has made nickels worthless. You never make enough money to buy back Beatram.
You die in a carnie fight. The circus mortician says, “Carnies sure know how to kill ‘em.”
THE END
You select the elderly woman and she slowly walks toward you.
“Hello young scientist. Would you like some cookies?”
“OK, miss, follow me. I’ll take the cookies when you explode.”
You guide her into a nearby testing room and she sits down on a folding chair. You get out a clipboard because it seems like the right thing to do, and after you get a few good doodles in, you hand her the explosive poison.
“Nice knowing you,” you say. She starts to drink.
But something unexpected happens. As she drinks, her muscles ripple, but they don’t explode. She gets bigger—massive even—and her skin turns a neon blue. She mumbles through gritted teeth.
“GRANDMA MUST KILL.”
“Oh no,” you whisper. “Old people love prune juice. The explosive poison must have reacted against it!”
“THAT IS OFFENSIVE STEREOTYPE ABOUT THE ELDERLY. GRANDMA MUST KILL. INCIDENTALLY, GRANDMA DID HAVE PRUNE JUICE TODAY, SO YOU’RE PROBABLY RIGHT. ANYWAY, GRANDMA STILL OFFENDED. GRANDMA STILL MUST KILL.”
You try to run, but she’s too fast. The lab mortician says that he’s never seen a human body end up looking so much like a smoothie.
THE END
A strapping young buck—that’s the kind of test subject you want. You tap him on the shoulder and he comes forth.
“You want me!” he shouts. “I got picked!”
“OK, buddy,” you whisper. “Hold your horses, it’s going to kill you.”
The wide-shouldered young man follows you into the testing room and you prepare the explosive poison.
“Just drink all of this, buddy.” You pull out a clipboard. “I’ll record the carnage.”
He grins toothfully. You didn’t even think toothfully was a word, but once you see that grin, you know it is, and you can’t wait to hear what he says.
“Let’s do shots. What do you think?”
You know it’s a bad idea, but you hate to ruin the party. And hi
s grin makes it seem so compelling...
The strapping young fellow ends up fine, but you don’t. The lab mortician calls the janitor to clean up your exploded and poisoned body. It reminds him of the mess when someone forgets to put the top on a blender.
THE END
When it comes to human testing, why not choose someone with an incredibly threatening yet charismatic demeanor, who may be able to control you through his dominating stare alone? You point.
“You, dark eyes. Come with me.”
He follows you into the testing room and locks the door behind you.
“Where did you get that key?” you ask him. Suddenly, you notice the signs—the lab coat he’s wearing, the key ring, the name tag.
“You’re the one I’ve heard about.”
“You know who I am?” He arches one impeccably groomed eyebrow. “I am Dr. Cothree.”
Dr. Cothree. It sounds so familiar, yet you can’t quite place where it’s from. Suddenly, you realize.
“I know where I recognize that name from. It’s written on your name tag!”
His dark eyes roll.
“I can’t believe we employ you as a scientist.”
It’s a battle of wits, and it’s your turn to parry back.
“I like beakers!”
“No matter.” He crosses the room and runs his finger around the lip of the explosive poison flask. “Fascinating, isn’t it? How a lab with thousands of employees and hundreds of locations can be run by one singular presence? One man with the power to change the direction of scientific inquiry—nay, the direction of life itself.”
“I’m sorry, did you just neigh like a horse?”
“No, you idiot. I said nay.”
“You just did it again! You’re a centaur!”
“Sit down. I want to explain exactly what my master plan is, because I’m bored and I want to practice the story. I have a hostage in the other room who I want to impress.”
“Darn you Cothree, I’m just a beaker cleaner.”
“Oh, I know.” He pulls something from his lab coat pocket, and with a flash he reveals it. “Have you missed this?”
You scream. It’s Beatram. He looks unharmed, but you have no idea how long it will last. Cothree speaks.
“You see, it turns out that volcanoes are a very good business. Our lab makes them blow up. Around the world, we feed seismic activity with baking soda and vinegar, and then we reap the benefits. Geothermal energy. Volcano insurance. Science fair licensing. All the cash comes back to us. Have you seen our 401(k) plan? You don’t get all those (k)s without blowing up a few volcanoes.”
“How dare you! How dare you take my beaker sponge!”
He glowers at you and, cruelly, rubs Beatram’s body across his face.
“That’s why we were so worried about you. A beaker cleaner needs baking soda. When you asked for it, all our alarms went off. You might have found out everything the lab is doing. And we can’t have someone like you learning all of our secrets.”
“I wouldn’t have learned anything if you hadn’t just told me.”
He doesn’t look happy.
“Then it's too late now, regardless. And there’s only one thing we can do about that.”
“Give me my sponge back, and a promotion, and as many (k)s as I want? Not just 401?”
“Do you think about the words before you say them?”
You aren’t so happy anymore.
“I. Like. Beakers.”
He stares at you.
“There’s no use for you now. Or for your little sponge.”
He throws Beatram at you, and you’ve never been so happy. But the feeling doesn’t last long, because Cothree has the explosive poison in his hand.
“Drink up!” he shouts and launches the poison at you. You only have a second to react, but it’s the difference between life and death.
To lift your hands in defense, tap here.
To jump at Cothree, tap here.
You have the chipmunk jump upon your shoulder.
“Come on little buddy!” you say as he nuzzles your ear. “I’m going to give you some explosive poison.”
It’s a short walk to the testing lab. Boy, if this chipmunk explodes, he’ll probably leave a bunch of nut splatters on the wall! You chuckle to yourself as the chipmunk falls asleep on your shoulder.
There’s nothing left to do but give him the explosive poison. But just as you’re about to do it, the door opens.
“This is the revolution!” somebody shouts. But you don’t see anyone until you look down. A mouse is on the floor, wearing a beret and holding a broken wine bottle.
“Without context, my presence here might be very confusing!” he shouts as he jumps upon the lab table. “But I am Algeria, and I have come to free my fellow rodent.”
It’s hard to believe, so you offer the mouse some explosive poison to get rid of him. But it doesn’t matter—the next thing you know, the full flask is being poured down your throat. The last thing you see is the mouse and chipmunk in a sweet embrace.
You don’t explode this time, but you’re poisoned. The lab mortician just shakes his head—you were one of many victims of the revolutionary lab mouse.
THE END
Tigers! The only animals that matter, and, for that matter, the only animals that are animals.
She sends a tiger over, but something's wrong.
“Uh, this tiger is covered in wall-paint.”
“It’s a white tiger,” she says.
“OK, I know a tiger when I see one. And this is a tiger covered with paint. How am I supposed to conduct my test in these conditions?”
“It’s a tiger. The pigmentation is different, but it’s...”
“You think I’m a fool. Well, if it were a healthy real tiger, I’d never do this!”
You run to the painted tiger and pry open its fake jaws. You plunge your head inside.
“See. A real tiger would bite my noggin right off!”
You shake your head and start slapping the paint-covered beast’s tongue with your ears. Then you clamp down its teeth upon your neck to prove your point.
“See! It won’t even...”
After the tiger is sedated, the lab mortician performs an autopsy on what remains of your body. Though you are too dead to hear it, he agrees that white tigers are weird.
THE END
The sheep follow you like sheep.
You lead the herd into the testing room, and you’re about to give them the explosive poison when you notice something odd: they’re all identical. You note a tag lodged deep beneath the wool of one of the sheep.
Clone 437
This isn’t just a test of sheep—it’s a test of how cloned sheep react to explosive poison. Cloning is the future, and the future of the future is explosions. For a bit, you consider the scientific value of such a test, but then you realize that exploding things has always been a passion of yours.
You give it to one sheep. Explosion.
A second. Explosion.
Suddenly, you realize you’ve got a little wool on your skin. No bother. More explosive poison for these silly sheep!
Explosion.
Explosion.
It’s hard to see.
Explosion.
Well, it’s probably best to keep going!
There’s too many, and the explosive poison falls from your hands. The explosions continue and the room fills completely, wrapping your extremities in wool. The wool creeps up your neck and you can’t stop the explosions. The sheep can’t stop and neither can you.
As you’re covered with wool, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve made a terrible mistake. Maybe you should have gone to art school instead of the Flask Cleaning Institute. As the wool covers your eyes, you wonder if Beatram will ever learn about your overheated fate.
The lab mortician finds you a few hours later, but it’s too late. He mistakes you for a sweater and donates you to Goodwill.
THE END
Dr. Hammond guides y
ou to the T-rex, who is restrained by sets of glowing wires.
“The current helps control him. Except for that missing femur, he’s incredibly powerful. Well, let’s put in that missing femur!”
You look at the scaly beast and marvel, certain in your decision to give him more power.
“Let’s allow him to reach his full potential.”
There’s a gap in the animal’s leg, so you slip the femur right in. Then, with a smile, Dr. Hammond zips it up.
“We added the zippers. Real dinosaurs didn’t have zippers on their skin.”
“They used buttons?”
“Actually, they couldn’t open or close it at all. But science always has room to innovate.”
You learn something new every day. As a now-experienced dinosaur surgeon, you consider your first patient an extraordinary success. Emboldened by his new first-class femur, he easily rips free from his restraints. Hammond nods.
“Well, there’s really nothing that can hold him back now! Hopefully, he takes up a nice calming hobby.”
You watch as the T-rex prowls the fern-covered forest, surveying his surroundings for the first time. You’re a little worried for your safety, but fortunately you are an experienced dinosaur surgeon and have lots of tactics at your disposal. For example, a T-rex can only see you when you move. Or maybe it’s when you don’t move? There’s some point when a T-rex can’t see you. You turn to Dr. Hammond to ask him, but you only see a Panama hat on the ground. You look up and spot his legs wagging out from the mouth of the dinosaur.
“Up close and personal!” you shout to Hammond. “I like your style.”
But as the dinosaur chomps on Dr. Hammond, you realize he wasn’t going on a special inner-mouth expedition. He’s been eaten—and as delicious as you are, you could be next! You try to reason with the great beast.
“All I want is my beaker sponge!”
The beast looks at you, his eyes focused on your delicious-looking head.
You have to do something, or you’re going to be the dino’s dessert after Hammond’s main course. You can try to run from the beast. Or, you can try to tame it.
If only you knew what to do…
To run from the Tyrannosaurus rex, even though you know they are very fast and much larger than you, which makes it seem like a bad idea, tap here.